“I already have one of those,” said the taxi driver when I offered him one of the gospel tracts in my wallet. Since I live in a densely populated Asian city, the odds seemed slim he really had one. To my shock, the driver pulled an identical tract from the console between the seats.
“You gave it to me last time you rode in my taxi.” I did not remember him, but he remembered me and kept my tract. It’s hard to remember taxi drivers when all you see is the back of their heads.
About a year later, I was witnessing to another taxi driver, and the same thing occurred. He, too, still had the tract I had given him months before.
“Did you read it?” I asked him.
“No,” he replied.
“Then it won’t be able to help you,” I said, smiling into his rear view mirror. “...