|
Little Old Lady 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, made
me laugh and weep. But none touched me more than a woman I picked up one
winter 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 party crowd 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 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 taxi's 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 80's 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
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 asked.
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 to 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 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 down 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. Then, 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 are conditioned to think our lives revolve around great moments, but in
all actuality, great moments catch us unaware, beautifully wrapped in what
others may consider a small one.
People may not remember exactly what you did or what you said, but they will
always remember how you made them feel.
~ Author Known to God
God has willed the virtue of kindness to every heart, For He knows the needs
for kindness through journeys we make on earth.
In giving human kindness, we are doing our Father's will.
"Let, I pray thee, thy merciful kindness be for my comfort, according to thy
word unto thy servant."
Psalm 119:76
"O PRAISE the LORD, all ye nations: praise him, all ye people. For his
merciful kindness is great toward us: and the truth of the LORD endureth for
ever. Praise ye the LORD."
Psalm 117
Wishing you Joy in Jesus, |
|