gayle sent us this through the halmm mailing list... it made me cry alright...

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 thatit 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 meabout their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me,ennobled me, and made me laugh and weep. But none touched me more thana woman I picked up late one August night.

I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet partof town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partiers, orsomeone who had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading toan 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 singlelight in a ground floor window. Under such circumstances, many driverswould just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away.

But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis astheir only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled ofdanger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone whoneeds my assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door andknocked.

"Just a minute", answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hearsomething being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the dooropened. A small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing aprint dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebodyout of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. Theapartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All thefurniture 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 suitcaseto the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and wewalked 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 wayI would want my mother treated".

"Oh, you're such a good boy", she said. When we got in the cab, shegave 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 rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says Idon't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would youlike me to take?" I asked. For the next two hours, we drove throughthe city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as anelevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had livedwhen they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniturewarehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing asa girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of aparticular 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 lowbuilding, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passedunder a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as wepulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took , thesmall suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in awheelchair.

"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. Behindme, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I didn'tpick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost inthought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if thatwoman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end hisshift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, thendriven away? On a quick review, I don't think that I have doneanything more important in my life

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around greatmoments. But great moments often catch us unaware - beautifullywrapped in what others may consider a "small one."