The Pickle Jar

I received this e-mail today and thought that it was worth posting. It is uncredited and is probably a fable (no news on it from Snopes.com). Nevertheless, it summarizes some of the thoughts most commonly posted here. Please enjoy and forward at will.

"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.

Happy
moments, praise God.

Difficult moments, seek God.

Quiet moments, worship God.

Painful moments, trust God.

Every
moment, thank God."

Thoughts anyone?