A few words from Gary:

I love my email.  Each time I open it, I look for a contribution from one of my friends.  Sometimes, these contributions  are funny, inspirational, or maybe contain a note of concern.  

However, my favorites are those that manage to reach beyond my "male being" where I discover a special sensitivity I may not even recognize.  This piece is one of my favorites, and I am touched deeply each time I read it.  

Please SUBMIT your favorite pieces (including photos) that inspire you  so we can share them with other caregivers.  

(Author unknown)
10/26/00

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. 

The bank of our pond nurtures this sensitive creation.

"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 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."  

Goldenrod passing its prime, supported from behind by the red of the Virginia creeper

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.

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Other INSPIRATION articles:

The Guest House (poem by 13th century mystic, Rumi, (1 min.) followed by a short biography about this Sufi poet) (4 min.) 01/03/01

A Tribute to Caregivers (Anne's thoughts about what she finds in professional caregivers when she provides music for their patients.  01/12/01  (2 min.)

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