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It was back in the days when the railroad was the most common mode of transportation. There were automobiles, and some airplanes, but the steam locomotive was the way most folks traveled and the way that most of the goods were distributed around the country. After dinner, people sat in the drawing room and listened to the radio programs, fading in and out from some faraway location, over the magical broadcasting signal. Later at night, as they lay in bed, they listened to the roar and squeal of the old steam whistles, telling them that the Old 97 was heading out of town for the run to the city, and wishing each and everyone a good night.

Charlie was an engineer on the old steam locomotives. He had spent most of his life riding those rails, first as a child, hopping rides out to the swimming hole, and now as the man driving the engine, blowing the whistle as he drove past the next generation of children hoping to hitch a ride out to the same old swimming hole. Charlie had raised a family on the railroad. Two sons and three daughters all grew up in a nice wood-frame house with a big garden in the back, a little cement pond for Charlie's goldfish, and the occasional bluegill he caught on his old cane pole.

Oh, there had been hard times, don't get me wrong. There had been hardships both at work and at home. But overall, it just seemed that the good outnumbered the bad. And after all, whether driving a steam engine, or raising a family, there were just some things that there weren't much you could do about. You just had to accept them. Sometimes you spent hours sitting on a siding, waiting for that slow freight to move past you. You had schedules to keep, and deadlines to meet, but what could you do? You just waited. And sometimes you spent hours trying to help your children understand the whys of life. Or you sat by their bedside waiting for that fever to break, and the whole time all you could do was pray that it would. Charlie had learned how to accept it all, just as it came.

That's probably what turned Charlie into a whistler and a story-teller. Wherever he went, he whistled as he walked. Usually it was a nice, slow tune that set the pace for his journey. Whether it was to an important meeting across town, or to the icebox for a glass of milk, there and back he announced his approach to life through his peacefully whistled tune. And whenever the opportunity presented itself, which was most of the time, Charlie was ready with a story. Whatever the occasion, but especially on those occasions when he found himself talking to someone who was hurting, or afraid, or just unable to keep up a good whistle because of some problem in their life ... he gave them a story. And he usually left them feeling better than he found them.

In fact, if Charlie were here, he might end up telling us about that time he was walking home from the roundhouse late at night. He had taken a few runs on the late shift, to cover for a good friend who was down with the grippe. Well, as Charlie told it, he was just walking and whistling his way home, some twelve or thirteen blocks in all. For some reason, that night he decided to take a different route home, no particular purpose in it, just because there was no hurry and it was a path not yet taken. So he turned at a new corner, and as soon as he made the turn, he could hear the barking. At the far end of the street, a whole block away, was this big dog tied up in the yard of the house on the corner, letting Charlie know that he was unwelcome at this hour. Charlie crossed to the sidewalk on the other side of the street and walked on. As he neared the dog, the barking and growling got more ferocious. When he found himself directly across the street from the beast, Charlie stopped. He just stood there for a few minutes, whistling his tune, perhaps trying to teach it to his new friend. Finally, with the dog growing almost frantic, Charlie headed on home.

Until the next night.

This time as he came to the spot across the street from the barking dog, Charlie stopped and sat down on the curb. Across the street, the dog continued his protests, as Charlie whistled a bit, and told his new friend about some of the things that had happened that day at work. After fifteen or twenty minutes, fully filled with growls, snaps, barks, and howls, Charlie got up and went home to bed.

After four or five nights of this, Charlie's partner began spending more time listening than protesting. They sat on opposite sides of the street, one whistling and talking, and one staring and wondering. The next night, part way through the conversation, Charlie reached into his pocket, and pulled out a piece of doughnut he had saved from his dinner, and tore it in half. One half he plopped into his mouth, and the other half he tossed across the street. It was clearly appreciated.

Each night for the next week or so, Charlie sat, whistled, storied, and threw pieces of doughnuts, hotdogs, cookies, or whatever else he had brought along. Did I mention that a few nights earlier Charlie had crossed the street and now sat on the curb on the dog's side of the street? He also noticed that as he made his turn around the corner, his buddy was straining at the leash to see him coming. The barking and growling was replaced with tail wagging.

By the time his late-shift duties had ended, Charlie's walk home included a twenty-minute stop, as he sat in the yard rubbing the belly of a big, yellow dog, and telling him about the many adventures of riding the railroad and raising a family.

Okay it is fair to ask just what all this has to do with anything, and how it could be considered a sermon. It is a nice story, for sure. Kind of makes you all warm inside. That is exactly the point.

The lesson this morning is from the introduction of the letter Paul wrote to the church at Colossia. Did you hear the words? They almost sound like the story of Charlie. Paul is writing to a group of people who have been there for him. He has spent time running from mobs, defending himself from other church members who were threatening to destroy everything he had created, and had already spent more than enough time in prison. Throughout it all, the Colossians had supported him, cared for him, listened to him, and truly followed him. That created a warmness in Paul that he found almost nowhere else.

The point is, my friends, that sometimes, like the Colossians, we do it right. Sometimes, in the midst of all of the nonsense and craziness, the noise and the rush, sometimes, we, as a church, really do take our time and do it right. And when we do, we create a warmness in the people we care for that changes lives. Charlie was just a railroader, but he understood something that Paul was expressing to the folks at Colossia. It really isn't that difficult to care. And sometimes, caring isn't all that sophisticated. It may be as simple as sitting in the yard for a while with a barking grouch.

Yes, my friends, sometimes we do it right. And that is something to whistle about.


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Note to the reader: The story of "Something To Whistle About" is a true story. The names were changed, but the experiences described are just as they happened.