A Jar of Coins, a Loaf of Bread and Thou

One Year for Christmas, my brother Chris and and his wife Julie gave each of us siblings a very thoughtful gift. Inspired by the book: "The Christmas Jar", by Jason F. Wright, they gave each sibling's family an empty quart size Mason Jar. A slot was cut in the plastic lid, and inside were a number of stickers and ribbons to decorate the jar with.

In the book: The Christmas Jar, Hope Jensen, in a moment of great grief and monetary loss, is anonymously gifted a small jar of Money. Moved, humbled, and transformed by this gift, her own faith in humanity is resurrected, as she searches for and ultimately finds the donors.

When we opened the package from my brother, inside, along with the jar and a copy of the book, was a note which read:

" In honor of the spirit of giving we were taught by Mama Rose and Papa Gene (The names our children call our parents), please decorate this jar, and over the course of this upcoming year, collect your spare change and donate it to the cause of your choice, in their name."

My parents have indeed, always been generous people. Their list of charities they support has grown as our families have grown, but what I remember more were the times when, moved by the suffering and loss in our own back yard, they gave without hesitation. I have a vivid memory of a time, when My parents went to visit one of our former Parish priests in his new Parish in the inner city. During the mass, a man entered the back of the church, mumbling, and disoriented, unclean and clearly intoxicated. He wore no shirt, but a suit jacket-worn backwards; the sleeves serving as pant legs. Apparently, it wasn't an uncommon occurrence, but to my folks it was. They left the Church, bought him some clothing, and got him a meal. I will never forget that. On another occasion, I remember my mother gathering blankets and coats as we watched the house at the top of our street burn. I don't remember them telling us to be generous, necessarily, but I do remember them being it themselves. Actions always speak louder than words.

Clearly, the act of giving, in and of itself, has a cathartic quality. It just does. I know, that with every handful of change I dropped into that jar over the first year of this project, I felt good. I made it a point, in fact, I made it my intention, to place any change that came my way, into the jar. Change from the coffee I bought, change found in coat pockets and pants pockets, change left on the dresser or in my car's cup holder, change I found in the washer or the dryer. It all went into the jar. Two sticky quarters I spied on the floor between our seats at the Bruce Springsteen conccert: into the jar.

At the time, I was reading "The Power of Intention", by Wayne Dyer, the premise of which is that YOU CREATE YOUR OWN REALITY, based on making it your intention to do so. It couldn't hurt to set an intention. I set my Intention: I intend to find lots of change.

The Jar was strategically placed on the counter juxtaposed between the back door and the laundry room. I begin to notice a direct correlation between the money I found, and the thoughts I was thinking. Often, there are only pennies. At times there are quarters and dimes. At the end of the first year, I was eager to see how much money I had saved, and took my kids to the local bank with the change counting machine, to await the news.

We had saved $75.70. We were quite pleased, because, although, there were coins of all denominations in the jar, there was also a small amount of space still left. We decided, that, rather than waiting until the jar was filled, We would cash the money in before Christmas, to donate as our family Holiday Gift. Earlier in the Week, I had seen an advertisement for our local food bank, Philabundance. It read: " 25 cents can provide one meal for a person in need".

That was all it took. I felt that 75$ could go a long way. So we got a cashier's check in exchange for our collected change and we sent it off to Philabundance. We immediately began refilling the jar, and during the next year, our change began to multiply - like a yeast expands bread dough. This time, the jar was so full, it could scarcely hold even a few more coins, and this time, the jar held $175.00. I am eager to see what this third year will bring, and although we are only 4 months in, it is growing nicely, as are the hopeful feelings I am gifted with whether I place a handful of coins or a few rogue pennies into the mix.

My parents tendency toward generosity begets our own. Once you've been the recipient of another's giving, or even just the bystander who observed it happen, you've been affected, not unlike the yeast which transforms the flour and water into a loaf of bread. And very much, like Hope Jensen, in the Story The Christmas Jar, we are moved, humbled and transformed from flour, water and yeast, into the Very Staff of Life.

http://www.helpothers.org/story.php?sid=17997

Chad's Award

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Teacher Tales

BY: Cheryl Y. Brundage

He who opens a school door, closes a prison.
~Victor Hugo

Although for a number of years I had considered trying full-time teaching, my first job actually came out of desperation. With my savings account dwindling to an uncomfortably low level following several months of unemployment, I reluctantly accepted a job teaching Spanish at a charter school for at-risk high school students in downtown Houston. The salary was about half what I'd earned in my previous position at a law firm. The school was under the direction of a woman whose only credential was certification in teaching home economics. On the plus side, teaching certification was not required for my job, and there was no contract. I wouldn't have to invest time and money in certification programs yet. And if I hated the job, I could just give some notice and take off.

Characteristics of the charter school included open enrollment, a self-paced curriculum (hardly appropriate for a large population of special education and below-grade level students), a director who changed the curriculum daily and hired and fired personnel at the drop of a hat (even members of her own family and lifelong friends), and students in and out of jail and/or rehabilitation programs. When the year concluded at the end of May, only a handful of students sitting in my classes had been there since the doors opened in August.

Chad was one of them. He started out in my first semester Spanish I class. He had taken the course twice already without earning a credit, which was not an uncommon phenomenon at the school. He was hyper at times (at our school, the teachers joked, ADD was contagious), but fairly bright, and he never missed a day of school during the first semester. With some prodding and encouragement, Chad earned credit for first semester Spanish and moved on to the second.

I noticed a huge change in him when he returned from Christmas vacation. He was quieter and more focused. He began class each day by retrieving his folder and working diligently through his assignments. He asked questions and participated. I was impressed by his dramatic improvement, which one teacher attributed to new medication.

Towards the end of the spring semester, Chad missed several weeks of school. When he returned, he wrote in a warm-up that he was soon being shipped off to "year-round school in another state" and he didn't know if he would finish out the year.

The day I submitted Chad's name for an award, I discovered that the "year-round school" was prison. I was shocked to learn that he had broken into someone's house and threatened the occupant with a "deadly weapon" (a BB gun). Some of the teachers called Chad a punk. "You should give the award to someone else," one suggested, and I considered it. But in the end I decided to judge Chad only on what he had done in my class. "If we take their extracurricular activities into account, we might as well call this whole awards thing off," another teacher pointed out.

It was the first awards ceremony ever at our "school for the criminal professions." Some teachers said that we should be handing out awards like "Most Likely to End Up on Death Row" or "Most Likely to Test Positive for HIV." But even the most cynical among us were moved by the kids' enthusiasm. Some of these street-tough kids covered with gold chains and tattoos had never received any kind of award in their entire lives. They swaggered up to the awards table, flashed victory signs when teachers presented them with handwritten certificates in front of their peers, and asked how they could make copies of the awards for relatives and friends or convert the awards into posters.

Chad's sentencing had been delayed, and he made it to school that day. He hardly reacted when I presented him with an award for Most Improved. But after the ceremony, my quiet, cooperative student ambushed me with a hug. "Thank you," he said in a voice thick with emotion. "Now I have something to show my mom."

Chad didn't finish second semester Spanish, and he never got credit for the course. But I'd like to think that award made a difference. That having something tangible for his efforts would remind him that he could accomplish things, and that he would turn his life around. Or was it already too late -- his last achievement in the civilized world before embarking on a career in crime?

Even if the award didn't make a difference in his life, it certainly did in mine. I realized that while I couldn't remain at that particular school, interacting with those kids -- trying as it was at times -- was much more meaningful than anything I had ever done. I knew I would never return to the corporate world. I earned my standard teaching certificate a year later and have taught full-time ever since.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/05/Chads-Award.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

The Car

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Dad

BY: Cathy C. Hall

The willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life is the source from which self-respect springs.
~Joan Didion

I wanted a car. No, I NEEDED a car.

I'd just graduated from college and had moved back into my parents' home while I looked for gainful employment. I had some nice interview clothes, a new pair of dressy sandals, and a handful of résumés. I was all ready for job-hunting, except for one tiny glitch. I didn't have a car.I'd never had a car. My parents had sent me off to school and paid for my education. They paid for my room and board on campus, too. But they didn't think a car was necessary, and to be honest, it wasn't. Everywhere I went was in close proximity to my dorm. And if it weren't, I'd get my boyfriend to give me a ride.

But I could hardly expect my boyfriend to drop everything and drive me all over Georgia to find a job. When I mentioned this fact to my dad, he was not concerned. In fact, he was downright blasé about the matter.

"You can borrow your mother's car to look for a job," he said.

"But what if I get a job?" I asked. My mother was a schoolteacher, and her vehicle was available, most of the time, during June, July, and August. But when school started in the fall, not having a car was going to be a problem.

"You can worry about that when you get a job," he said.

Hmmph. I sulked for a day or two, but my sulk was not having the desired effect on my dad. If you knew my dad, you wouldn't be surprised. He was not the type of father to just give his kids whatever they wanted. He could have done so. But he was very big on responsibility, which meant that he expected his children to invest their own time and money on important purchases. And a car was tops on his list of "Important Purchases."

My oldest brother was the only one in the house who'd bought his own car. He'd worked like a dog the summer after he turned nineteen, saved his pennies, and paid for a VW Beetle. My other brothers and I were jealous, of course, but not so jealous that we wanted to work like dogs during our summer vacations.

So there I was, a college graduate, stuck without a car and without a job. And with a dad who refused to budge on my car predicament.

I was ecstatic when I finally got a job at a local radio station. It was only part-time, but it was a job! Now, I'd HAVE to have my own car. It was July, and my mother had no intention of giving up her car every day, even if only for a half-day. So, I pleaded my case before my dad.

"You should start looking for something you can afford," he said.

Well, that was easier said than done. We lived in a small town; there was one car dealership. No way could I afford a new car. I'd need a used car. And the only way to buy a used car was to know someone who knew someone who'd heard about someone who wanted to sell a car. I didn't know a soul who fit that description.

Ah, but my dad did. He came home the next day, talking up an Impala that had been owned by an older woman. No joke. The car cost six hundred dollars, and my dad thought we should check it out immediately. A car like that wouldn't be around for long, he said.

Once I saw the car, I could see why. Not that the car was unsightly. It was in immaculate shape. But I didn't think too many twenty-two-year-olds were going to jump on this deal. The car was a tank. And it drove like a tank. I'd envisioned myself in a red sports car. Not this dirty-white, "older person" car. I said I'd have to think about it.

The more I thought, the more I figured beggars can't be choosers. "Let's buy the car," I said.
"I'm not buying that car," replied my father, a look of surprise on his face.

"But, Dad!" Now it was my turn to be surprised. I'd barely worked one week, and hadn't been paid yet. I didn't have a cent to my name. Besides, the car was only six hundred dollars. Dad could easily afford that. But he continued to look at me, calm, cool and collected.

"You could buy the car, and I could pay you back," I said, finally. Maybe after a month or two, Dad would forget all about that arrangement.

"Or you could go to the bank and take out a loan," he said. Which was Dad's way of saying, "Get a loan."

Ooooh, I was so put out with my father! A loan! I was barely out of school a month, and now I'd be in debt! I'd have to pay back that loan, for sure. I refused to speak to Dad on the drive to the bank. I was too busy feeling put out. The injustice of it all!

My father did agree to co-sign for the loan. But he made it very clear that he wouldn't make the payments if I quit my job. I agreed to the bank's terms, as well as my father's. What else could I do? I got the check from the bank and we drove directly to the owner's house. Easy come, easy go. I drove home in my Impala, fuming and figuring out car payments.

That was years ago, and I've had quite a few cars since, some used and some brand-new. But there was something special about that Impala. Not the crummy color, or the way it chugged along, and certainly not the way it ate gas. But I was proud of that car.

No, I was proud that I'd bought that car. I had made every single payment on my own. I'd invested my time in a job and my salary was invested in that car. That was quite an achievement for a twenty-two-year-old who'd never had such an adult responsibility. And when the next summer rolled around and I moved out of my parents' home to a new job, I was sure I'd manage just fine. After all, I'd bought a car, all by myself. Thanks to Dad.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/05/The-Car.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Foreword

Chicken Soup for the Soul: NASCAR

BY: Darrell Waltrip

As I look through this book and I look at all the people who have contributed to it -- whether it's our current champion Jimmie Johnson or former champions like Tony Stewart, or even my brother Michael -- one thing pops out at me all the way through these stories. Someone, somehow, somewhere, had an impact on all these people's lives. Someone did something kind, someone said something encouraging, or someone just walked up and just gave them a hug.

It's obvious to me that in all of our lives, there are people like that. There have been people like that in my own life, who have impacted me in a positive kind of way.

The first one was Max Helton. Max was the founding father of the Motor Racing Outreach ministry, along with me and my wife Stevie, Lake Speed and his wife Rice, and Bobby and Kim Hillin.

Max was such a great encouragement to me because of his faithfulness. That's the other thing you see as you read through these stories -- how committed all these people are. They all have goals, and all they're looking for in most cases is someone to pat them on the back and tell them they're doing a good job.

In my life, that person was Max Helton.

One of the best things Max ever told me was, "D.W., good guys go to hell." That has stuck with me ever since, because in my life, up until I was saved, I thought I was a good guy. I never did anything bad; I never did anything wrong. But Max made it perfectly clear to me that good guys go to hell if they don't have that personal relationship with Jesus Christ. That saved my soul. It saved my life.

That was what Max did for me. And he didn't do it just for me; he did it for everybody. He was just that kind of guy.

Another person in my life that was a game-changer was Bill France, Jr.

Bill Jr. was a hard man, and on several occasions I witnessed to him about his salvation. Bill wasn't interested. He didn't want to hear it.

One time he said to me -- and these are his words -- "Let me get this straight. As long as I make my deal before they put me in the box, I'm gonna go to the same place you do, right?"

And I said, "Bill, that's exactly right, but here's the downside of that. If you wait until then, you'll never get the benefits of your salvation."

I think that impacted him. And I know, because I talked to his wife Betty Jane and some of the other people who were around him, that he gave his life to the Lord before he passed away. So that was always encouraging to me.

In fact, one of the sweetest moments of my entire career was at the NASCAR awards banquet in 2000, when Bill France gave me the Award of Excellence, the Lifetime Achievement Award. He was sitting down in the front, right in front of the stage at the Waldorf Astoria in New York. He was in a wheelchair; he had just gotten out of the hospital.

I can still see him sitting there, looking up at me. I could tell he was hurting, but he wanted to be there to see me get that award. Of all the awards I have ever gotten, of all the things I have ever accomplished, that was the greatest moment for me. You know, we had been adversaries since 1972. We started our careers at the same time, and we had bumped heads on many occasions. To see him make the effort to get there that night really impacted my heart.

Dale Earnhardt was another special person to me. People ask me all the time about Dale and whether he was a Christian. My wife in particular knows about this, because Stevie used to put Scriptures in his car every Sunday from 1994 until the day he died in 2001. Those Scriptures didn't save him, but Stevie also witnessed to Dale personally on many occasions.

My wife is a godly woman. She knows that he was saved, and she knows Dale Earnhardt went to Heaven.

Those are three of the people in my life who had a tremendous impact on me.

And I believe the people who read the stories shared in this book will be impacted in some way, too.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/05/Foreword.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Mom's Jewel

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Mom

By Ferida Wolff

The most precious jewels are not made of stone, but of flesh.
~Robert Ludlum

When I was a little girl, I loved to look through my mother's jewelry box whenever my parents went out for the night. There were glittering treasures hidden inside, like the gems in a pirate's chest. I would try on each piece of Mom's jewelry and create a story to go with it. A rhinestone-studded pin in the shape of a crown seemed to give me a queen's permission to indulge my imagination. Slithery golden chains wrapped themselves like snakes around my arms so I could pretend to be Cleopatra. Mom had more rings than I had fingers and I wore each one in turn, assigning them individual magical powers that I could activate with a mere touch. There were earrings galore; some dangled halfway down my neck and swayed as I became an Egyptian dancer, while those with tiny pearls rested delicately on my earlobes, making me royalty for the evening.

What I loved best of all, though, was a bracelet with milky stones that my mother called moonstones. If I was lucky, and my mother wore something else that night, I could have the bracelet for myself until I went to bed. I would pretend that I reached into the sky and captured the moon's light, which I tucked carefully into each stone. Then I would hold the bracelet up to the window to compare it to the moon. The moon was always bigger but the stones were brighter. They seemed to glow more brilliantly as the moon got larger until, at full moon, they were so beautiful I had to hold my breath in wonder. One day, when I was grown up, I decided, I would wear the moon on my wrist whenever I wanted, even during the day. And I would be an elegant lady. At that time, the most elegant lady I could think of was my mother.

One Father's Sacrifice

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Dad

BY: Abby McNutt
Any man can be a father. It takes someone special to be a dad.
~Author Unknown

If you asked anyone about my relationship with my dad, they would tell you that I am Daddy's little girl. He rarely said "I love you" or "I'm proud of you," but I always knew that he believed in me. Even though he wasn't a very affectionate man, I never questioned his love for me. His primary role was as the provider for our family. It meant Dad worked many hours at a local tire plant and wasn't home much. That didn't change how I felt about him. I idolized him, like most girls do when it comes to their fathers. We had a special bond that even my mom didn't understand, a bond that I cannot describe to this day.

But things in our family would change. In the fall of my senior year in high school, my mom decided to leave our family for a man she had met on the Internet many months before. This turned my world upside down and devastated my dad. I lost my mom that night, and I needed Dad more than ever. Fortunately, our relationship as a family bloomed. We began eating dinner together, going to church together, and spending time together. The special bond between us grew even stronger that year and would continue to do so throughout my four years in college.

When I began choosing a college that January, Dad told me that I could attend any school I wanted. To his surprise, I chose a very expensive private university about an hour and a half from our home. I was awarded enough scholarships to cover half of my tuition and fees, but Dad would still have to pay the rest. When I told him this, all he said was, "Okay." He had made a promise, and he was going to keep it.

I started school that fall, and I loved it! I excelled in my classes and joined activities that forced me out of my comfort zone. I participated in student government, campus ministries, and other things that not only strengthened my organizational and people skills, but also required me to conquer my fear of public speaking. Through it all, Dad was always there. When I needed money, Dad would send it in an envelope marked "Daddy Moneybags." It made me laugh every time. He even drove to school to take me shopping for a new homecoming dress.

There were times when Dad's sacrifices made me feel guilty. But one Sunday, I came to understand why he did the things he did for me. I sat in church that morning listening to the pastor speak about the meaning of a shepherd warrior, when one of the points on the outline grabbed me. It said, "A shepherd loves sacrificially." The pastor described a sacrifice as "giving up something you love for something you love even more." At that moment, I finally understood. Dad loved me so much that he was giving me what I wanted no matter what it cost him. He sacrificed so I could attend a school I loved, and he did so without question or complaint. To him, allowing me to go to this school was more than keeping a promise; it was his way of showing his love for me. His love, along with the love of those around me, helped me complete this chapter in my life.

A few short weeks later, Dad watched me accept my two Bachelor's Degrees, one in Biology and one in Psychology. Like always, he didn't say much. He just let me relish my accomplishment. With a hug following the ceremony, Dad told me what I needed to know: he was proud of me and would always be regardless of what I did in my life.

I thank God for my dad every day. I thank God for the countless hours Dad and I spent in the car driving to and from school on the weekends and holidays as we talked and listened to our favorite radio program. I thank God for the notes, my favorite fruit, and the chocolate rose Dad hid in my laundry or grocery bags to remind me that he loved me. I thank Him for the hugs I got just before Dad would leave when he took me back to school, and I thank Him for Dad coming to see me for no other reason than because he missed me. I thank Him for the large basket of goodies Dad brought me during finals week because he forgot to purchase a ready-made "survival kit" from the school. He overflowed the basket with chocolate candy bars, crackers, and chips. He even glued fabric to the basket to make it more special!

It is said that your earthly father is a reflection of the Heavenly Father here on earth. He protects you from those who might hurt you. He corrects you when you are wrong. He guides you as you become the person you are supposed to be. He loves you even when it seems that no one else does. I see the Father in my father's sacrifice. I see God's love through my dad's love, and I thank God for blessing me with such a wonderful man -- a man I call Dad.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/05/One-Fathers-Sacrifice.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Beauty Never Fades

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Mom

BY: Betsy S. Franz

Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.
~Confucius

Once a week, no matter how busy I am, I take an afternoon off and just sit and stare at the clouds.

It's not always easy to rearrange my schedule or put my deadlines on hold to carry out this weekly ritual. In fact, there are many times when I almost talk myself out of it. But in the end, once I park myself on my usual bench and turn my head skyward, my cares and troubles just seem to drift away as the clouds work their magic.

"Look! Look at that one," my mother will say. "Look how soft and fluffy it is. And it reaches clear across the sky."

My mother is eighty-eight years old and it is she who draws me to this weekly meeting with the clouds. Ten years ago, her doctors diagnosed her with dementia. But in her present state of constant peace and happiness, it's hard for me to see her as demented. To me, she seems transcendent.

I've spent a good part of my life trying to reach a state of complete mental calm and peace. My mother has reached it. I struggle with daily demons of guilt and insecurity and fear. My mother has none. No matter how hard I try, I sometimes focus on the negative and ugly elements of life. But not my mother. All she ever sees is beauty. And she's eager to share it.

"Mmmm, feel that breeze," she'll say. "Nice and soft."

I realize that, if she hadn't mentioned it, I probably would have let the breeze go unnoticed. But her words slow me down and I feel that gentle brush against my cheek, feel the slow-motion movement of my hair in the wind.

Every now and then she'll turn to me and say, "But nothing is better than having my favorite daughter beside me. You are even more beautiful than the clouds."

This time with my mother is bittersweet. She always had an eye for beauty. She always took the time to stop and gaze at the clouds or appreciate the wonder of a full moon. Her home was full of artifacts from nature that held intricate patterns and designs so miniscule that they would have gone unnoticed by a lesser mind -- a mind that didn't realize that life is short and full of infinite beauties to behold. But she saw them and she savored them and she collected them to point them out to others who didn't take the time to stop and see. People like me. Too wrapped up in my jobs and my romances and even things as mundane as books or movies or television. I was too busy to see all that beauty around me, but also too busy to really notice how much of it was there, in my mother.

And so, each week, no matter what I am doing or how busy I am, I stop and visit my mother and we sit and stare at the clouds.

"Look! Look at that one," my mother will say. "Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" And I turn and look at her and realize that, until this precious time in my life, I don't think that I have.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/05/Beauty-Never-Fades.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter