The Pickle Jar

The Pickle Jar
>
> The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on
> the floor beside the dresser in my parents'
> bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty
> his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.
>
> As a small boy, I was always fascinated at the sounds
> the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They
> landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost
> empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud
> as the jar was filled.
>
> I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar to admire
> the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's
> treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom
> window. When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the
> kitchen tableand roll the coins before taking them to
> the bank.
>
> Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production.
> Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were
> placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.
>
> Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would
> look at me hopefully. 'Those coins are going to keep you
> out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better than
> me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back.'
>
> Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled
> coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier,
> he would grin proudly. 'These are for my son's college
> fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me.'
>
> We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping
> for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad
> always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice cream
> parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the
> few coins nestled in his palm. 'When we get home,
> we'll start filling the jar again.' He always let me drop
> the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around
> with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other.
> 'You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and
> quarters,' he said. 'But you'll get there; I'll see to that.'
>
> No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued
> to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer
> when Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to
> serve dried beans several times a week, not a single
> dime was taken from the jar.
>
> To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me,
> pouring catsup over my beans to make them more
> palatable, he became more determined than ever to
> make a way out for me 'When you finish college, Son,'
> he told me, his eyes glistening, 'You'll never have to
> eat beans again - unless you want to.'
>
> The years passed, and I finished college and took a
> job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents,
> I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that
> the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose
> and had been removed.
>
> A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside
> the dresser where the jar had always stood. My dad
> was a man of few words: he never lectured me on the
> values of determination, perseverance, and faith. The
> pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more
> eloquently than the most flowery of words could have
> done. When I married, I told my wife Susan about the
> significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my
> life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than
> anything else, how much my dad had loved me.
>
> The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born,
> we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom
> and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns
> cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper
> softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms. 'She probably
> needs to be changed,' she said, carrying the baby into my
> parents' bedroom to diaper her. When Susan came back
> into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes.
>
> She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand
> and leading me into the room. 'Look,' she said softly, her
> eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser.
> To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed,
> stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with
> coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my
> pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of
> emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I
> looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped
> quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was
> feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could
> speak.
>
> This truly touched my heart. Sometimes we are so busy
> adding up our troubles that we forget to count our
> blessings. Never underestimate the power of your actions.
> With one small gesture you can change a person's life, for
> better or for worse.
>
> God puts us all in each other's lives to impact one another
> in some way. Look for GOOD in others.
>
> The best and most beautiful things cannot be seen or
> touched - they must be felt with the heart ~ Helen Keller
>
> - Happy moments, praise God.
> - Difficult moments, seek God.
> - Quiet moments, worship God.
> - Painful moments, trust God.
> - Every moment, thank God.
>
> Pass this message to seven people except
> you and me. You will receive a miracle
> tomorrow - don't question..(just do it)