>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 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 al ways 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 a lways 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 bean s 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
>a re 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.
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 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 al ways 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 a lways 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 bean s 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
>a re 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.
