Hello Steve, what a beautiful story. It brought me to tears. You see, I read this and I couldn't stop crying. It reminds me of the days before my brotherinlaw died of cancer. Thank you for sharing. Still crying. Original message: > THE CAB RIDE > 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 responded to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of town. > I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partiers, or someone who had just > had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at some > factory in 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 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 needed 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 knick-knacks 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 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 very many more important things > 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 small ones.
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