There was a time in my life twenty years ago when I was driving a cab for a living. It was a cowboy’s life, a gambler’s life, a life for someone who wanted no boss, constant movement, and the thrill of a dice roll every time a new passenger got into the cab. What I didn’t count on when I took the job was that it was also a ministry. Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a rolling confessional. Passengers would climb in, sit behind me in total anonymity and tell me of their lives!

We were like strangers on a train, the passengers and I, hurtling through the night, revealing intimacies we would never have dreamed of sharing during the brighter light of day. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, made me laugh and made me weep. And none of those lives touched me more than that of a woman I picked up late on a warm 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 someone going off to an early shift at some factory for the industrial part of town.

When I arrived at the address, 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 short minute, then drive away. Too many bad possibilities awaited a driver who went up to a darkened building at 2:30 in the morning. But I had seen too many people trapped in a life of poverty who depended on the cab as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation had a real whiff of danger, I always went to the door to find the passenger.

It might, I reasoned, be someone who needs my assistance. Would I not want a driver to do the same if my mother or father had called for a cab? So I walked to the door and knocked. “Just a minute,” answered a frail and elderly voice. I could hear the sound of something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman somewhere in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like you might see in a costume shop or a Goodwill store or in a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The sound had been her dragging it across the floor.

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’d like a few moments alone. Then, if you could come back and help me? I’m not very strong.”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. Her praise and appreciation were almost embarrassing. 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. “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 should go there. He says I don’t have very long.”

I reached over quietly and turned off the meter. “How would you like me to proceed?” I inquired. We drove through the city for the next two hours. She took me to the building where she used to work as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had first lived together. She directed me to park in front of a furniture warehouse that had previously served as a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. She would sometimes have me slow down in front of a specific building or corner and sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

“I’m tired,” she said abruptly as the first rays of sunlight appeared on the horizon. Let’s get going.” We drove silently to the address she gave me. It was a low structure, similar to a small convalescent home, with a driveway that went under a portico. As soon as we pulled up, two orderlies came out to greet us. They opened the door and began assisting the woman without waiting for me. They were attentive and focused on her every move. They had to have expected her; perhaps she had called them right before we left.

I opened the trunk and carried the small suitcase to the front door. The lady was already in a wheelchair. “How much do I owe you?” she inquired as she reached into her purse. “Nothing,” I replied. “You need to make a living,” she replied. “There are other passengers,” I pointed out. I knelt and hugged her almost instinctively. She gripped me tightly. “You gave an old lady a little joy,” she said. “I appreciate it.” Nothing else could be said. I squeezed her hand once before walking out into the early morning light. I could hear the door closing behind me. It was the sound of a life-ending.

That shift, I didn’t pick up any more passengers. I was lost in thought as I drove aimlessly. I couldn’t speak for the rest of the day. What if that woman had gotten an irate driver or one who was eager to finish his shift? What if I had refused the run, or if I had honked once and then driven away? What if I had been in a bad mood and refused to engage in conversation with the woman?

How many other opportunities like that had I passed up? We have been conditioned to believe that our lives revolve around significant events. However, great moments frequently catch us off guard. When that woman hugged me and said I had brought her joy, it was tempting to believe that I had been sent to earth solely to provide her with that last ride. I do not believe I have ever done anything more significant in my life.