Inspirational Stories

I'm always looking for these, so if you have a good one I'd like to share it.

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, 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.
Sorrow looks back. Worry looks around. Faith looks up.