Some Thoughts About LIfe

Rabbi Irwin Wiener, D.D.

As we age it seems that the gates to eternity open too frequently. So many people have begun a different journey; a journey that does not include our participation but brings tears to our eyes and thoughts of our own mortality.

The difficulty in saying farewell leaves an ache that permeates our being. The absence can sometimes be daunting and we begin to question whether we did enough or said enough to really matter. People, in general, do not remember what we say, what we did, but they will always remember how you made them feel. I was reminded of this when I read the following story:

The Cab Ride
(Author unknown)

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was great being my own boss with no one to answer to. 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, and made me laugh and weep.

But none touched me more than the 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.

When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Many drivers would probably just honk, wait a minute, and 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. Perhaps this person needed some assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.

“Just a minute,” answered a frail, elderly voice. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80s stood before me dragging a suit case, wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat. 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, any knickknacks or utensils on the counters. And in the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

“Would you carry my bag to the car?” she asked. I took the suitcase to the cab then returned to assist the woman. She kept thanking me for my kindness. “It’s nothing,” I replied. “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 the address, and 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 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 turned off the meter. “What route would you like me to take?” I asked.

For the next few hours we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked, the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She asked me to stop in front of a warehouse and told me that it once was a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she would ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the sun began to rise, she suddenly said, “I’m tired. Let’s go now.”

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a convalescent home. Two orderlies came out and watching every move, they helped her. I guess they were expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already 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. I bent down to give her a hug. She held onto me tightly. “You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,” she said. “Thank you.” I walked away. Behind me a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

All sorts of thoughts ran through my mind like, “What if someone didn’t take the time to be with her or drive her around or listen to her stories?” I don’t think I ever did anything more important in my life. We are 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.

The year 2011 is around the corner and with it the same troubles that were there just a short while ago. Will this year be different or will it be the same? The challenges are great, the effort seems futile. And then I remember a story titled, “The Cab Ride.”

Many such stories can be found in the journey we take but the important thing to remember is that our world is so fragile and we are so dependent on each other and are very important to each other. The rest seems so insignificant. Don’t you agree?