THE BUS DRIVER WHO WAITED

I start my route before the sun comes up. Same streets, same stops, and same faces. People think driving a bus is just about staying on schedule, but after years behind the wheel, I’ve learned it’s really about noticing people.

There was one stop in particular: a single mother and her young son. Every morning, they ran. Every morning, she looked embarrassed and out of breath, trying to juggle a backpack, a lunchbox, and a tired little boy.

I noticed the other drivers would pull away if she wasn’t there on time. So, I started waiting. Not long. Just enough.

She eventually asked me why. I told her the truth. My mom raised me alone, and if a bus driver hadn’t waited for us when I was a kid, I don’t know how she would’ve kept her job. Someone once showed us grace when we needed it most.

I believe Jesus shows up in patience; the kind that doesn’t announce itself.

Some mornings, we sit there an extra minute. Some mornings, other passengers sigh. I don’t mind. I’d rather be late than leave someone behind who’s already carrying too much.

One day she handed me a note. It said, “You don’t know how much this matters.” But I think I do.

I don’t preach on my bus. I don’t talk about faith unless someone asks. I just try to drive the way Jesus would: with compassion, with awareness, and with room for people who are doing their best.

Sometimes love looks like waiting when you don’t have to.