This Story Brings Tears To My Eyes
Posted: Tue Sep 07, 2010 12:01 pm
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 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 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.
"JESUS IS LORD"
