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.

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.