When I volunteered to speak today I realized that I had to make a choice.

I could try to speak on behalf of my cohort and try to express the challenges we've had to face and the sacrifices we've had to make in order to push through this program...

Or I could take this opportunity to try to speak TO my cohort and... to be honest... I don't feel qualified to try to express for all of you the frustrations and triumphs you've each encountered as you progressed through this program... so I decided that I needed to shift my focus...

I'm going to read a short story to you. This was written more than a decade ago by Kent Nurberg in his book “Make me an instrument of your peace.” which he says he wrote as a series of personal meditations on St. Francis's famous prayer which starts, “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace...”

This story recently experienced a sort of on-line revival when it was published in a blog and linked to by other blogs and forwarded in emails all over the world... I read it first a couple of weeks ago and it had me in tears... please forgive me if I tear up as I read it to you... keep in mind that Kent himself recently wrote on his own blog in response to the skeptics that the story is real and did actually happen... It begins:

"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, and 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 partyers, 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 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 80’s 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, “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 way to a hospice.”

I looked in the rear view 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”.

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."

We are all about to enter an industry that is completely overwhelmed and under-staffed. There is far more need than there is supply and we will be asked to work longer, harder and for less compensation than we probably deserve. We will face frustration, anger and burnout... and the only thing that will sustain us are these great moments... the moments when a patient or family member says, “thank you” or gives us a hug, or smiles through the tears.

Kent says that great moments often catch us unaware, beautifully wrapped in what others my consider a small one.

So what I want to say to you all... To my fellow members of the Ninth Cohort... is that I hope we can all keep our eyes and hearts open... I hope that we all can find enough great moments to sustain us, to keep us moving forward and to prevent us from becoming completely bitter, jaded, and disappointed in nursing as a whole.

Please don't forget to look for the great moments that might be disguised as small ones... and be open to recognizing them as the great moments they are when they come.

Finally I want to say that if there is one thing I believe I am qualified to say on behalf of my cohort it is this:

To our family and friends, Thank you.

Thank you all for sustaining us through this year.

Thank you for your perseverance, your perspective and your willingness to listen, console, counsel and cheer.

Thank you for making our success possible.

We did it.

We're Done.

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