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 and 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 table >and 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 parlour 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." > >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, and 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. >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 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... I know it has yours as well. > >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 God 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 ( just do it)