The rise of artificial intelligence is not primarily a technical disruption. It is a formational one. The tools are reshaping us — our attention, our relationships, our sense of what it means to learn and work and belong. That conviction sits at the center of this series, reshaping the way I think about engineering education, and it’s why we begin not with an algorithm, but with a children’s book.
Stories are powerful. They invite empathy, spark imagination, and reveal truth in ways that frameworks and data alone cannot.
Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel may seem an unlikely starting point for a conversation about engineering, AI, and Christian formation. But as you’ll see, it is precisely in its simplicity that the story reveals something profound—about loyalty, vocation, and the redemptive power of relationship.
Mike Mulligan
I keep three books on my desk at all times: The Reason for God (Tim Keller), The Way Things Work (David Macaulay), and Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel (Virginia Lee Burton). I’m literally looking at them right now as I type this.
One of these might seem like it doesn’t belong. But through this series, I’ll explore how each has shaped my personal and professional journey. For now, let me give you a little context.
For those unfamiliar, Mike Mulligan is a steam shovel operator, and Mary Anne is his beloved machine. Together, they’ve built highways, airports, and canals. But as newer machines replace steam shovels, Mike and Mary Anne take on one final job—digging the cellar for a new town hall. They promise to finish in a single day, racing the sun to prove their worth. And, as Burton writes, “[Mike] always said that she could dig as much in a day as a hundred men could dig in a week, but he had never been quite sure that this was true.” It’s a story of grit, loyalty, and transformation.
Perhaps no story—other than the biblical narrative—has resonated more in my life than Mike Mulligan. I remember it from childhood. The illustrations were beautiful—something about the artist’s technique and vision just captivated me. And I loved Mary Anne, just like Mike Mulligan did. Maybe it had something to do with his name and mine. I guess I’ll never know.
I grew up, became a civil engineer, and had children of my own. I read Mike Mulligan to them when they were small, and they loved it. I loved reading it out loud. There’s a rhythm to the story—the action builds, the pace quickens as Mike and Mary Anne race the sun. I got so good at reading it that each time it became a performance.
And as I “wrestled” with this children’s book, I noticed something else: how incredibly well it matched the civil engineering profession. Not just in what was happening, but in the deeper meaning embedded in the story.
Mike and Mary Anne work their way through a veritable catalog of civil engineering projects: highways, airports, skyscrapers, canals. It became a teaching tool for me—something I used to build excitement for engineering in young people. The message of sustainability is there too: Mary Anne isn’t junked—she’s reused, reimagined.
And right in the middle of it all is the power of relationship. Mike loves Mary Anne. And if there’s a “bad guy” in the book, Councilman Henry B. Swap, he’s literally transformed by the power of that love—ending “with a smile that was not mean at all.”
This book had so much in it that I used it as part of an engineering outreach program for elementary school students. I’ve long thought about writing an academic article on Virginia Lee Burton’s works—The Little House, Katy and the Big Snow, but especially Mike Mulligan.
My office walls are lined with engineering drawings. The one front and center when you walk in? A patent drawing from 1919 of a steam shovel that looks remarkably like Mary Anne. I see it every morning.
But my relationship with the book goes deeper still.
During a crisis moment in my family, my teenage daughters arrived at my house scared and shaken—uprooted by an experience I won’t detail here, but one that had real, lasting impact. After we collected ourselves and I hugged them. You might guess what happened next.
We sat on the couch. I snuggled them in. And we read Mike Mulligan together again.
They remembered it. And it brought calm. Peace. Love. We left the rest of the world behind for a few minutes, built our own little bubble, and listened as Mike and Mary Anne raced the sun:
“But listen! Bing! Bang! Crash! Slam!
LOUDER AND LOUDER, FASTER AND FASTER.
Then suddenly it was quiet.
Slowly the dirt settled down.
The smoke and steam cleared away,
and there was the cellar all finished.”
This book has meant a lot to me. It may have sparked something in me as a child that wouldn’t be harvested until years later. It became an anchor for a K–12 outreach program—because of its technical content, its relational depth, and its ethical themes. And it became a first step toward healing during a family crisis.
Yes, to me, a story can do all this.
This is the power of story.
And this is why I’ve decided to use story to talk about the formation of Christian engineers.
Why I’m Telling These Stories
Christian engineering education is, at its best, a formation story. It isn’t about simply knowing, it is about transformation of mind, heart and soul — about the slow, communal work of developing people who can build, relate, and discern. I became a Christian in my middle age, led there by the writings of Tim Keller and C.S. Lewis. What finally broke through wasn’t a single argument — it was a narrative. At LeTourneau, our theology faculty put it simply: scripture is a Grand Narrative. Snippets won’t do. The richness is only revealed in the whole tapestry.
That conviction shapes everything here. And it raises an urgent question: what happens to spiritual, educational, and engineering formation when the world is accelerating, attention is fragmenting, and artificial intelligence is reshaping the way we learn, work, and relate?
