Jesus Loves the Little Choo-Choos
Jesus Loves the Little Choo-Choos
By Charlotte Hilton Andersen

And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.
Matt 18:3

When you’re first married, weekly Family Home Evenings sound wonderful. I don’t know about you but I imagined halcyon evenings gathered around the fireplace (we don’t have one), singing a hymn beautifully accompanied on the piano (we don’t have one of those either), then imparting of our spiritual wisdom (I’m not sure how much of that I have either!) to our rapt and willing children.

Turns out reality’s a lot different than the picture on the cover of the F.H.E. manual.

“Why do we even bother?” my husband Jason groaned and covered his eyes as two-year-old Sam ran screaming through the living room, pausing just long enough to knock over his baby brother before finishing his circuit through the kitchen. The neatly typed handouts (with pictures!) that my husband had prepared lay rumpled on the floor and our scriptures sat precariously on top of the TV where they had been put to save them from total annihilation at the hands of our teething one-year-old, Joe.

“Well, I think that was an excellent lesson,” I said, infusing my voice with barney-esque cheer as I nabbed Sam and tried to hold him in my lap.

“Yeah, the law of tithing in sixty seconds or less. If I’d known this on my mission, I’d have been a lot more efficient,” Jason shook his head.

“They lasted thirty seconds longer than last week,” I shrugged.

“Are they even getting anything out of this? I don’t think they heard a word I said.”

Sam, eager to show that he had been listening, chirped up, “Tithing ick-EE!” He giggled, Joe joining in quickly until they were a puddle of shrieking silliness on the carpet. “ee-ee, ee-ee,” Joe echoed.

“Sammy, tithing is not icky,” I said sternly. I knew I should use this as a moment to lovingly teach my children but after chasing them around for an exhausting eleven hours already today, I was feeling neither loving nor instructive. Try irritated. Actually, try ready to tear my hair out. The hour until bedtime was looking longer every minute.

“That’s just great,” my husband muttered. “I can hear them now. They’re in their tithing interview and when the bishop asks them if they are full tithe payers they scream, ‘No, tithing icky!’ and run out of his office.”

A smile crept across my face as I imagined the scene. “He’ll be lucky if they just run out of his office. Our two could get a lot of fun out of rearranging all the pins on the ward map and coloring in his marker board for him.”

“Heaven help him if he has a treat jar,” my husband added joining in the laughter.

Our kids, interested to see what the fun was about wandered back over to us. My husband seized the moment, grabbing Sam’s train set from where it still littered the floor by the couch. “Okay, look guys. What if I gave you ten trains?”

“Choo-choos!” Sam screamed with the amount of enthusiasm only a two-year-old Thomas addict could muster. “Sam want all the trains!”

“Here you go,” Jason said, handing them over. As soon as Sam had them all lined up Jason held out his hand. “Since I gave you all those trains, do you think you could give one back to me?”

Sam eyed his beloved trains warily. “Why?”

“Because not everyone has a train to play with. See Joe? He has no trains. Can you share just one with me so I can share with Joe?”

Sam was not convinced. “Mine choo-choos.”

“They were mine first,” my husband continued, “and I loved you so much that I gave them to you. Now I’m asking you to share with me. Just one.”

He paused, turning his great green eyes from his father to his trains and then back again. His internal struggle was obvious and intense. “No,” he said finally and firmly. “Mine.”

Jason sighed and wrapped his arms around our tiny son, pointing up to the picture of Christ hanging on our wall. “See, Jesus gave us everything that we have. All our blessings.”

“Blessings,” Sam repeated. “Allofem.”

“That’s right. And he asks us to give him one-tenth back to him so he can help other people.”

“Tenf?”

“Yes, it’s called tithing. It shows Jesus that we love him too and will do what he asks of us.” Sam hugged his trains protectively, waiting for Jason to ask him again to sacrifice a train. Instead, my husband asked simply, “Do you love Jesus?”

“Oh, yes,” Sam answered, nodding his head.

“And Jesus loves you very much.” Jason kissed the top of his head and with that we were on to the closing prayer and at least thirteen rounds of London Bridge is Falling Down.

The next morning before my husband left for work, he lamented as he moved the trains away from the front door, “Do you think maybe we should just give up on FHE for the next few years while our kids are so young? I mean, it’s exhausting for us and the only thing they got out of it was a repetitive, not to mention erroneous, lesson on British history.” I laughed and kissed him good-bye. “I know, I know,” he grumbled, “we’re setting a good example.”

Later that morning, after Sam had finished his breakfast, he wandered over to me and crawled up on my lap. “Mom?” he asked, looking gravely into my eyes. “Jesus love choo-choos too?”

“Yes, Sammy,” I smiled as I snuggled him closer, “I’m sure that he does.”

“Jesus have choo-choos,” he said and carefully handed me the yellow caboose.

“Oh,” I said, catching on. “Do you want to pay tithing and give Jesus one of your trains?”

“No,” Sam shook his head, dumping all of his beloved trains into my lap. “Jesus have allofem.”

Surprised, I stared in awe at my little boy. “You want to give Jesus all of your trains?”

“Sam love Jesus,” he said simply.

Sometimes we teach our children. And sometimes they teach us. That “failed” family home evening lesson taught me an important lesson about sacrifice and the true spirit of obedience. Needless to say, we haven’t given up on Family Home Evening yet!
- posted by Charlotte @ 8:56 AM