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 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,
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 mylife.
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.