Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy’s life,

a life for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn’t realize was that it

was also a ministry.

Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving confessional.

Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told me

about their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me,

ennobled me, made me laugh and weep.

but none touched me more than a woman I picked up late one August

night.

When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single

light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many

drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away.

But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as

their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I

always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my

assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.

“Just a minute,” answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear

something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door

opened. A small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print

dress

and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940′s

movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no

one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with

sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils

on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and

glassware.

“Would you carry my bag out to the car?” she said.

I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She

took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me

for my kindness.

“It’s nothing,” I told her. “I just try to treat my passengers the

way I would want my mother treated.”

“Oh, you’re such a good boy,” she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, “Could you

drive through downtown?”

“It’s not the shortest way,” I answered quickly.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a

hospice.”

I looked in the rear view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. “I don’t

have any family left,” she continued. “The doctor says I don’t have

very long.”

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. “What route would you

like me to take?” I asked. For the next two hours, we drove through

the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an

elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived

when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture

warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as

a girl.

Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or

corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said,

“I’m tired. Let’s go now.”

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low

building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed

under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were

solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been

expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the

door.

The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching into her purse.

“Nothing,” I said.

“You have to make a living,” she answered.

“There are other passengers,” I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me

tightly.

“You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,” she said. “Thank you”.

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind

me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly,

lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if

that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient at the

end his shift?

What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven

away?

On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more

important in my life. We’re conditioned to think that our lives

revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us

unaware–beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, ….but

they will always remember how you made them feel.

Take a moment to stop and appreciate the memories you have made, the

memory making opportunities around you and make someone feel special

today.

Pietate et Scientia (Faith and Knowledge)

“Do all the good you can.

In all the ways you can,

In all the places you can,

At all the times you can,

To all the people you can,

As long as you can!”

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