Aidpage

 03/15/2009

A few months ago, God gave me an assignment that “if I loved Him I would feed His sheep.” As, I wait on His answers for my life I will do what He has assigned me to do.

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Reaching Up To Heaven

I see children reach up their hands to their mothers, eager to get their attention. It reminds me of my own efforts to reach up to God in prayer.

The early church stated that the work of the aged is to love and to pray. Of the two, I find love to be the most difficult, and prayer to be the most confusing. My infirmity lies in not know the exact thing for which I ought to pray. Should I pray that others will be delivered from their troubles-or or that their troubles will go away? Or should I pray for courage to carry on through the difficulties that belabor them?

I'm comforted by Paul's words: “The Spirit also helps in our weaknesses” (Romans 8:26). Here the apostle uses a verb that means, “to help by joining in an activity or effort.” God's Spirit is joined to ours when we pray. He intercedes for us “with groaning which cannot be uttered.”

He is touched by our troubles; He sighs often as He prays. He cares for us deeply-more than we care for ourselves. Furthermore, He prays “according to the will of God” (v27). He know the right words to say.

Therefore, I need not worry about getting my request exactly right. I need only to hunger for God and to reach up, knowing that He cares.--David Roper

O God, too weak and worn for words, I shrink

From trials that deeply wound, and yet to think

Your Holy Spirit helps me as I pray

And Gives a voice to what I cannot say! --Gustafson

When praying, it's better to have a heart without words than words without heart.

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. 'Those coins are going to deep 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. cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always go 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 he 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 jar. Even the summer when Dad go 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 ketchup 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, and never lectured me on the values of determined, 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. I know it has yours as well. Sometimes we are so busy adding up our troubles that we forget to count our blessings. Never under estimate the power of your actions. With a small gesture you can change a person's life, for better or for worse.

God puts us in 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.

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