Christianity Oasis Forum

[Angelwings]

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"

[ciny]

Sweet little angel
this story brought tears to me eyes to it reminds me of God sending hi only son Jesus to die on the cross he gave all he emptyed his self for me he sacrified his self for me so i would be blessed happy have a good life and he saved my soul.
alot like the father did for his son in the story for his son so he would have a of hope and future of security like God did when he sent Jesus to die for us.
thats what i got out of this posting thatks again for sharin it it touched my heart.
God bless ciny