Just Two Pennies

Author Unknown

I was in line at a store getting my change, it was only three cents. But the man's bill next to me was $4.02, and he did not have any change with him. At first I was going to let him receive .98 cents back, but while he was digging through his pockets I thought about how much I disliked getting a bunch change back. So I slide two of my pennies over to him and said "Here you go." He muttered "Thanks." I walked out the store and as I was getting into my car I noticed him sitting at the window smiling at me. I smiled back and drove away.

Something For Stevie

Author Unknown

I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react to Stevie.

He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued speech of Down syndrome. I wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade.

The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truckstop germ;" the pairs of white shirted business men on expense accounts who think every truckstop waitress wants to be flirted with.

I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for the first few weeks. I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their official truckstop mascot. After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was convincing him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus the dishes and glasses onto cart and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met.

Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truckstop. Their social worker, which stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was the probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home.

That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Down syndrome often had heart problems at a early age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.

A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in recovery and doing fine. Frannie, my head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of the 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table. Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look.

He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.

"We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay."

"I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about?"

Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed. "Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK," she said, "but I don't know how he and his mom are going to handle all the bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is." Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables.

Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables that day until we decided what to do. After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand a funny look on her face.

"What's up?" I asked.

"I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off," she said, "This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup."

She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed "Something For Stevie". "Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told him about Stevie and his mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She handed me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie" scrawled
on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply "truckers."

That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back.

Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and busing cart were waiting.

"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me."

I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room. I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession.

We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins.

"First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern.

Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table. Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it.

I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems. Happy Thanksgiving."

Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well. But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table. Best worker I ever hired.

His House

It was a cold Sunday morning when members started arriving at church, snow flakes had just fallen, people were rushing in to get inside. To the warmth, to the dry sanctuary.

As the members were walking in they were astonished to see a homeless person laying on the sidewalk by the front door. He was bent over all covered up with an old black trench coat, that had many holes in it. His shoes had holes in it and you could see his socks filthy from months of grime on them. The man had a black hat on that covered his face. His hands filthy with dirt from probably digging in a garbage can some thought.

As the members made their way into the sanctuary, they were all discussing how this horrible filthy man, had the nerve to sleep at THEIR church doors! Finally the pianist started playing and the members all sat down in their seats. They were all looking around, wondering where the Pastor could be. You could hear people whispering, saying, "Pastor Joe is probably telling that homeless man he needs to leave the property...What would visitors think if they see him?"

All of a sudden, you could hear a gasp! The homeless man was walking down the middle of the church aisle, he made his way to the front, and then to the platform! When the homeless man got to the microphone. He said "Good morning, how are you all?" The homeless man was their Pastor Joe! Not a word was said, no one moved all around. Even the pianist stopped playing.

Then Pastor Joe said, "Did any of you see Jesus outside this morning?" "He was cold, He was dirty, His clothes were filthy!" However no one asked Him into HIS house."

Kindness is Contagious

by Phyllis Yearick

My 9-year-old daughter and I were flying from our home in Charlotte, North Carolina, to spend a week with my husband in Miami, Florida. Mike had been in Florida for five months working for an Internet start-up company. We were excited about the trip because we had seen him only five times in five months, and Kallie missed her dad terribly.

As usual on the Charlotte-to-Miami flight, the plane was totally full. I had noticed a troop of Boy Scouts at the gate and commented to my daughter that if anything happened, we would be OK with all those Scouts on our flight! Little did I know...

Because we did not get our boarding passes until we arrived at the gate, Kallie and I could not get seats together and were separated by the aisle. That wasn't such a big deal, except that Kallie was nervous about the trip and had counted on my reading to her the whole way. Trying to read across the aisle would be a challenge.

When the two passengers who shared my row boarded the plane, I asked if they would switch places with Kallie and me, so that we could be together and so that she could sit next to the window. They refused, saying they thought they should stay in their assigned seats. Meanwhile, a mother and her three children were in a panic several rows ahead of us. There had been a mistake in their boarding passes, the whole family had been split up.

The passengers in her row also refused to move elsewhere. The mother could hold her baby, but her 6-year-old son and his older brother had been scattered around the plane. She was very concerned about the younger boy sitting with strangers. She was in tears, yet nobody offered to help her.

Suddenly the Scout leader stood up and said, "Ma'am, I think we can help you." He then spent five minutes rearranging his group so that adequate space was available for the family. The boys followed his directions cheerfully and without complaint, and the mother's relief was obvious.

Kallie, however, was beginning to panic at the thought of not being next to a window or her mother. I told her that there wasn't anything I could do; we would have to sit where we were. Amazingly, the man sitting next to the Scoutmaster (not a Scout himself), turned around to me and asked, "Would you and your daughter like our seats?" referring to himself and the Scoutmaster. He said he was cramped in the window seat and would really prefer the aisle. We traded seats and continued our trip, very much relieved to be together and watch the scenery from Kallie's window
seat.

Would that man have offered us his seat if the Scouts hadn't done so for the mom and her children? I don't know. But I do know that kindness is contagious, and good deeds beget good deeds!

The Red Marbles

During the waning years of the depression in a small south eastern Idaho community, I used to stop by Brother Miller's roadside stand for farm-fresh produce as the season made it available. Food and money were still extremely scarce and bartering was used, extensively.

One particular day Brother Miller was bagging some early potatoes for me. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprising a basket of freshly picked green peas. I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Brother Miller and the ragged boy next to me.

"Hello Barry, how are you today?"

"Hello, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Just admiring them peas, sure look good."

"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"

"Fine. Getting' stronger all of the time."

"Good. Anything I can help you with?"

"No, Sir. Just admiring them peas."

"Would you like to take some home?"

"No, Sir. Got nothing' to pay for 'em with."

"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"

"All I've got is my prize marble here."

"Is that right? Let me see it."

"Here it is. She's a dandy."

"I can see that. Hmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?"

"Not exactly .....but, almost."

"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble."

"Sure will. Thanks, Mr. Miller."

Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said, "There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, perhaps."

I left the stand, smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Utah but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys and their bartering.

Several years went by each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there I learned that Brother Miller had died.

They were having his viewing that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon our arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could. Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts...very professional looking.

They approached Mrs. Miller, standing smiling and composed, by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket. Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary, awkwardly, wiping his eyes.

Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and mentioned the story she had told me about the marbles. Eyes glistening she took my hand and led me to the casket. "Those three young men, that just left, were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim "traded" them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size...they came to pay their debt. We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world," she confided, "but, right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho."

With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three, magnificently shiny, red marbles.

The Scavengers

Ever since I was diagnosed with a possible heart enlargement, I have exerted more effort to do physical exercises. I go jogging week days and mountain biking every Sunday.

But this Sunday was a special Sunday to me. I was on my way to the mountains of Busay in Cebu hoping to strengthen my heart by the exercise, instead, I personally encountered a heart-breaking scene that changed me.

I have already passed the Marco Polo Plaza hotel when I decided to stop to buy bananas at a small canteen located along the road. I haven't taken any solid food that morning so I needed fruits to have the needed energy to get to my destination - the mountain top.

I was almost done eating with the second banana when I noticed two children across the street busily searching the garbage area. "Scavengers," I said to myself and quickly turned my attention away from them to sip a small amount of water. I cared less for this kind of kids. Actually, to make it straight, I do not like them, and I do not trust them even more.

You see, several times I have been a victim of kinds pretending to be scavengers looking for empty bottles and cans when in fact they were eyeing household items.

I remember one afternoon while I was watching a Mike Tyson fight when I noticed that the TV screen suddenly became blurred. I checked outside and saw two young scavengers running away with my newly installed antenna.

Hatred may be a little bit stronger word to describe my feeling towards them, but I do not like them honestly not till I met these three children.

I was about to embark on my bike again when I heard one of the two children, a girl of about 7 or 8 of age saying aloud to the other, a 12-yr old boy, "Get Dodong. He is looking at the diners. It is embarrassing.” Only then did I notice a small boy standing near me slightly nipping at his finger. He's a few inches shorter than my five year old son. I later found out he was also five years old.

Though he did not ask for food to anyone in the canteen, the way he looked at the diners was enough to convince me that he intensely craving for it.

The older boy quickly crossed the street and gently pulled the little one who politely obeyed. As I watched the two crossing back the street to the garbage area, I heard the canteen owner say, “I really pity those kids. Too bad they are actually good kids.”

I learned from her that the children are actually from a good family. Both parents used to work but the father suffered a stroke three years ago and became paralyzed. Their mother died of a heart attack while their father was still confined in the hospital. The parents were in their early forties when the catastrophes happened. Since then the kids became scavengers to meet their daily needs as well as for their father’s medication.

Deeply moved by what I heard, I went to a nearby bakery and bought 20 pesos worth of bread and gave it to the children who initially refused including the little boy. The young girl said, “It is okay. Thank you. We will just buy food later when we can sell (the trash).”

I explained to her that they needed to go home because it was starting to rain. "We are used to it,” the girl answered again.

So I explained to her the rain can make them sick and if they'll become sick there's no one to take care of their father. Upon mentioning their father, they nodded and accept the bread but I noticed that the older boy did not eat.

When I asked him if he does not like the kind of bread I bought for them he smiled but as he was about to explain, the little girl, who seems to be the talker among them, interrupted, "It is Sunday today. Every Saturday and Sunday he gets to eat in only in the afternoon. The rest of us get to eat in the morning but we don’t get to eat in the afternoon. He is the only one who gets to eat in the afternoon. During Mondays to Fridays, my brother has school so he is the only who gets to eat in the morning. The rest of us only get to eat if we are able to sell a lot.”

I countered, “Why don’t you just split the food equally so everyone gets to eat?”

The young girl reasoned out that their father wants her older brother to go to school with a full stomach so he can easily catch up with the teacher's lessons. "When my brother starts work, we will stop being scavengers. He is a first honor student, “ the little boy added proudly.

Perhaps I was caught by surprise or I am just overly emotional but my tears started to fall. I then quickly turned my back from them to hide my tears and pretended to pick up my bike from the canteen where I had left it.

I don't know how many seconds or minutes I spent just to compose myself, pretending again this time that I was mending by bike.

Finally I got on to my bike and approached the three children to bid goodbye to them who in turn cast their grateful smiles at me. I then took a good look at all of them especially at the small boy and patted his head with a pinch in my heart. Though I believe their positive look at life can eventually change their present situation, there is one thing that they can never change and that is their being motherless.

That little boy can no longer taste the sweet embrace, care, and most of all, the love of his mother forever. Nobody can refill the empty gap created by that sudden and untimely death of their mother. Every big event that will happen in their lives will only remind them and make them wish of their mother's presence.

I reached in my pocket for my last P100 and handed it to them. I was reserving it for our department's bowling tournament. This time they refused strongly but I jokingly said to the girl, "I am gonna hit you if you don’t accept this.”

She smiled as she extended her hand to take the money. “Thank you, we can now buy medicine for our father,” she uttered. I then turned to the small boy and though he was a few feet away from me, I noticed that while his right hand was holding the half - filled sack , his left hand was holding a toy, a worn out toy car. I waved my hands and said bye to him as I drove towards the mountains again. Did he just found the toy in the garbage area or was the toy originally his - before misfortune struck them. I did not bother to ask.

But one thing was crystal clear to me, that in spite of the boy's sad experience, he has not given up his childhood completely. I can sense it in the way he held and stared at his toy.

My meeting with the young scavengers made me poorer by 100 pesos. But they changed me and made me richer as far as lessons of life were concerned.

In them, I learned that life can change suddenly and may catch me flat footed. In them, I've learned that even the darkest side of life cannot change the beauty of one's heart. Those three children, who cannot eat three times a day, are still able to hold on to what they believe is right. What a contrast they were to most of us who are quick to point out our misfortunes when caught with our mistakes. In them, I've learned to hope for things when things seem to go the other way.

Lastly, I know that God cares for them far more than I do, that though He allowed them to experience such a terrible life which our finite minds cannot comprehend, His unquestionable love will surely follow them through.

And in God's own time they will win.

Shay

At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves learning disabled children, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question, "When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does is done with perfection. Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where is the natural order of things in my son?"

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued, "I believe, that when a child like Shay, physically and mentally handicapped comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes, in the way other people treat that child."

Then he told the following story.

Shay and his father had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, "Do you think they'll let me play?" Shay's father knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but the father also understood that if his son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.

Shay's father approached one of the boys on the field and asked if Shay could play, not expecting much. The boy looked around for guidance and said, "We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try! to put him in to bat in the ninth inning."

Shay struggled over to the team's bench put on a team shirt with a broad smile and his Father had a small tear in his eye and warmth in his heart. The boys saw the father's joy at his son being accepted. In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as his father waved to him from the stands. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.

At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less hit the ball.

However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher, recognizing the other team putting winning aside for this moment in Shay's life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least be able to make contact. The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay. As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.

The game would now be over, but the pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.

Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the head of the first baseman, out of reach of all teammates. Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, "Shay, run to first! Run to first!" Never in his life had Shay ever ran that far but made it to first base. He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.

Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second!" Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to second base. By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball, the smallest guy on their team, who had a chance to be the hero for his team for the first time. He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher's intentions and he too intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman's head. Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.

All were screaming, "Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay"

Shay reached second base, the opposing shortstop ran to help him and turned him in the direction of third base, and shouted, "Run to third! Shay, run to third" As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams and those watching were on their feet were screaming, "Shay, run home! Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the "grand slam" and won the game for his team.

That day, said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world.

Shay didn't make it to another summer and died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making his Father so happy and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!

A Glass of Milk

One day, a poor boy who was selling goods from door to door to pay his way through school, found he had only one thin dime left, and he was hungry. He decided he would ask for a meal at the next house. However, he lost his nerve when a lovely young woman opened the door. Instead of a meal he asked for a drink of water.

She thought he looked hungry so she brought him a large glass of milk. He drank it slowly, and then asked, "How much do I owe you?"

"You don't owe me anything," she replied. "Mother has taught us never to accept pay for a kindness."

He said..... "Then I thank you from my heart." As Howard Kelly left that house, he not only felt stronger physically, but his faith in God and man was strong also. He had been ready to give up and quit.

Years later that young woman became critically ill. The local doctors were baffled. They finally sent her to the big city, where they called in specialists to study her rare disease. Dr. Howard Kelly was called in for the consultation. When he heard the name of the town she came from, a strange light filled his eyes. Immediately he rose and went down the hall of the hospital to her room.

Dressed in his doctor's gown he went in to see her. He recognized her at once. He went back to the consultation room determined to do his best to save her life. From that day he gave special attention to the case.

After a long struggle, the battle was won. Dr. Kelly requested the business office to pass the final bill to him for approval.

He looked at it, then wrote something on the edge and the bill was sent to her room. She feared to open it, for she was sure it would take the rest of her life to pay for it all. Finally she looked, and something caught her attention on the side of the bill.

She read these words.....

"Paid in full with one glass of milk."

(Signed)
Dr. Howard Kelly

Tears of joy flooded her eyes as her happy heart prayed, "Thank You, God, that Your love has spread through human hearts and hands."

Who Packed Your Parachute?

Author Unknown

Charles Plumb was a US Navy jet pilot in Vietnam. After 75 combat missions, his plane was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. Plumb ejected and parachuted into enemy hands. He was captured and spent 6 years in a communist Vietnamese prison. He survived the ordeal and now lectures on lessons learned from that experience!

One day, while Plumb and his wife were sitting in a restaurant, a man at another table came up and said, "You're Plumb! You flew jet fighters in Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk. You were shot down!"

"How in the world did you know that?" asked Plumb.

"I packed your parachute," the man replied. Plumb gasped in surprise and gratitude. The man pumped his hand and said, "I guess it worked!" Plumb assured him, "It sure did. If your chute hadn't worked, I wouldn't be here today."

Plumb couldn't sleep that night, thinking about that man. Plumb thought, "I kept wondering what he had looked like in a Navy uniform: a white hat; a bib in the back; and bell-bottom trousers. I wonder how many times I might have seen him and not even said 'Good morning, how are you?' or anything because, you see, I was a fighter pilot and he was just a sailor." Plumb thought of the many hours the sailor had spent at a long wooden table in the bowels of the ship, carefully weaving the shrouds and folding the silks of each chute, holding in his hands each time the fate of someone he didn't know.

Now, Plumb asks his audience, "Who's packing your parachute?" Everyone has someone who provides what they need to make it through the day. He also points out that he needed many kinds of parachutes when his plane was shot down over enemy territory - he needed his physical parachute, his mental parachute, his emotional parachute, and his spiritual parachute. He called on all these supports before reaching safety.

Sometimes in the daily challenges that life gives us, we miss what is really important. We may fail to say hello, please, or thank you, congratulate someone on something wonderful that has happened to them, give a compliment, or just do something nice for no reason. As you go through this week, this month, this year, recognize people who pack your parachutes.

Taxi ride

Author unknown

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. 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 four-plex in a quiet part of town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some party people, or someone who had 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 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 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 asked.

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.