Quote from Forum Archives on June 6, 2006, 9:24 pm

Posted by: bigguyhereagain <bigguyhereagain@...>

"Noah's Ark"

 

 

ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW I LEARNED FROM NOAH'S ARK

 

Don't miss the boat.

 

Plan ahead. It wasn't raining when Noah built the ark.

 

Stay fit. When you're 600 years old, someone might ask you to do something REALLY big.

 

Don't listen to critics - do what has to be done.

 

Listen to what God tells you - your life depends on it.

 

Put action to your faith. Noah could have believed God, yet still drowned if he hadn't built the ark.

 

Finish what you start.

 

Two heads are better than one.

 

Speed isn't always an advantage. The cheetahs were on board, but so were the snails.

 

Don't forget that we're all in the same boat.

 

Remember that the ark was built by amateurs and the Titanic by professionals.

 

Remember that the woodpeckers INSIDE can be a bigger threat than the storm outside.

 

Have patience! The ark wasn't built in a year, and the flood wasn't finished in 40 days and 40 nights.

 

If God is with you; no matter how bleak it looks, there's always a rainbow at the end.

 

"THE PICKLE JAR"

 

          

 

  As far back as I can remember, the large pickle jar 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
  quietly 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.

 

 

Have a Blessed Day
Dave and Barbara

 

 

 

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