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. As 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 some made me laugh and weep.
However, 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 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 the ground floor window. Under these circumstances,
many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute and
then drive away. Nevertheless, I had seen too many impoverished
people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation.
Unless a situation smelled of danger, I will always go to the
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"Just a minute." Answered a frail, elderly
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"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" She said.
The Cab Ride Part 1 | 2
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