“Sex,” I was pretty sure, meant whether you were a boy or girl, and “sin” made Tante Jans very angry, but what the two together meant I could not imagine. And so, seated next to Father in the train compartment, I suddenly asked, “Father, what is sexsin?”
He turned to look at me, as he always did when answering a question, but to my surprise he said nothing. At last he stood up, lifted his traveling case from the rack over our heads, and set it on the floor.
“Will you carry it off the train, Corrie?” he said. I stood up and tugged at it. It was crammed with the watches and spare parts he had purchased that morning.
“It’s too heavy,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “And it would be a pretty poor father who would ask his little girl to carry such a load. It’s the same way, Corrie, with knowledge.
We are asking our children to carry loads that are way too heavy for them.
They should not be forced, as children, to see and feel the world through the lens of adults.
Innocence is worth protecting and worth fighting for.
We need to do our part as teachers, parents and caregivers to carry certain things for them until they are old enough to bear the load.
The field was large, grass covered the ground. I heard laughter, the laughter of children. I looked again and saw them dancing in circle, a very large circle … white children, brown children, blond children, brunette children.
The chief was Native. He was directing people where they need go. There was a woman who asked one young blond boy with thick sandy blond hair if he wanted to part the sea …. he said excitedly, mine? She said yes, and with a brush, she proceeded to comb his hair forward and then part it in the middle.
A woman with streaks in her hair was with a masculine, they were observing. She kept inching closer and closer to the crowd, stepping away from the masculine she was with.
There was a big pot with a sweet syrupy elixir. This woman stepped up and put her fingers into the spill of it, mesmerized. It looked as though she was leaving behind the old, which spied and tracked, to join with the laughing children and their caregivers.
The children are being freed. The rainbow tribe is being assembled.
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 to 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.
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 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: he 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.
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. Sometimes we are so busy adding up our troubles that we forget to count our blessings. Never underestimate the power of your actions. With one small gesture you can change a person’s life, for better or for worse.
~ Author Unknown
The best and most beautiful things cannot be seen or touched – they must be felt with the heart ~ Helen Keller
While we are arguing over the efficacy of masks, a vile group of people are trying to make pedophilia a sexual orientation and believe it is 100% ok to be age fluid.
I just discovered age fluidity last night. Being age fluid means that a full grown man could “identify” as an 8 year old boy…OR an 8 year old girl if he is also feeling gender fluid on any particular day. So, if a 50 year old man “identifies” as an 8 year old girl, and is attracted to an 8 year old boy, then these sickos feel it is natural and should be legal for him to act on those feelings.
Ever heard of NAMBLA? The North American Man Boy Love Association is a real pedophilia organization that wants pedophilia to be normalized. They think the age of consent should be lowered to FOUR YEARS OLD.
Where do we draw the line on all of the “identity” stuff??
Our children are under attack. Where do you think all of the missing children are going? They aren’t being taken in by good, loving people. They are being sold and traded in a very sick, evil community. And when they’re done with them, they’re killing them and disposing of them like trash.
This is one thing I strongly feel that everyone needs to get “WOKE” on.