The Cab Ride by Kent Nerburn 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 minist ry. Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving confessional. Passen gers 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 wee p. 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 these circumstances, many drivers would just honk o nce or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverish ed 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 a nd knocked. "Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being d ragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in h er 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a v eil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small ny lon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All t he furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knic kknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled wi th photos and glassware. "Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the ca b, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly towar d 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, y ou're such a good boy", she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me and addres s, 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 wa y to a hospice". I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any fam ily 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 wh ere she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborho od 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 ha d gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particula r 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 a small convalescent home, with a erlies came out to the cab as soon ent, watching her every move. They

she had given me. It was a low building, like driveway that passed under a portico. Two ord as we pulled up. They were solicitous and int must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was alread y 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 o ther passengers," I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hu g. 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 thou ght. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotte n an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refu sed 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 condition ed 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 AL WAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.

Inspirational Stories - #2 Just A Few Drops Author Unknown It was one of the hottest days of the dry season. We had not seen rain in almost a month. The crops were dying. Cows had stopped giving milk. The creeks and str eams were long gone back into the earth. It was a dry season that would bankrupt several farmers before it was through. Every day, my husband and his brothers w ould go about the arduous process of trying to get water to the fields. Lately t his process had involved taking a truck to the local water rendering plant and f illing it up with water. But severe rationing had cut everyone off. If we didn't see some rain soon... we would lose everything. It was on this day that I learned the true lesson of sharing and witnessed the o nly miracle I have seen with my own eyes. I was in the kitchen making lunch for my husband and his brothers when I saw my six-year old son, Billy, walking towar d the woods. He wasn't walking with the usual carefree abandon of a youth but wi th a serious purpose. I could only see his back. He was obviously walking with a great effort...trying to be as still as possible. Minutes after he disappeared into the woods, he came running out again, toward t he house. I went back to making sandwiches, thinking that whatever task he had b een doing was completed. Moments later, however, he was once again walking in th at slow purposeful stride toward the woods. This activity went on for an hour. H e would walk carefully to the woods, run back to the house. Finally I couldn't t ake it any longer and I crept out of the house and followed him on his journey ( being very careful not to be seen...as he was obviously doing important work and didn't need his Mommy checking up on him). He was cupping both hands in front of him as he walked, being very careful not t

o spill the water he held in them...maybe two or three tablespoons were held in his tiny hands. I sneaked close as he went into the woods. Branches and thorns s lapped his little face but he did not try to avoid them. He had a much higher pu rpose. As I leaned in to spy on him, I saw the most amazing site. Several large deer loomed in front of him. Billy walked right up to them. I almost screamed fo r him to get away. A huge buck with elaborate antlers was dangerously close. But the buck did not threaten him...he didn't even move as Billy knelt down. And I saw a tiny fawn laying on the ground, obviously suffering from dehydration and h eat exhaustion, lift its head with great effort to lap up the water cupped in my beautiful boy's hand. When the water was gone, Billy jumped up to run back to the house and I hid behi nd a tree. I followed him back to the house, to a spigot that we had shut off th e water to. Billy opened it all the way up and a small trickle began to creep ou t. He knelt there, letting the drip, drip slowly fill up his makeshift "cup," as the sun beat down on his little back. And it came clear to me. The trouble he h ad gotten into for playing with the hose the week before. The lecture he had rec eived about the importance of not wasting water. The reason he didn't ask me to help him. It took almost twenty minutes for the drops to fill his hands. When he stood up and began the trek back, I was there in front of him. His little eyes just fille d with tears. "I'm not wasting," was all he said. As he began his walk, I joined him...with a small pot of water from the kitchen. I let him tend to the fawn. I stayed away. It was his job. I stood on the edge of the woods watching the most beautiful heart I have ever k nown working so hard to save another life. As the tears that rolled down my face began to hit the ground, they were suddenly joined by other drops...and more dr ops...and more. I looked up at the sky. It was as if God, himself, was weeping w ith pride. Some will probably say that this was all just a huge coincidence. That miracles don't really exist. That it was bound to rain sometime. And I can't argue with t hat...I'm not going to try. All I can say is that the rain that came that day sa ved our farm...just like the actions of one little boy saved another. I don't know if anyone will read this...but I had to send it.... To honor the me mory of my beautiful Billy, who was taken from me much too soon.... but not befo re showing me the true face of God, in a little sunburned body.

(More Inspirational Stories follow these reflective questions.) Do I believe there is a When I die where will I What do I need to do to Why do I believe what I If what I believe isn't Who has the answers? Click here real heaven and hell? go? live forever? do? true, would I want to know it?

Inspirational Stories - #3 Ice Cream For The Soul

Author Unknown Last week I took my children to a restaurant. My six-year-old son asked if he co uld say grace. As we bowed our heads he said, "God is good. God is great. Thank you for the food, and I would even thank you more if mom gets us ice cream for d essert. And Liberty and justice for all! Amen." Along with the laughter from the other customers nearby, I heard a woman remark, "That's what's wrong with this country. Kids today don't even know how to pray. Asking God for ice-cream! Why, I never! "Hearing this, my son burst into tears and asked me, "Did I do it wrong? Is God mad at me?" As I held him and assured h im that he had done a terrific job and God was certainly not mad at him, an elde rly gentleman approached the table. He winked at my son and said, "I happen to k now that God thought that was a great prayer." "Really?" my son asked. "Cross my heart." Then in a theatrical whisper he added (indicating the woman whose remark had sta rted this whole thing), "Too bad she never asks God for ice cream. A little ice cream is good for the soul sometimes." Naturally, I bought my kids ice cream at the end of the meal. My son stared at h is for a moment and then did something I will remember the rest of my life. He p icked up his sundae and without a word walked over and placed it in front of the woman. With a big smile he told her, "Here, this is for you. Ice cream is good for the soul sometimes, and my soul is good already.

Inspirational Stories - #4 The Empty Egg Author Unknown Jeremy was born with a twisted body and a slow mind. At the age of 12 he was sti ll in second grade, seemingly unable to learn. His teacher, Doris Miller, often became exasperated with him. He would squirm in his seat, drool, and make grunti ng noises. At other times, he spoke clearly and distinctly, as if a spot of ligh t had penetrated the darkness of his brain. Most of the time, however, Jeremy ju st irritated his teacher. One day she called his parents and asked them to come in for a consultation. As the Forresters entered the empty classroom, Doris said to them, "Jeremy really b elongs in a special school. It isn't fair to him to be with younger children who don't have learning problems. Why, there is a five year gap between his age and that of the other students." Mrs. Forrester cried softly into a tissue, while her husband spoke. "Miss Miller ," he said, "there is no school of that kind nearby. It would be a terrible shoc k for Jeremy if we had to take him out of this school. We know he really likes i t here." Doris sat for a long time after they had left, staring at the snow outs ide the window. Its coldness seemed to seep into her soul. She wanted to sympath ize with the Forresters. After all, their only child had a terminal illness. But it wasn't fair to keep him in her class. She had 18 other youngsters to teach, and Jeremy was a distraction. Furthermore, he would never learn to read and writ e. Why waste any more time trying?

As she pondered the situation, guilt washed over her. Here my problems are nothing compared to that poor family, she help me to be more patient with Jeremy. From that day on, ore Jeremy's noises and his blank stares. Then one day, he ragging his bad leg behind him.

I am complaining when thought. Lord, please she tried hard to ign limped to her desk, d

"I love you, Miss Miller," he exclaimed, loud enough for the whole class to hear . The other students snickered, and Doris' face burned red. She stammered, "Wh-w hy that's very nice, Jeremy. N-now please take your seat." Spring came, and the children talked excitedly about the coming of Easter. Doris told them the story of Jesus, and then to emphasize the idea of new life spring ing forth, she gave each of the children a large plastic egg. "Now," she said to them, "I want you to take this home and bring it back tomorrow with something i nside that shows new life. Do you understand?" "Yes, Miss Miller," the children responded enthusiastically-all except for Jerem y. He listened intently. His eyes never left her face. He did not even make his usual noises. Had he understood what she had said about Jesus' death and resurre ction? Did he understand the assignment? Perhaps she should call his parents and explain the project to them. That evening, Doris' kitchen sink stopped up. She called the landlord and waited an hour for him to come by and unclog it. After that, she still had to shop for groceries, iron a blouse, and prepare a vocabulary test for the next day. She c ompletely forgot about phoning Jeremy's parents. The next morning, 19 children came to school, laughing and talking as they place d their eggs in the large wicker basket on Miss Miller's desk. After they comple ted their math lesson, it was time to open the eggs. In the first egg, Doris fou nd a flower. "Oh yes, a flower is certainly a sign of new life," she said. "When plants peek through the ground, we know that spring is here." A small girl in t he first row waved her arm. "That's my egg, Miss Miller," she called out. The ne xt egg contained a plastic butterfly, which looked very real. Doris held it up. "We all know that a caterpillar changes and grows into a beautiful butterfly. Ye s, that's new life, too." Little Judy smiled proudly and said, "Miss Miller, tha t one is mine." Next, Doris found a rock with moss on it. She explained that mos s, too, showed life. Billy spoke up from the back of the classroom, "My daddy he lped me," he beamed. Then Doris opened the fourth egg. She gasped. The egg was empty. Surely it must be Jeremy's she thought, and of course, he did not understand her instructions. If only she had not forgotten to phone his parents. Because she did not want to embarrass him, she quietly set the egg aside and reached for another. Suddenly, Jeremy spoke up. "Miss Miller, aren't you going to talk about my egg?" Flustered , Doris replied, "But Jeremy, your egg is empty." He looked into her eyes and sa id softly, "Yes, but Jesus' tomb was empty, too." Time stopped. When she could speak again, Doris asked him, "Do you know why the tomb was empty?" "Oh, yes," Jeremy said, "Jesus was killed and put in there. The n His Father raised Him up." The recess bell rang. While the children excitedly ran out to the schoolyard, Do ris cried. The cold inside her melted completely away. Three months later, Jeremy died. Those who paid their respects at the mortuary w ere surprised to see 19 eggs on top of his casket....... all of them empty.