I want to share a story that has been circulating lately, a story of an Uber driver named Marcus and a passenger named Mr. Patterson.
One evening Marcus picked up an elderly man at 11 PM who handed him five addresses and said, "Drive me to these places. Don't ask why until we're done."
First stop: a house in the suburbs. The old man sat in the car, staring at it, crying silently. "This is where I grew up. Okay. Let us go to the Next stop."
Second stop: an empty elementary school. He got out, walked to the playground, and sat on a swing for twenty minutes. "I taught here. 43 years. Best job I ever had."
Third stop: a diner. He went in, ordered coffee, but he didn't drink it. Just sat. Looking around. "My wife and I had our first date here. 1967."
Fourth stop: a cemetery. He stood at a grave, talking to it for thirty minutes. "My wife. Three years today."
Fifth stop: a hospital. He turned to Marcus and said, "Now I'll tell you why. I have stage four cancer. Weeks left. Maybe days. Tonight I wanted to see my whole life. One last time."
He handed Marcus $500. "Thank you for driving me through my life. You're the last stranger who'll ever be kind to me. I wanted it to be gentle. You made it gentle."
Marcus refused the money. The old man insisted. You can now leave.
Marcus went back to the hospital the next day. And the next. And the day after that. He brought coffee. Read the news. Sat in silence. He held Mr. Patterson's hand when he died on a Tuesday at 3:17 in the morning. Six people came to the funeral. Marcus spoke. "Every stranger is someone's whole world. Kindness to strangers isn't extra. It's everything."
He still keeps the $500 in his glove box.
Monday morning, I drove Father Willy Raymond from North Easton to Bennington. He wanted to visit Father Hugh Cleary, his classmate, his brother in the Congregation of Holy Cross, a man he loved. Father Willy looked healthy. He was cheerful. He was fully, completely himself, animated about the visit, glad to be going back to a place that had shaped him and to meet his friend.
It was a pleasant drive of three hours and twenty minutes to North Benington. On the way, he called his friends over the phone, spoke to his brother, shared with me about the book he read the previous night, and told me stories of his Novitiate year in Benington, It was a place he loved deeply, where he had done his novitiate, where he had served as a pastor for a short while, where his roots in religious life had first taken hold. In an earlier trip two years ago, he had taken me to see the old novitiate himself, proud and nostalgic, like a man showing you the house where he grew up.
On Monday Father Willy Raymond had a heart attack And he died there in Benington. Without a word of distress. Without a complaint of pain. One moment he was here. The next moment, he was home.
I have been sitting with that ever since. And I cannot help noticing what God quietly arranged.
Father Willy's last journey was to a place he loved. His last intention was to visit a dear friend. His last act of charity was visiting the sick. His last hours were spent in a place saturated with memory, with prayer, with the earliest stirrings of his vocation.
Today is Ash Wednesday. And today's Gospel from Matthew cuts right to the heart. He says, " do not let your left hand know what your right is doing, in other words be real. Be whole. Be integrated, be the same person in private that you are in public.
Father Willy Raymond was that person. I can tell you that from firsthand experience. The man you saw in the pulpit was the same man, outside, in the car. Curious. Warm. Full of faith. Full of laughter, he had a funny giggle sometimes. But No performance. No pretense. What you saw, was what he was, all the way down.
That is what Jesus is asking of us today. The ashes we wear today are an invitation to honesty. You are dust. Stop pretending otherwise. Stop managing your image.
And these two men, Father Willy and Marcus are asking of us today: What if you lived as though today was your last ride through a place you loved? Not in panic. Not in morbid dread. But in the full, attentive, grateful awareness that every conversation matters, every journey is sacred, every person in your car/ in your world, deserves your complete and gentle and honest presence.
Father Willy Raymond did not die with regrets scattered behind him like luggage he had never unpacked. He died going toward something, toward a friend, toward a beloved place, toward a life fully lived.
The ashes on your forehead today are not the end of the story. They are the beginning of honesty. They say: you are finite, and it is an invitation. An invitation to stop postponing kindness. To stop rehearsing grudges. To let your yes be yes.
Father Willy, thank you. For the journey. For the witness. For showing me, us, right up to the very end, what it looks like to live without pretense, and to die without fear. And my ride back from Benington was not fun without you in the car. Rest in Peace, Father Willy.