THIS ONE WILL NUDGE YOUR HEART~

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 driedbeans 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

In:
Happy moments, praise God.
Difficult moments, seek God.
Quiet moments, worship God.
Painful moments, trust God.
Every moment, thank God.



The day the child realizes that all adults are imperfect he becomes an adolescent;
the day he forgives them, he becomes an adult;
the day he forgives himself, he becomes wise.
~Alden Nowlan