Great Moments?

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.

I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of
town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partyers, or someone who
had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at
some factory for the industrial part of town.

When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light
in a ground floor window. Under such 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 1940s 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, "Can 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 rearview 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 to 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.
~~Author Unknown (Please, if anyone does know who wrote this, let me know
at spirit@..., Jude.)