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, and 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 four complex 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 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, and 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, and 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, and 
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 go 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, and 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.

How easily we allow time pressures, stress, anger or 
impatience to cause us to rob others of the joy and 
caring that we could have chosen to share with them. 
May this story encourage us to be less self-centered 
so that the encounters we have with others will be 
kinder and gentler.