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.
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2 Chronicles 7:14
2 Chronicles 7:14
Obama is our new top man,
Self appointed Almighty God.
“Our country ‘tis” no Christian land,
Won’t acknowledge Jesus as Lord.
An anti-Christ Institution,
Is this man’s American dream.
He’s stepped on The Constitution,
Cancelled events with Christian themes.
Obama’s not hesitating,
Righteously imposing his will.
Congressmen are now debating,
Taking God off the dollar bill.
Can’t display The Ten Commandments,
“In God We Trust” we now deny.
While the words of our President,
“One Nation under God” must die.
Praying is not allowed in school,
Politically we must be correct.
Must not follow The Golden Rule,
The name “Jesus” gets no respect.
Christians are forced to quail and wince,
While Obama gets his desire.
Jesus hasn’t been this mad since,
The fall of the Roman Empire.
Obama tells all the fat cats,
“We must redistribute the wealth.”
He purposely omits the facts,
On Government Reform and Health.
Says, “It’s just a matter of time,
The economy will rebound.”
Unless you count the rise in crime,
A decent job cannot be found.
Our businesses cannot compete,
With the ones we’ve sent overseas.
A dollar an hour sure sounds sweet,
Big Business do as you please.
Real Estate Market’s gone kaput,
Foreclosures are in a new zone.
It’s un-American to put,
Our homeless in an empty home.
From the border of Mexico,
Illegal immigrants galore.
Get our taxes and hard earned dough,
Housing, food stamps, schooling and more.
These criminals routinely get,
Privileges Americans can’t.
While we’re consumed with fear and debt,
We must hear their Mexican chant.
“America is beautiful”,
In their Spanish voices they brag.
“We are more important than you,
Let’s burn the American Flag.”
Our Fore Fathers roll in their graves,
They did not envision this scene.
Obama, atheists and knaves,
2 Chronicles 7:14.
“If my people called by my name,
Will just humble themselves and pray.
Seek my Face not fortune and fame,
Repent and stop their wicked ways.
I’ll hear their prayers up in Heaven,
As always I will understand.
I will forgive them of their sin,
And I will also heal their land.”
By Ronnie Doe
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