SOME TIME AGO, I had the privilege of riding from New York to Albany on the engine of the Eire State Express. The engineer was a little bronzed weather-beaten man of about fifty. I showed him my card and without a word he pointed me to the fireman’s seat in the cab. Then climbing into his own seat he waited for the conductor’s signal to start. Looking back along the line of coaches, I saw the conductor’s hand raised aloft. Instantly the engineer turned, he pulled a lever and we were off.
The telegraph poles sped past, and we rolled through cities, towns, villages, across bridges, through tunnels, or glided smoothly over gently rolling countryside at more than a mile a minute. The little man at the throttle gazed straight ahead of the two lines of glistening steel — one hand on the throttle the other ready to grasp the brake. He spoke not a word, nor looked at me or the fireman. But I saw that his lips kept moving as he urged the flying monster forward.
Exactly three hours later we reached Albany. I had had the ride of a lifetime in the cab of the engine. The little engineer had left the cab and was tenderly feeling the great bearings on his engine.
I turned to the fireman. “Bill, why does he keep moving his lips then at the lever?” I asked.
“Who? Th’ old man? Why, he always prays on a fast run. Twenty years he’s run on this road with never an accident — the pluckiest man he is.”
Here was the secret of the engineer’s peace and courage. He was a man of prayer.
Prayer nerves the Christian for the fight,
Prayer makes the Christian’s armor bright.
ML-09/21/1969