The Pickle Jar...I love this story!!

[cateyes1]

> 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 tableand 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.
>
> Pass this message to seven people except you and me. You will receive a
miracle tomorrow - don't question..(just do it)
>

[dreamyxo]

Awww nice story.

[southernhorizons]

I wonder if this is really a true story, or just inspirational fiction. I hope it's a true story.

[falcon9]

I wonder if this is really a true story, or just inspirational fiction. I hope it's a true story.

Available evidence indicates that this was a fictional story, (listed as unknown author), generally told to church-goers by the sheep-herder speaking at them.  It is intended to give the impression that an equally fictional deity was somehow involved.  Funny how the xtians resort to fictions to support their 'faith'.

[oldbuddy]

I don't care if the story is true or not, the concept behind it of gaining on your life's dreams one coin at a time sure is! If you don't believe that, just take another look at my banner below.