One Last Drive (Great Story!), Mysticism, reading, forums, Numerology, Sun Signs, Divination

Posts: 318 · Posted: Mon Mar 27, 2006 2:42 pm

One Last Drive
One taxi driver picks up a fare that changes his life.
By Kent Nerburn

Every so often one of those anonymous e-mail passalongs is reunited with its source. We are delighted to be able to identify the author of "One Last Ride" as Kent Nerburn, in whose book "Make Me an Instrument of Your Peace: Living in the Spirit of the Prayer of St. Francis" (HarperSanFrancisco Publishers) this essay is found. We are republishing it in its original version. Thanks to Kent and HarperSanFrancisco for permission to reprint and to Mary Ann Brussat of Spirituality and Health Magazine for identifying the source.

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. 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 a 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 drive 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 taxis 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 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 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 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 go?" 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 had first been married. 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 would have me 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 on to me tightly. "You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

There was nothing more to say. I squeezed her hand once, then walked out into the dim morning light. Behind me, I could hear the door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I did not pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the remainder 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? How many other moments like that had I missed or failed to grasp? What if I had been in a foul mood and had refused to engage the woman in conversation?

We are so conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unawares. When that woman hugged me and said that I had brought her a moment of joy, it was possible to believe that I had been placed on earth for the sole purpose of providing her with that last ride.

I do not think that I have ever done anything in my life that was any more important.

This story had the tears rolling down my cheeks, as I worked for years with seniors in nursing homes and I know what this means to them. . . to die with dignity!

Blessings! Linda

Posts: 1957 · Posted: Mon Mar 27, 2006 3:10 pm

lovely story! i have this wish which i have had since i was child... i want to open a home for the less fortunate children. i know it will come to pass one day.

lol this is funny, but i just doubted what i said and then i just closed my eye to visualize it and i saw it... i could see myself and the children in a huge gardens rolling around and playing and laughing. i know now without a doubt, it will happen and i will make it happen.

Abhishek

Posts: 318 · Posted: Mon Mar 27, 2006 3:41 pm

Wow! Abhishek, thank you for sharing your 'soul mission'! If that is a wish on a soul level that you came in with as a child, to help unfortunate children, you came in with the 'intent'! And this WILL happen!

We, as humans like to discredit our dreams as just dreams. . . Like you said, you tried to deny the vision and you 'SAW' it! Keep visualizing THAT dream! You WILL CREATE it with all the spiritual things you believe in! (Or do not believe in.) It is for the good of humanity, and thoughts are 'things' and a form of energy. . . to create with! Intention is everything and I will send 'light' and energy to help you reach your goal!

Blessings! to YOU . . . Linda

Posts: 1957 · Posted: Mon Mar 27, 2006 5:00 pm

FloridaLightWorker wrote:

[color=blue] If that is a wish on a soul level that you came in with as a child, to help unfortunate children, you came in with the 'intent'!

Unfortunate = No!
Less fortunate = Maybe!

i believe one maybe more or less fortunate but not unfortunate... cause each persons mission here on earth is different... and each come with his/her on fortune to fullfill that purpose.

Regards,
Abhishek

Posts: 8526 · Posted: Mon Mar 27, 2006 7:38 pm

really lovely post.
in this day..how many of us actually make time for our elders or other meaningful things in life??