It’s been far to long since my last blog entry. I apologize. But I promised I would really only blog if something was on my mind that may stick in yours.
First off, can I say how in-freakin-credible it is that one of the Chilean miners will run the NEW YORK CITY MARATHON?! He trained in the tunnels while he was trapped. Mind-blowingly inspirational.
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There’s a song you probably are hearing if you tune your radio these days. You’ve undoubtedly heard of the group, they’ve had number one singles in the past. But I don’t want to talk about the song or where it is on the charts. I love its message, and I think it is a message to take hold as we approach colder nights and shorter days.
Honestly, I loved it when I was a kid to come home from school, have the sun go down, feel the warmth from the heat inside and the lights and spend time with my family. My home was safe. But I think all too often we don’t venture outside of our homes, outside of our neighborhoods, outside of our comfort zone.
When we do that we often miss opportunities to remind ourselves of how utterly awesome our world is. And I mean seeing it with a total sense of “awe.” Or there can be times when we miss seeing how fortunate we are to have whatever we hold dear. I’m lucky my work as a journalist allows me to see these moments. This is something we couldn’t report without names and interviews, but let me tell you a story. Last month a mother and her four children were driving down a rural highway. The name of the road and its location don’t matter. The mother lost control of her car, drove into a ditch, rolled over, and eventually it came to a stop. Luckily a few minutes later another driver came up on the car. Not thinking, he ran to the overturned vehicle and cleared out broken glass from the back windshield. He rescued three small children and brought them to safety. A fire erupted in the car before emergency responders arrived and the mother and her one year old infant perished. But this man, purely by happenstance saved three lives.
I found out about this from a rescue squad member a few days after the crash. The man who on a quiet backroad came at the right time at the right place was well-known in the nearby town. He’s the outcast. He battles drugs, alcohol. He lives in a shack with no known address. No one in the town pays any attention to him, and they might continue to do so. He’s a wanderer; a modern day leper. Ten years ago, he tried to take his own life– the gun misfired: for a man who has known failure his whole time on earth, he couldn’t even succeed in killing himself. And yet, if that gun did its job, if it killed him, those three small children he saved would also be gone. In my eyes, no matter his transgressions, he is now redeemed. And what an unimaginable redemption. When it comes to purpose in life, I think some are meant to do great things, some meant for simple things, some meant for only one thing. All have their own sense of honor. If this man goes through the rest of his life wandering, he will might have just served his purpose this last October.
When I heard this story, the few I shared it with in the newsroom and I had the same reaction; we were in awe. It is an awesome story, and I’m thankful I know of it. I’m thankful I know there are people out there in this world I won’t ever meet but are doing deeds like our friend driving on that rural highway.
Here’s one more story for you that didn’t happen to me, it’s from a book I recently read and it’s another moment that can stay with you if you just let it.
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The Cab Ride
“Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy’s life, a life for someone who wanted no boss. 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 partiers, 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 would 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 transportation. 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 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.”
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Out of fear of mixing religion with journalism, I’ll leave the story as is without references to the author or book, but google The Cab Ride if you’re interested.
I’ll leave you with this: Sometimes we close our eyes, stay in our homes, wrap ourselves up in blankets, turn on a movie, lay on the couch with those we love and wait for another day to come.
Then there are times when we should open our eyes, look at the world and say, “hello again.”
