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 did not 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, made me laugh and weep.

    But 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 people who had been partying, or someone who had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at some factory for the industrial part of town.

    When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under such circumstances, many drivers 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 transpor- tation.

    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 80s 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, “Can 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 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,” I responded.

    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. People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said... but they will always remember how you made them feel.

    Take a moment to stop and appre- ciate the memories you have made, the memory making opportunies around you and make someone feel special today.

    二十年前，我以開出租車為生。這是一種富有冒險精神的生活，適合那些不想受老板管制的人。

    開始我沒有意識到它也是一種牧師職業(yè)。由于我上夜班，我的出租車就成為一輛流動的懺悔室。乘客們爬進車里，坐在我后面，素不相識，然后給我講述他們的生活。我遇到過很多人，有些人的生活讓我感到驚奇，有些人的生活讓我肅然起敬，有些人帶給我歡笑和哭泣。

    然而最使我感動的，是在八月的一個晚上乘車的一位老婦人。

    我正在接電話，是從一座磚造的四套公寓住宅小樓打來的，位于城鎮(zhèn)一個安靜的區(qū)域。我想可能是我讓去那里接一些參加舞會的人，或者剛與愛人打過架的人，或者要去城鎮(zhèn)工業(yè)區(qū)的某個工廠趕早班的工人。

    凌晨兩點半我趕到的時候，樓里除了第一層窗戶那兒亮著一盞孤燈外，漆黑一片。在這種情況下，很多司機都是按一兩下喇叭，等一會兒，然而就開車離開了。但我見過太多窮困的人們，他們把出租車作為唯一的交通工具。

    除非嗅到危險的氣氛，我總是走到門前。

    乘客也許需要我的幫助，我這樣為自己找理由。因此我走到門前，敲門。“請等一下。”回答的是一個虛弱而蒼老的聲音。我能聽到在地板上拖著東西的聲音，過了好一會，門開了。一位80多歲的弱小老婦人站在我面前。她穿著印花外套，戴著別有面紗的筒狀女帽，就像從四十年代的電影里走出來的人。她身旁是一個小型的尼龍手提箱。

    這座公寓看上去好像很多年沒人住過了，所有的家具都用布蒙著，墻上沒有掛鐘，柜臺上也沒有任何裝飾物或家用器具。墻角放著一個紙箱，里面堆滿了照片和玻璃器皿。

    “你能幫我把包拿到車上嗎？”她說。我把箱子放到車上，又回來攙扶老婦人。她挽住我的胳膊，我們慢慢走到車旁。

    她不停地感謝我的好心。“沒什么，”我說，“我想要別人這樣對待我的母親，我就得盡力這樣對待我的乘客。”“哦，你真是個好孩子。”她說。

    當(dāng)我們坐進車里，她遞給我一個地址，然后又問道：“你能從城鎮(zhèn)中心穿過去嗎？”“那不是最近的路。”我很快回答。“哦，沒關(guān)系，”她說，“我不急著趕路，我就要去救濟院了。” 我從后視鏡看了看，她的眼睛在閃著光。她繼續(xù)說著：“我沒有任何家人了，醫(yī)生說我活不長了。”

    我輕輕地伸手關(guān)掉了計量表。“您想讓我走哪條路線？”我問。

    接下來的兩個小時，我們開車穿過了整個城市。她指給我看當(dāng)年她作電梯操作員的那座大廈，她和她的新婚丈夫當(dāng)年生活過的小區(qū)，她讓我在一家家具商店前面停車，那兒以前是個舞廳，她還是個小姑娘時常去那兒跳舞。

    有時經(jīng)過一個特殊的大樓或角落時她會讓我放慢車速，她會坐在那里瞪著夜空，默默無言。

    當(dāng)?shù)谝豢|陽光打破了地平線，她突然說：“我累了，咱們現(xiàn)在就走吧。”

    我們默默地驅(qū)車向她給我的那個地址駛?cè)ァ?br />    
    那是一座低矮的樓房，就像一個小療養(yǎng)院，在門廊的下面有一條車道。我們剛停車，就有兩個護理員出來向我們走來。她們關(guān)切而熱心地注視著她的舉動，看樣子一定是在等著她的到來。

    我打開車尾的行李箱，把她的手提箱提到門口。老婦人已經(jīng)坐進輪椅里。

    “我該給你多少錢？”她邊說邊把手伸進錢包。

    “不用了，”我說。

    “你得謀生呢，”她說。

    “還有其他的乘客，”我回答。

    幾乎想也沒想，我彎下腰來給了她一個擁抱。她也緊緊地抱著我。

    “你給了一個老婦人片刻的歡樂，”她說，“謝謝你。”

    我輕輕地握了握她的手，便走進了微弱的晨光中。門在我身后關(guān)上了。這也是生命關(guān)閉的聲音。

    那晚我沒有拉其他的乘客。我漫無方向地開著車，陷入沉思中。那天其余的時間，我?guī)缀跽f不出話。

    如果那位老婦人碰到一位狂暴的司機，或者急著結(jié)束晚班的司機，那會怎么樣呢？如果我拒絕跑這趟車，或者只是按一聲喇叭，便開車離開，那又會怎么樣呢？

    匆忙回顧了一下，我認為我做了一件生命中再重要不過的事情。

    我們習(xí)慣性地認為我們的生命中有一些重大的時刻，然而重大的時刻往往在不經(jīng)意時降臨到我們身上--也許在別人眼中是小事，但它有著美麗的包裝。人們可能不會完全記住你所做的事，或者你所說的話……但他們卻會永遠記住你帶給他們的感覺。

    花上片刻的時間，靜靜地欣賞一下你的回憶，那些為周圍的人創(chuàng)造了機會的回憶，那些使他人今天仍然感覺特別的回憶。