I found this almost 10 years ago...

Please take some time for this beautiful little lesson about patience.

This was written by a New York taxi driver:

I was sent to an address and, as usual, honked when I arrived. But no passenger appeared. I honked again. Nothing. Once more. Nothing. My shift was nearly over; this was supposed to be my last ride. It would have been easy to just drive away. However, I decided against it, parked the car, and went to the front door. As soon as I knocked, I heard an old frail voice say, "Please, just a moment!"
I heard something being dragged across the floor inside the house.

It took a while until the door finally opened. Standing before me was a small elderly lady, certainly around 90 years old. She wore a floral printed dress and one of those pillbox hats with a veil, the kind people used to wear often. Her entire appearance looked as if she had stepped out of a 1940s film. In her hand, she held a small nylon suitcase. Since the door was open, I could now peek into the apartment. It looked as if no one had lived there for years. All the furniture was covered with cloths. The walls were completely bare—no clocks hung there. The apartment was almost completely empty—no knickknacks, no dishes on the sink; only in the back corner did I see something. A box packed with photos and some glass sculptures.

"Please, young man, could you carry my suitcase to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase and put it in the trunk. I went back to the old lady to help her a bit as she walked to the car. She took my arm, and together we walked towards the sidewalk and the car.

She thanked me for my help.
"It's nothing," I replied, "I treat my passengers just the way I would treat my mother!"
"Oh, you really are an exemplary young man," she responded.

When the lady had taken her seat in my taxi, she gave me the destination address, followed by the question if we could drive through downtown.
"Well, that's not the shortest route, actually quite a detour," I pointed out.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm not in a hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."
"A hospice?" flashed through my mind. Damn, man! That's where seriously ill people are cared for and accompanied as they die. I looked in the rearview mirror, looked at the lady again.

"I won't be leaving any family behind," she continued gently. "The doctor says I don't have much time left."
I switched off the meter. "Which way shall I take?" I asked.
For the next two hours we simply drove through the city. She showed me the hotel where she once worked at the reception. We drove to various places. She showed me the house where she and her late husband had lived when they were "a young, wild couple." She showed me a modern new furniture store that used to be "a popular spot" for dancing. As a young girl, she had often danced there.

At some buildings and streets, she asked me to drive particularly slowly. Then she said nothing. She just looked out the window and seemed to take a mental journey one more time. Behind the horizon, the first sun rays came. Had we actually driven through the city all night?
"I'm tired," the old lady said suddenly. "Now we can go to my destination."

Silently, we drove to the address she had given me that evening. I had imagined the hospice much bigger. With its tiny driveway, it looked more like a small friendly holiday home. However, no shopping-hungry real estate agent rushed out of the building, but two hurrying paramedics who, as soon as I stopped the car, opened the passenger door. They seemed very concerned.
They must have waited a long time for the lady.

And as the old lady took a seat in a wheelchair, I carried her suitcase to the entrance of the hospice.
"How much do I owe you for the ride?" she asked, rummaging through her handbag.
"Nothing," I said.
"But you have to make a living," she replied.
"There are other passengers," I answered with a smile.
And without thinking long, I hugged her. She held me tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little bit of joy and happiness on her last mile. Thank you," she said with teary eyes.
I squeezed her hand and walked into the gloomy sunrise... Behind me, the hospice door closed. It sounded to me like the closing of a life.

My next shift was supposed to begin now, but I took no new passengers. I simply drove aimlessly through the streets—completely absorbed in my thoughts. I neither wanted to talk nor see anyone. What would have happened if the lady had encountered an unfriendly, bad-tempered driver who just wanted to finish his shift quickly? What if I hadn’t accepted the ride? What if I had simply driven away after the first honk?

When I think back to this ride, I believe I have never done anything more important in my life.
In our hectic lives, we place particular value on the big, spectacular moments. Bigger. Faster. Further.
Yet, it is the small moments, the little gestures that truly count in life.
For these small and beautiful moments, we should take time again. We should have patience again—and not honk immediately—then we will see them too.