Someone sent me this story last week -
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, carry! ing 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.
or should I say Mickey bank? 
Happy Orlandoversary to us! 
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