A Cabbie’s Unforgettable Ride: A Short, Profound Story ~ May 5, 2018

I’ve been sitting on this little gift for over a week and am just now getting to sharing it. I assume the timing is perfect.

This post may initially seem unrelated and out of place, having nothing to do with the NWO, the deep state, politics, what the banksters have done, or war, but it has everything to do with Humanity.

You see, in many respects, we’ve lost ours. We are so busy responding to the intentional, non-stop stimuli in every aspect of our lives like lab rats, we forget who we are. We’ve lost our way, and there is no gadget for that, no app for reclaiming our birthright. We have to do this for ourselves.

This story is a sign post showing the way, but many might be too busy being slaves to read it. We need to take the reins on this journey of ours and steer a true course.

We can quietly lead by example if we remember the contents of our soul. Life isn’t about time, money, or possessions; it’s about learning who we were designed to be.

If we take the time to consider our relationship to others in this fractal, we can so easily make the world a better place. There are plenty of role models out there, but we must first realize our individual place in Creation.

It starts here. We have a lesson plan, but whether we blow it off and skip class or write our thesis is up to us. Enjoy the story. (Tissues optional.)  ~ CB

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The Cab Ride I’ll Never Forget

Kent Nerburn on a Most Profound Cab Ride

 

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I arrived in the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that 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 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 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.

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Note: For more inspiring writing by Kent Nerburn, see his beautiful website: http://kentnerburn.com. The cab ride story is from his book Make Me an Instrument of your Peace: Living in the Spirit of the Prayer of St. Francis, available here. The author has personally confirmed that this story is true in warm email exchanges with PEERS Executive Director Fred Burks. For more inspiring stories like this, click here.

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