OT: Touching Story (longish, but good read)
02-14-2001, 10:21 PM
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OT: Touching Story (longish, but good read)
I work for Walgreen Co. and every week the CEO, Dan Jorndt puts out what he calls the LD Jolt. It is usually a page or so and contains bits of wisdom and insight. This weeks caught my eye and I thought I would share...
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab night for a living. It was a cowboy's life, for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn't realize is it was also a ministry. My cab became a moving confessional -- passengers sat behind me in total anonimity and told me about their lives. None touched me more than a woman I picked up late one August night.
When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the small brick fourplex was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always waited.
So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," answered a frail voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. When the door opened, a small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. "Would you carry my bag?" she said. I took the suitcase, then returned to assist the woman. She gae 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 the 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. For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had worked as an elevator operator. We drove throught the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived as newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had been a ballroom where she'd 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 ahe 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 as we pulled up. They were solicitous, 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. "But you have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers'" I responded and almost without thinking, bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. "You gave an old woman a 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. 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?
We're conditioned to thinkthat 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 said, but they wil always remember how you made them feel.
.................................................
And my (post)Valentine's Day message to each of you...
"The sound of a kiss is not so loud as that of a cannon, but it's echo lasts a great deal longer."
-- Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab night for a living. It was a cowboy's life, for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn't realize is it was also a ministry. My cab became a moving confessional -- passengers sat behind me in total anonimity and told me about their lives. None touched me more than a woman I picked up late one August night.
When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the small brick fourplex was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always waited.
So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," answered a frail voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. When the door opened, a small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. "Would you carry my bag?" she said. I took the suitcase, then returned to assist the woman. She gae 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 the 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. For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had worked as an elevator operator. We drove throught the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived as newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had been a ballroom where she'd 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 ahe 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 as we pulled up. They were solicitous, 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. "But you have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers'" I responded and almost without thinking, bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. "You gave an old woman a 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. 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?
We're conditioned to thinkthat 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 said, but they wil always remember how you made them feel.
.................................................
And my (post)Valentine's Day message to each of you...
"The sound of a kiss is not so loud as that of a cannon, but it's echo lasts a great deal longer."
-- Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
