He is filthy.
What were once his crispy clean, blue-and-white striped overalls are completely covered in a black, dusty substance.
Soot.
Day after day, this man slaves over his work. Shovelful after shovelful, he persists--his goal being to keep this 10-ton, technological feat of iron and steel moving. The year is 1815, and for the last 11 years this man has been an engineer for the first locomotive ever invented (if you were to ask this man, he would never admit it--for he would never take any glory--but he was instrumental in the inception of this machine). Driven by steam, this iron beast would take only the wealthiest to their destinations--usually the big cities such as Chicago (well before the fires) where they would lavish themselves in the finest of dining, shopping, and leisure. Indulgence was their religion, and fulfilling their desires was their devotion.
As the engineer would work, we would often have to walk through the cabins to make sure that each car was securely connected. He would go from car to car--shine, rain, storm, snow, sleet, hail--painstakingly checking to be assured that his passengers were safe. He never failed.
Often, as he was walking through the cabin--the same cabin as the rich--he would receive sneers from those he served. He was looked upon with dismay, as a failure because he did not have what his passengers did. But still, he loved each one enough to make sure they reached their destination safely, wherever it may have been. Never talked to, cared for, or loved, he continued on persistently.
One day, a small child approached him, and began to talk to him. Taken back with surprise, the engineer smiled, and responded to each question inquired of him:
"What are you doing, mister?"
"Putting the coal into the furnace, so the train keeps moving."
"Why?"
"Because everyone in the train is trying to get somewhere, and I'm the one that has the job of delivering them."
"But you look really dirty--do you like doing it?"
"I don't--it's what I was born to do. I work everyday, sun-up to sun-down. But I do love it, because I get to see my passengers arrive where they need to be."
The child inquires, "Can I try?," and the engineer gives her permission. She lifts as much coal as she can in the shovel, and carefully throws it in the furnace.
She stands their for a minute before mustering up her next question. When it finally escapes her mouth, she wonders if she should have asked it: "How can you love it? Everyone looks at you like they are scared--like you are a criminal."
With eyes full of excitement that she noticed, the engineer responds to her, "Yes, they do, and it hurts. But I love when they get off the train with smiles on their faces. It's as if they say 'I'm sorry' and 'thank you' with their smiles."
With tears in her eyes and a smile on her face, the child opens her arms to the engineer, gives him a hug, kiss, and through tears she whispers in his ear the most genuine 'thank you' that she can muster. She realized that this ball of soot was the most deeply caring and loving person she had ever encountered, for he dealt with pain just to see his patrons smile.
She says 'goodbye' to the man, and off she runs--with his soot on her dress--back to her seat. Quickly, her mother notices, and scolds her repeatedly, spanking her--but the child seems unaffected because she thinks the hug was worth the pain.
The engineer looks out, sees the child being disciplined--but she is smiling. The engineer smiles--she'll never forget him.
