Pickle jar

alledan · July 21, 2007 16:30

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 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."

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.

Pickle jar

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