Driving for a living means I have some downtime between appointments, pickups, and drop-offs. A few days a week, I drive Gibson’s Nissan Versa, picking up research participants from their homes or where they are staying and bringing them back to our office on Linden Street in Cape Girardeau. Some talk the whole way, never letting me say a word. Others don’t say one word, not so much as a hello, good morning, or how you doing. Not everyone’s an Anna, though — some, like Ginny, will talk your ear off the whole ride. For an extrovert like me? That’s a killer.

When I started driving for Gibson, I thought that silence in the car was problematic. So I did my best to solve it. I treated it like a Rubik’s Cube or a jigsaw puzzle, looking for that one question that would spark some talking. What do you think about today’s weather? Too hot? Too cold? How’s your morning going? Are you from Southeast Missouri or somewhere else? I felt like the silence inside the Versa was a failure on my part. For some reason, I redefined my job description as “required to make participants feel comfortable before their visit.” But that’s not how my supervisor saw it.

I drove south, past Sikeston, to pick up my participant, whom I’ll call Anna. She slid into the backseat, our first ride together. Hearing the seatbelt click, I put the car in drive and started driving back to Gibson. The silence was killing me. My headphones didn’t charge the night before, so I couldn’t listen quietly to my music while I drove. Instead, Anna and I listened to the heater fan blow on low on our trip back. Forty minutes later — yeah, I know how long it was because I counted every minute; I watched the odometer click off the miles, the same way you watch the minutes click off through a bad meeting.

I didn’t say a word, parked the car, looked back, and Anna was already climbing out of the car. Before I could get my seatbelt off, she poked her head back in. “Thank you.” She flipped a Marlboro Light out of her pack, lit it fast, and took a long drag.

Anna smoked her cigarette slowly, even though the temperature was just barely above forty-five degrees. She didn’t say another word to me, taking a few puffs and walking inside to check in for her appointment.

I thought about her thank you, and what a big deal it was, for me anyway, to not say anything and just drive. I wondered if she was grateful that I didn’t make her talk.

The thing is, presence and conversation aren’t the same thing. I assumed, wrongly, that my value was in what I could offer to our participants. A kind word. A bit of small talk. Some proof that I was a good guy, could be trusted, and was doing my best to help them. But most of my participants spend their whole day, probably their entire week, being asked questions like: how are you doing? have any cravings lately? On a scale of 1 to 10, how are you feeling today? Have you been taking your meds as prescribed? By the time they get in the Nissan the last thing they want to do is talk. At least that’s true for participants like Anna.

So now I do my job. I drive. Most of the time I will say good morning. Then I let the quiet happen. This time the quiet isn’t empty — it’s probably the first ten minutes some of these folks have had all day where nobody needs anything from them.

I think the Versa is its own kind of ministry. It’s a quiet ministry. The kind where you keep driving, and let somebody sit in the passenger seat of your life for half an hour, without asking anything of them at all.

Then there are the days when Ginny will talk the whole way. It’s a short drive for her, but she can talk. She’ll give me updates on her grandkids, kids, her next court date, and the diner where the coffee’s still good. And I listen. Attentively, to all of it. But on the quiet days? I’ve learned to trust the silence. It’s not a failure of connection. Sometimes the engine noise, the air conditioner or heater running, is the most honest connection there is — two people going the same direction, willing to let the silence be enough.

Anna still doesn’t talk much. Neither do I. Unless she wants to. That’s just fine by me. I’m still driving. And Anna’s still coming to her visits. I’d count that as a win.