Tuesday’s with Morrie: An Old Man, A Young Man, and Life’s Greatest Lesson

At age eight and part of a desperately poor immigrant family, Morrie must watch his mother slowly wither and die from an illness. He and his brother move from their lower Manhattan tenement to a communal cabin in the Connecticut woods for fresh air and relaxation. They enjoy the greenery and dance in the rain, but Morrie’s brother comes down with polio. Back in New York, Morrie prays alone at temple on behalf of his mother and brother, and he hawks magazines to help feed the family.

His new stepmother, Eva, arrives from Romania and brings energy to the family. She sings to the children and helps them with school lessons. Still impoverished, they move to a small apartment in the Bronx during the Depression. Eva takes English lessons at night school; believing education will raise them out of poverty, she wants her stepchildren to study hard.

Years later, his father, Charlie, who works in the fur business when he can find a job, brings teenage Morrie with him to the factory—a dark, stuffy place filled with laborers tormented by foremen—but there aren’t any openings. Morrie swears an oath never to exploit others at work. Eva asks what he’ll do for a career. Morrie doesn’t like lawyers, and he hates the sight of blood, which rules out doctoring. He decides to become a teacher. 

Morrie begins the meeting with an idea: “Everyone knows they’re going to die, but nobody believes it” (97). He thinks that if people were willing to accept that their time is limited, they wouldn’t waste so much of their lives. Each day, he says, we should ask ourselves if we’re ready to die and whether we’re being the person we want to be.

Morrie borrows from many religions; he’s a “religious mutt,” an agnostic whose cultural heart remains with his original Judaism. He thinks most people are too ambitious about materialism, and they ignore spiritual things: “The loving relationships we have, the universe around us, we take these things for granted” (101).

Morrie’s family and friends help him write replies to all the letters he has received since the Nightline interviews. His sons, Rob and Jon, often participate. One writer lost her mother to ALS; Morrie hopes her grieving will help her to heal. Another writer calls him a prophet; he doesn’t agree but thanks her anyway. One woman writes four grim pages about her suffering—a murder-suicide, three stillborn children, a parent dying of ALS—and Morrie doesn’t know how to answer. Rob suggests, “Thanks for your long letter?” (104). Everyone laughs.

Albom, a sports journalist, finds it ironic that Morrie would be struck down by a disease named for a sports star, Lou Gehrig. He reminds Morrie of Gehrig’s goodbye speech, in which he asserts that he is the luckiest man on the face of the earth. Morrie nods, then says, “Yeah. Well. I didn’t say that” (106). 

In September, as students return, Morrie has no classes to teach; he’s like a retired football player who must watch while others take to the field.

Morrie’s study is decorated with photos of himself with family members—his grandmother, his wife, his two sons—and he believes that without the love and protection of family, “we are birds with broken wings” (109). Nothing can replace family, he says, not money, not fame, and—looking pointedly at Albom—not work.

Like Morrie, his family members are very affectionate. He believes that nothing compares to having children; his only regret is that now he must leave them. Albom thinks of his own family, including his sister and, especially, his brother, the youngest, the wild child who moved to Spain. His brother got the pancreatic cancer that Albom was sure was meant for himself. His brother fights the disease alone, refusing help or contact from family. Though Albom is unable to reach his ailing brother, at least he can be with Morrie.

Albom remembers his childhood: Albom and his brother ride a sled down a snowy hillside. Careening toward an oncoming car, they roll off the sled and escape harm. Feeling relieved, they are “ready to take on death again” (116). 

Charlotte, Morrie’s wife, answers the door. She says Morrie is having some trouble today but looks forward, as always, to Albom’s visits. Albom holds out the usual bags of food he has brought, and Charlotte confesses that Morrie hasn’t been eating much of it lately because it’s too hard for him to chew and swallow. She says Albom brings him something more important: purpose.

Morrie’s health problems multiply; he has trouble sleeping and often coughs for hours. He says he’s learning to detach himself from experiences. People are afraid of their feelings, of what they might cause, so they avoid them. Instead, Morrie feels them fully—horror, fear, sadness—then lets them go. This isn’t just a practice for the dying, he asserts, but for the living as well.

Albom asks Morrie what he’d want to be if he were reincarnated. Morrie replies, “a gazelle.” Albom looks at Morrie, trapped in his unmoving body, and understands why he would choose so fleet a creature.