Here is a great story being passed online from friend to friend. It shows how
important your life truly is and how what may appear the smallest service to
others can make the biggest difference in someone else’s life.

The Cabbie

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 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 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, "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 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.

People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, but they will
always remember how you made them feel.

Blessings of Love and Light,

Lori Prokop
 

     

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This entry was posted on Monday, February 25th, 2008 at 9:00 am and is filed under the category Gratitude, Love and Light, Service to Others, The Highest Good For All, Wisdom. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a comment or ask a question.,