Lessons Learned from a Little Engine

Or, God Really Meets Us Where We Are

A few months ago we had to renew The Little Engine That Could, by Watty Piper three times.  It has been 2 months since we returned it, and still, Lizzie quotes from it:  "Chug, chug, chug. Puff, puff, puff.  Ding-dong, ding-dong."  She read it to the dog.  She read it to her baby doll.  She read it to herself if no one would sit still for her to read it.  And she requested it every time I sat down to read her a book. 

If you think this is about the Little Blue Engine, who says, "I think I can..." and pulls the little train over the mountain for the good boys and girls on the other side, then you will have to keep reading, because it's not. 

I had just come out of my 4-month-long first trimester (yes, my first trimester was 4 months long... or at least felt that way), in which I was run down, miserable, and mildly depressed.  Then came February, in which some energy returned.  Sam was working, I was getting back in the swing of living again, and the weather was getting slightly warmer.  Things were looking up.  But I wasn't.

The fact is, I was struggling to get out of bed, to make meals, to have patience, to get--let alone keep--the house in order, and to just function.  Quiet time? Prayer? What were those?

Thus the only way for God to get my attention was through what I was doing every day: Reading picture books.  Every day--sometimes multiple times a day--I read The Little Engine That Could.

I think there are two kinds of women in the world.  The kind who over-commit and run themselves ragged trying to do a million things because they said they would; and the kind who are terrified of over-committing and rarely volunteer their time or resources, for fear of running themselves ragged.  I am typically the latter.  My first response is not usually, "I think I can." 

Enter the Old, Tired Engine.

I wish I could find a picture of the Old, Tired Engine on Google Images, because it is a very pathetic looking engine.  All the dolls and toys become so disappointed after asking the Old, Tired Engine to help them.  But the Old, Tired Engine explains, "I cannot; I am too tired.  I must rest my weary wheels," then he chugs slowly past them to the roundhouse (where engines go when they are not busy) with this refrain:

"I cannot.  I cannot."

Finally on a Sunday this spring our pastor spoke on repentance and refreshing.  My spirit was stirred, though I wasn't able to put it into words.  I just knew a shift had occurred in my heart.  Then shortly after I finally felt the words of the silly story pierce my exhaustion and prod my heart.  Why do I say that I cannot?  What is keeping me from doing what is before me to do?  What keeps me from helping?  From blessing?  From at least being kind?

Nothing, honestly.  Only a lie that kept me saying, "I cannot." 

I am not bounding out of bed every morning, of course.  Some days go better than others.  But I have hope that I can do the things that are in my heart to do--that God has placed me where I am to be a blessing.  I am not saved and redeemed and blessed in order to preserve myself.  Indeed, it is not by my works that I am saved, nor by my rest that I am preserved, but I am appointed and "created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." Eph 2:8-10

Even when that simply means reading picture book after picture book, and preparing and cleaning up meal after meal.  The truth of it is, I can.

I'm linking up with the girls from Soli Deo Gloria today. :)

Questions for a Blind Man

I am slowly making my way through the book of John when I don't have inspiration as to what to focus on during my quiet times.  This morning I read John 9.

The first segment of the chapter covers the story of the man born blind, whom Jesus healed.  I have read this passage many, many times, but never saw it in quite this (comedic) light before.  Here is the loose Cindy-fied translation:

Jesus is walking along, and he and his disciples see this man who has been blind his whole life.
"Whose fault is it that he is blind?  His, or his parents'?"  Pinning blame must help us make sense of the world.
Jesus said, "Neither.  He is blind so that God could be glorified in his life."
After he said this, Jesus made a substantial spit wad on the ground and made mud from his spit.  He took that mud, put it on the blind man's eyes, and told him to go wash it off.
[OK, I have to butt in here.  Imagine being in the blind man's shoes so far: the disciples started talking about him as though he not only couldn't see them, but he couldn't hear him either, then next thing he knows, someone hawks a loogie and smears mud on his eyes.  Then he has the gall to tell him to go wash it off.  Can somebody say 'lawsuit'?]
While the man goes to clean up, Jesus and the disciples continue walking along.
Later, the blind man comes back, not blind anymore.  His neighbors question him, "What happened?  Are you sure you're the same person?  How can you see?"
The man says, "Yes, it's really me.  Some guy called Jesus made some mud and put it on my eyes, and told me to wash, so I did and now I can see!"
"Where is he?" they asked.
"I don't know," the man answered.

Can you anticipate the question that is begging to be asked?

"Well, what did he look like?"



If you're looking for some serious encouragement, track back to the ladies at Soli Deo Gloria.  They're pretty amazing, if I don't say so myself.

Excuses, Excuses!

Misery doesn't only love company, misery also loves excuses.

This morning I was reading John 5, which is an account of Jesus healing an invalid (*) man. 

*Years ago, when I was on a Bible Quiz Team, we were studying this chapter and one of my teammates had been reading the word "invalid" not as a cripple, but as in, "Invalid response. Abort, retry, fail?"  That poor in-valid man, no wonder he wanted to be healed.  

image credit

 OK, back to the issue at hand.

Jesus asked him a direct question:

"Do you want to get well?"

That's a great question, isn't it?  The answer is kind of rhetorical.  Of course he wants to get well.  If not, he wouldn't be where he is, lying there, waiting for hand-outs, and trying to get into the pool of water (which would occasionally be stirred up by an angel, and whoever got in first got healed--Hey, don't look at me funny, I'm just rephrasing the footnote in verse 4).

But the answer that the man gave Jesus is not what we would have expected. 

"Sir," the invalid replied, "I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred.  While I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me." 

He starts in with excuses.  He gives all the reasons for why he is not well.  He's already given in to defeat (it had been 38 years, after all), so he's offering an invitation to his pity party.

I hear refrains of, nobody helps me, everyone else gets to do what they want, and life isn't fair.

Maybe I only hear that because those are the thoughts in my own mind, more frequently than I would like to admit.  Frankly, life isn't fair.  And a lot of days I argue that fact, wanting fairness, wanting my turn to do something I want to, or at least wanting a break.  

I don't know what Jesus saw in the invalid man that day, but I'm glad He took the initiative to get involved.  Jesus didn't ask him any other questions, didn't preach to him, and didn't rebuke him for his train of thought.

If I imagine this scene, the man is still lying there, maybe not even looking at Jesus.  He might be looking at the pool, bitter with disappointment that it has never yet been his turn.  Perhaps he was thinking of all the people who had let him down by not helping him quickly enough, or maybe not even being there at all.  I imagine Jesus nodding, then interrupting his thoughts with a completely new idea.

Then Jesus said to him, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk.”  At once the man was cured; he picked up his mat and walked.

That was it.  It was as though Jesus had said, Since no one is able to get you into the pool quickly enough, why don't you just jump in there yourself?  And he got up and walked.

So often in my mind I hear a question, like, "Do you want to do something with your days?" and instead of answering, "Yes!  Of course!" I start going on and on about how I can't.  Because there are groceries to be bought and lunches to be made and floors to be vacuumed and laundry to be put away.  Because there are facebook statuses to be commented on and pictures to be uploaded.  Because everyone else goes out and has fun and I have to stay home and hold down the fort.  Because there's a baby on the way and I am certain I will never again accomplish anything except feed, change, and carry.  Because it's been so long since I've had a life and felt like I was contributing to anything beyond the confines of my small and cluttered house. 

And Jesus nods and asks, "Well, why don't you just stand up and start doing something?"

I believe I read this today because I'm at a critical point.  He is asking me, "What do you want to do?" and I don't even have an answer.   I have been thinking that the answer has been, "No, I can't do that," for so long that I have lost the ability to hope beyond just making it to bed at the end of the day.  I have a feeling Paul was addressing this reasoning as well when he spoke "of all men to be pitied." 

The option is there--to believe that what Jesus offers is everything I need to be everything He's called me to be.  I can just believe that He has given me everything I need for life and godliness.  If I will stop with the excuses, and get up and walk, He has a great and miraculous story to unfold.  

I'm linking up with the Soli Deo Gloria girls again today. 

Morning Psalms

I have to wonder how those who hold to the belief that one's personal quiet time should be done first thing in the morning don't "backslide" terribly during the infant and toddler stages of motherhood.  Or maybe they just don't have kids.  Having someone in your family who wakes with--or before--the dawn and demands your undivided attention does not typically make for a peaceful and quiet time of early morning communion with your Creator.  Or maybe it's just me.

Truthfully, I have had about 3 mornings in the past 4 months in which I awoke before my daughter and managed to engage in a prayerful and healthy devotional time.  Now that Sam is working and has to be out the door early, and now that I am able to drink coffee again, and now that I am able to make it through my morning without being sick, my mornings have become much more pleasant.  Beautiful, even.

As I've dealt with this reality, I've also been wondering about and praying for a way to incorporate the Word of God into my daily routine in a way that includes my daughter.  She knows what the Bible is (Duh, it's a book that is very big, and covered in leather, with shiny page edges), and she was taught at a very young age the parlor trick of throwing her hands up in the air when we say, "Praise the Lord!"  She has her own board book of "Baby's First Bible" and she points out Jesus.  And the kitten and puppy who are on almost every page.  She often wants to pack her Bible with us in the diaper bag when we go to church.


For a little while, and not with incredible consistency, I have been reading one psalm aloud to my 19-month-old at breakfast.  She loves to hear words she recognizes:  high, strong, house, sky, face, horses, clap, and praise the Lord! 


It is really the most fun I've had reading the Word in a long time.  We laugh and clap and use hand gestures.  It is a very small practice, but if it were more elaborate, there's no way I would be able to keep it up.  Some days, this is pretty much the extent of my spiritual depth.  As it is, it is approachable, it is doable, and it is a lot of fun!


Usually I have to stop every few words to help her with her breakfast.  Yes, it takes us at least 10 minutes to read through about 20 sentences.  But it works for us right now, and it's so worth it.