The Gift of the Present

Jake had been a delivery driver for over three years, navigating the bustling streets of his small town, but today, frustration gnawed at him like a mouse on melted cheese — sticky and relentless in the muggy heat. After a few hours of low-paying orders and scant tips, he snapped. Exasperated, he vented his grievances on the online community page, furiously typing ‌on his phone:  

“Dear neighbors, if you enjoy getting warm meals, please consider tipping your delivery driver a little more than spare change. We get a low base pay and need tips to continue to deliver your orders. We can’t do this for free. 

He hit ‘post,’ and felt a mix of relief and anxiety. Would people understand? Would they value the service drivers provided and consider tipping more?

The next hour, he delivered three more orders, all as poorly paying as the earlier ones. He did some mental math. He was averaging about $13 per hour. Minus the gas and wear on his car, he figured he was making about $9 per hour, truly dreadful. 

He scrolled through the comments on his post, and the reactions were mixed. Some people agreed and said drivers should be tipped more; others berated him for being entitled and ungrateful, and said if he didn’t like it he should get a different job. 

The dark storm clouds gathering overhead reflected his gloomy mood. He decided he would finish his next delivery and quit for the day. He picked up the order for Harold Smith from Burger Palace and clicked on directions. 

A few minutes later, Jake arrived at a white cottage on a quiet street near the edge of town. He knocked and after what seemed like an eternity, an elderly white-haired man opened the door, his face illuminated by a warm smile. 

Jake handed him the bag of food, and Harold handed him a $20 bill. “Thank you, young man,” said Harold. “I really appreciate you.”  

“Thank you, sir,” Jake said. “I really appreciate the tip. It’s been a pretty rough day.”

“Most welcome,” Harold replied. “I’m sorry you are having a bad day. I hope it gets better.” He closed the door halfway, hesitated as if having a second thought, and opened it again. “Please wait.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small notepad and a pencil. “I want to share this with you.” 

Jake waited patiently as Harold laboriously wrote some words on the notepad, then tore out the page and handed it to him. “This helped me after my wife died, when I didn’t think I could go on one more day. I hope it helps you too.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Jake. He noticed Harold’s eyes were misty. 

“It’s okay,” said Harold, his voice halting and frail. “I would give my last dime to spend just one more day with her.”

He wiped his eyes with a trembling hand. “You know, son, sometimes we aren’t grateful for what we have until it’s gone.”

Jake took the note from Harold and read the scribbled words: 

“Today is a gift called the present. Be thankful for what you have today.” 

Jake looked up from the note at Harold, whose wizened face hinted at a well of wisdom that comes with the passage of years. He felt a sudden pang of remorse for his earlier selfish thoughts and angry attitude.

“Thank you, sir,” Jake stammered, his voice choked with emotion. This was just what I needed.” 

Harold grasped Jake’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “I’m glad to help, son. Life is too short to miss the gift of the present.” 

Jake drove away from the little cottage feeling a warmth in his heart that had nothing to do with the weather. He was thankful for the old man’s generous tip, but even more, for his wise words and the lesson it carried. 

As he gassed up at the station, he reflected on the day. He realized he had been so fixated on unfair pay, poor tips, and disrespect from customers that he failed to see what he already possessed: good health, a car, a job, and the chance to impact people’s lives — one delivery at a time. He wondered if maybe — just maybe — and certainly most probably, the lesson in gratitude was worth infinitely more than a few extra bucks in tips.