Joy

Below is a story I read and would like to share it with you.
Enjoy it.

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 responded 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 in 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, and then drive away.
But I had seen too many poor 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
needed 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 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, any 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, and 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, and 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 neighbourhood 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 attentive, 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, dear.”

I squeezed her hand, and 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 very many more
important things 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 small ones.

Remember to look out for and appreciate the small moments of joy in life.