You are never given the dog you want, but the dog you need.

Through Our Actions, We Are Defined

The other day, I was relaxing and taking a break from writing papers, browsing through Stumble Upon as usual. Then, I came across a story that was so utterly touching, moving, and heart wrenchingly sad that I knew I had to share it with you all. This tale is from author Kent Nerburn’s youth, when he worked as a taxi driver and met an old woman late one night. I will warn you, at the very least, you’ll get the sniffles. At the most, you’ll be in tears. But this story is one that needed sharing.

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, and 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 partyers, 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 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 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 knick-knacks 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 rear view 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”.

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.

It is in the space of those dark hours of the night, those moments when we don’t really think, but we act, that we define ourselves. We are shaped into the individuals that we are because of those small, seemingly insignificant, moments of our lives. Without those moments, the very fiber that defines us is nonexistent. We become simply just a face in the crowd, no longer an individual, but one no different than the rest. This one man was able to touch the life of another and comfort her in her last moments of freedom, something that had a profound effect on him.

What stories to you have to tell that are like this one? Whose life have you touched or been touched by?

I leave you to reflect on this story and your personal thoughts, both on the story and on the question.

As always, make sure to click the FreeKibble banner in the sidebar and feed some shelter pets.

Kent Nerburn’s blog and thoughts on his story:

http://kentnerburn.com/archives/304

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3 responses

  1. “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.” I like this. 🙂 Thanks for the story.

    April 12, 2012 at 9:15 am

    • Glad you liked it 🙂 It was a lovely little gem to have stumbled across and I’m glad I was able to share it. It was definitely one that merited sharing, that’s for sure. It certainly makes you think twice about those small, seemingly insignificant moments, doesn’t it?

      April 14, 2012 at 12:24 am

  2. *Sniffle, Sniffle* What a beautiful story! Thanks for sharing.
    Bella and DiDi

    April 12, 2012 at 1:00 pm

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