What’s Next? A Question Fuels a Lifetime of Achievement

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I can still remember standing in the doorway of the kitchen as a young boy, watching my mother tackle one business project after another from the kitchen table which served as he desk. She moved with purpose and quiet intensity—papers spread across the table, phone pressed to her ear, always thinking several steps ahead. The moment she completed one task, she would barely pause before saying with renewed energy, “What’s Next?”

In many respects, that simple question has shaped my entire life and career. I finish one task, complete one project, or reach a significant goal, then almost immediately refocus my attention on whatever challenge or opportunity lies ahead.

By moving steadily from endeavor to endeavor while always keeping our eyes fixed forward, we can achieve far more than we ever thought possible. Success becomes less a final destination and more a series of stepping stones leading to something greater.

Many people, however, choose to rest upon the completion of their objectives. They spend days, weeks, or even longer looking back, reliving and recounting their victories. Celebration and gratitude are healthy and necessary—but only if they remain a moment, not a lifestyle. It’s remarkably easy to let past successes quietly erode our forward momentum. We become emotionally attached to the ways we’ve always done things, much like a runner who keeps glancing back at the competitors instead of focusing on the finish line ahead. Markets evolve. Technology advances. Customer needs and expectations shift. Without the discipline to keep asking “What’s Next?”, it’s all too easy to become stagnant.

What’s Next?

The answer might be: I need to honestly re-evaluate why the latest project did not surpass the success of an earlier one. What lessons went unlearned? Where did complacency creep in? This kind of fearless reflection turns yesterday’s results into tomorrow’s fuel.

What’s Next?

The answer might be: I should chart a bold new path—one that brings us closer to achieving a goal we never even dared to imagine possible. One that stretches our capabilities and inspires everyone around us.

What’s Next?

The answer might be: I simply need to pause each evening and ask myself the same question my mother lived by, then take one small step in that direction.

God grants each of us the ability to imagine it, the will to strive toward it, and the hope to achieve it. The real question is whether we will have the courage to keep asking, even when the path feels uncertain.

I pray that your “it”—whatever goal or calling stirs in your heart right now—enlightens, emboldens, and uplifts the world, and that it gives fresh courage to all of us who continue to wonder, “What’s Next?”

Read more about Randall’s life in Encouragers I, II, and III.

Beneath Leaves: Finding Renewal When Worry Piles High

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There are seasons in life when worries, sorrows, fears, and quiet depressions gather like autumn leaves drifting from the branches. One by one they fall— a health scare, a strained relationship, financial strain, the ache of loneliness, or simply the relentless news of the world—until they form a thick, damp blanket over the ground. The roots that once fed our soul, drawing nourishment from faith, friendship, purpose, and simple joys, lie hidden beneath. In that shadowed place, it becomes hard to see daylight, harder still to believe spring will ever return.

Even the markers of renewal can feel distant or mocking. Easter arrives with its promise of resurrection and families gathering around tables laden with ham, dyed eggs, and laughter. Spring unfurls tender green shoots and birdsong. For many, these are moments of uplift. Yet for others, they add another layer to the pile: the contrast between outward celebration and inward heaviness only presses the leaves down more tightly. The beauty meant to heal can sometimes underscore how far we feel from blooming ourselves.

I wish the remedy were as straightforward as stepping into sunshine and saying, “It’s a beautiful day—grab a rake, clear the debris, and let the flowers push through.” In truth, I’ve tried that approach more times than I can count. A brisk walk, a forced smile, a playlist of upbeat songs—sometimes they shift the mood for an hour or two. But when the weight has settled long enough, the potential beneath begins to wither. The soul’s tender shoots, starved of light and air, curl inward. What was once vibrant growth risks becoming brittle and dry.

In my own lowest seasons, I’ve learned there is no quick sweep of the rake that suffices. Instead, the way forward is to reach deeper—down through the layers, straight to the roots themselves.

For me, those roots are twofold. First, the living Word of God, which has been the steady food of my spirit since I first opened a Bible as a youth. When sadness clouds everything, I don’t always feel like reading, but I do it anyway—sometimes just a single Psalm, or a few verses from Isaiah promising that God gives strength to the weary. I read slowly, letting the words sink in like rain after drought. “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Those aren’t abstract platitudes when you’re buried; they become oxygen.

The second root is people—the ones who care about me, and the ones who need care. Isolation feeds the pile; connection scatters it.

I remember one November a few years back when grief over a family loss had me retreating inward for weeks. The leaves felt suffocating. One Saturday, almost on autopilot, I answered a call from a friend who was in the hospital. I thought he might need someone to talk with so I went, to listen and pass the time. We talked for hours—mostly him talking, me listening.

Driving home that night, something shifted. My own sorrow hadn’t vanished, but it occupied less space. In the mirror of his pain, mine looked smaller—not diminished in importance, but placed in perspective. Helping him didn’t erase my burden; it redistributed the weight. I breathed more easily, as though a few leaves had been lifted away.

That pattern has repeated itself since. When worry permeates every moment, threatening to steal my breath, I step toward someone else’s need. A phone call to check on an elderly friend. Volunteering at the food pantry. Listening to an acquaintance who’s struggling. Each small act of reaching out reminds me I’m not alone in the hole—and sometimes, in joining others to dig, I find my own hands pulling me upward.

It’s counter intuitive: when you feel most trapped, the path to freedom often lies in helping set someone else free. The effort required to encourage, to serve, to show up replaces suffocating rumination with purposeful motion. Problems that loomed gigantic shrink when held next to another’s hardship. Kindness becomes the wind that scatters leaves.

Of course, this isn’t a cure-all. Some burdens require professional help—and seeking it is itself an act of courage and connection. Nor does reaching out magically dissolve every worry. But it does lighten the load enough to glimpse daylight again.

So if the pile feels heavy this season, don’t wait for the wind to do the work. Head to the shed—or the hardware store—and pick up that rake. Better yet, grab a shovel too. Start clearing space around you: a conversation, a kind deed, a verse that speaks directly to your heart. Root yourself deeper in God’s promises and in the lives of those around you.

In time, you may notice the first green shoots breaking through. Hope, fragile at first, begins to rise. Kindness takes root. Enthusiasm stirs. The very act of tending others’ gardens revives your own.

Spring always comes. Sometimes we just need to rake away what’s covering it—and in helping others uncover their light, we rediscover ours.

Read more of Randall’s work in Seeing Faith : A Devotional.

May Your Days Be Many and Your Painful Moments Few

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There are many times in my life when I have searched for the reason someone I care about becomes ill or suffers through a series of events.

I have sat by the bedside, watching tubes connected to a loved one’s body, and seen people struggle to find a new normal after a health crisis.

I have witnessed the emotional anguish when relationships and family issues inflict such pain that “suffering” is the only word that fits.

Often we look to God and cry, “Why? They are so good. They give in so many ways. Why do they have to suffer?”Then I remember: suffering is simply part of the human condition. It does not matter how good or how flawed we are. Suffering comes when it comes.Although our own choices can certainly bring self-inflicted pain, everyone receives a portion of hardship at some point — through heartache, illness, sudden accident, loss, or even the simplest of occurrences.The real question is how we handle it. Do we wallow in the suffering? Do we use it to evoke sympathy and feed a sense of entitlement?

We all carry a piece of the same heavy stone — the one life forces us to pound our days against until it yields pain. Some manage to lay it down and walk on. Others carry it with them every day.

Should we suffer gracefully? Is that even possible? I believe it is — for some. I have watched people endure devastating circumstances with the strength of steel, emerging stronger on the other side.I have also seen others face death with quiet dignity, trying to lighten the burden for those they leave behind.

Do my sufferings compare to yours? Never let yourself be drawn into that conversation. When someone is hurting, lift their load if you can, and encourage them to keep moving rather than measuring pain against pain. Hopefully they will not feel the need to pass their stone on to someone else.

Our calling is to uplift those who cross our path — but never to enable self-pity to swallow them whole.

Does God play a role in these experiences? Some blame Him when life turns cruel. Others reach for Him in the fiercest storm. For me, I can only say that when I seek Him in my darkest moments, He meets me with comfort in His perfect time.

The answer, if it is to be found at all, must be discovered within each of us as we walk through what life — and love — places before us.

I pray your days be many and your painful moments few.

Read more from Randall in Seeing Faith : A Devotional or other books in the store

Frontier Guardians : A Legacy of Patriot Sacrifice

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In the quiet hills of Ottway, Greene County, Tennessee, the small Malone Cemetery guards a powerful story of generational sacrifice. Here lie two Revolutionary-era veterans: John Joseph Malone Sr. (1724–1783) and his son, John Malone Jr. (1752–1823). Father and son, buried side by side, their graves mark not just a family plot, but a testament to the raw courage that secured America’s western frontier.
John Joseph Malone Sr.’s path to patriotism began in Somerset County, Maryland, where he was born and raised a family with wife Sarah Hart. As colonial tensions simmered, he saw early militia duty in Maryland: in 1757 or 1758, he served in Captain Thomas Norris’ Company, with payment delayed until 1767 (£1 10s for 30 days of attendance). Before long, the pull of western lands drew him southward. By 1774, records place him—and remarkably, his young adult son—in the thick of Lord Dunmore’s War, a brutal prelude to the Revolution.
Serving together in Captain David Looney’s Company of Virginia militia (from Fincastle County), the Malones helped defend settlers against Shawnee raids over the Ohio Valley. Their unit was assigned to guard the Clinch River frontier, patrolling under Lieutenants Daniel Boone, Gilbert Christian, and John Cox to protect settlements while the main Virginia forces engaged elsewhere.
Notably, John Sr.’s other sons, William (b. ~1759) and George (b. ~1760), also served in this conflict, contributing to the family’s collective defense efforts.
The broader war exploded on October 10, 1774, at the Battle of Point Pleasant—a thunderous clash at the confluence of the Ohio and Kanawha Rivers. In foggy dawn light, Chief Cornstalk’s 300–500 warriors attempted a surprise assault on Colonel Andrew Lewis’s 1,100 Virginians. What followed was a ferocious all-day fight: rifle fire cracking through the trees, warriors shouting war cries from concealed positions, militiamen holding lines in desperate hand-to-hand combat.Cornstalk himself rallied his men with the legendary cry, “Be strong! Be strong!” Yet the Virginians prevailed, though at grievous cost—75 killed and 140 wounded in what some called the bloodiest frontier battle against Native forces. The victory forced a treaty opening Kentucky to settlement and stoked revolutionary fires against British policies seen as favoring Native allies.
By the mid-1770s, the Malones had migrated to the Holston River settlements (future eastern Tennessee). In 1775, a John Malone (likely Sr. or Jr.) appeared in Captain George Matthews’ Company from Augusta County, Virginia, amid escalating patriot mobilizations.
In 1777, John Sr. joined fellow settlers in signing a bold petition affirming patriot loyalty and seeking North Carolina’s protection amid Tory and Cherokee threats. Throughout the Revolutionary War, his service shifted to vital local defense: scouting raids, guarding forts, and holding the volatile frontier where British-incited attacks nearly unraveled the southern cause.
Evoking the rugged riflemen of the 1770s backcountry—ordinary farmers like Malone, armed with long rifles and unyielding resolve.
Malone did not live to see final victory, dying in 1783—the year peace was signed—and resting in the cemetery that bears his name. His son, also a veteran, joined him decades later. Both received postwar land grants for their service.
Though not always listed in early official DAR rolls, their patriot status endures through grave markers, militia records (including those qualifying some descendants for modern SAR/DAR membership), and family tradition.
In an era of Yorktown glory, the Malones remind us: Liberty was won in forgotten riverbank battles and watchful frontier nights, often by fathers and sons standing together.
As America’s 250th anniversary nears, stories like this call us to remember the hidden heroes in our own family trees. Who fought unseen in yours?
Read more about his family in A Mountain Pearl : Appalachian Reminiscing and Recipes available at www.RandallFranks.com/Store .
John Joseph Malone, Sr. is the maternal sixth great grandfather of the author.

Loving Beyond Measure : Being There When It Matters Most

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Some of the most difficult times to watch are when someone we know is trying to be there for a loved one who is coming to the end of their journey. As I think back through the years, I remember watching my parents as they reached out to support friends or relatives in such times.

If the loved one was elsewhere, they would close up the business, and off they’d go for an undetermined amount of time to just be present. There to be called upon if needed for an extra pair of hands and legs to: run errands, do day-to-day tasks, cook, or just simply sit, talk, laugh, console, remember, and pray.

I saw my parents do this time and time again. I know they drew no financial benefit from what they were doing. Their only reward was in knowing they were serving Christ with their actions.

Sometimes their presence reached beyond the caregivers to the patient, and I know that brought peace over each of them when they knew they had comforted someone as they prepared to cross over.

As a small boy, I watched this routine many times as they said goodbye to former co-workers, neighbors, and friends from throughout their lives, and of course, relatives of every description who had impacted them. I vaguely remember one period in my childhood when I felt I was spending more time in hospitals and funeral homes than at school, but death comes at God’s appointment, not on our timetables.

I am now at a similar point in my life, as they were when they were saying goodbye to so many. So, I have become readily cognizant that, like my folks, many of those I know are being called—some old, some young—but it seems to happen more with every passing year. As I reflect on what I can I do to support their loved ones, I think back on the model that my parents gave me. I try to simply be present whenever possible to offer support and help them walk down the path I have already walked. I know that hope, comfort, and strength should be offered along the path, and I only pray that I can be an instrument to provide some aspect of these to all concerned along the final journey.

Most of us know someone who is facing this point in life. What are you doing to support them and their circle of caregivers? I encourage you to find some way to make a difference; you may be able to leave a message of love that changes a life forever and passes a legacy of love to your children as they see how you help others in a time of life we all must face.

Read more of Randall’s writings in Seeing Faith : A Devotional .

Dirt Road Wisdom: The Gift of Grandparental Grace

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THIS COLUMN MARKS THE OUR 25TH ANNIVERSARY IN SOUTHERN STYLE

“Thank you for all the years of allowing me to share my thoughts with you!” Randall Franks

As I stumbled along the dirt road, I would occasionally reach up and slip my hand into Grandpa Jesse‘s. When an independent streak struck, I would pull it back, managing my steps all on my own—at least for a few feet—before repeating the process once again.
No matter what I did, I could look up into his face and see a smile beaming back at me. What an amazing gift is the special bond that grows between a loving grandparent and a grandchild.
They can give so much love, and many—like mine—had the desire to share a lifetime of experience. I thank God that mine gave me the insights at a young age to listen and learn.
I think one of the greatest lessons shared with me was how to handle yourself when you realize you’ve wronged someone. It could be as simple as a misunderstanding or as serious as a downright disagreement.
From their example, I saw that one should admit a mistake and apologize to move the relationship forward. If you’re the injured party, take the first step: express your concerns and give the other person an easy opportunity to make amends.
If they choose not to, then you’ve done all you can to mend the fences.
Unfortunately, folks aren’t always in the same place at the same time.
Although Christianity teaches us to forgive, that’s an area where I’ve seen loved ones and friends struggle throughout my life.
I struggle with it myself. Oftentimes, I fall back on hardened lessons passed down through generations, rooted in centuries of tribal or clan conflicts and feuds.
I’ve watched loving, caring people—who would give you the shirt off their back—get up on their hind legs and growl when a situation involved an ancestral enemy, an ostracized family member, or a former friend.
While I received these lessons through oral stories, I’ve worked to distance myself from carrying such disputes into my own life. Some even go back beyond written records. They do add color to the stories I share, but for me, the feuds are long past.
As time passes in my life, I find I have to work harder not to add to the list with my own experiences.
It would be easy to simply write someone off—as was often the practice—and have no more to do with them once they’ve done you wrong and won’t apologize or admit a mistake.
But unless continuing that relationship is destructive, I’m striving to avoid falling into the footsteps left by my mountain highland kin through the centuries. That’s not to say there might not be a situation that calls for their approach, but I don’t know if I’m up for a good sword fight, pistols at ten paces, or gathering the clan for feudin’ anytime in the near future.
So, I think the approaches mentioned earlier might be best for all concerned. Of course, the other person does have to be concerned. If they’re not, they probably shouldn’t be that important to your life anyway.

Read more about Randall’s experiences in Appalachia in his books such as A Mountain Pearl, and Seeing Faith. Visit www.RandallFranks.com/Store

From Recess to Real Life: Childhood Friends Shaped My World

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I crowded into the MARTA bus headed toward downtown Atlanta. I grabbed a seat as the bus filled up. A Black woman in a gray dress and heels got on, and I noticed there was no available seat, so I rose and moved toward the back, giving her my seat. As I got situated near the rear door, I wrapped my arm around the bus rail and placed my feet appropriately to keep me steady as the bus stopped and started along the rest of the trip to Central City Park. As I stood there, I started looking at the man sitting near me and realized it was Mr. Olivares. He was heading to his job downtown. I had not seen him in years, and initially he did not recognize me.
I had grown tremendously since I used to run through his living room alongside his children who were near my age—Paul and Vivian.
I met Paul in about third grade after his family emigrated from South America. The family included at least two youths near my age and some older siblings as well. I don’t know what drew me to Paul initially.
Through most of my elementary school experience, all the students were white, despite going to school after integration and during a program referred to as M-to-M transfer, where the county would bus students to schools that were demographically different.
As best I recall, Paul was the first student from a different country or culture that I met—especially someone speaking a different language: Spanish.
We became fast friends and began playing together during recess at school. Soon, I started visiting his home and joining his family for dinner, and he would visit ours as well. I began learning enough Spanish to get by as I visited his home and spent time among his siblings.
I guess it was my parents’ open and caring attitude toward people—whom some Southern whites of that era may have viewed differently because of color, culture, or faith—that allowed me the freedom to reach out and not feel I was doing something out of the ordinary.
In fact, perhaps it was the early boundaries that my own parents had faced as they overcame the “hillbilly” stereotypes while migrating from Appalachia into the city and seeking acceptance in Atlanta society that helped them later form the attitudes that shaped me.
So the fact that Paul was from somewhere else never fazed me as a child; it just made our time together of greater interest to me.
At some point, I lost my friend Paul when his parents were able to move him from public school to private school.
I still remember the conversation when he asked me to see if my parents would consider moving me as well. We did discuss it, but my folks stuck with the public school route, so our diverging paths forced us to focus on new friendships. Sadly, I had no need to speak Spanish anymore until I reached my studies in high school, and by then, it was like starting over completely.
It would be a while before Dresden Elementary would see another student who was not white; the next family would be Chinese from Hong Kong. In my grade was Nin Chung Szeto, and once again, I found another friend. In this case, however, I didn’t learn Chinese, but in two years’ time, I certainly had an impact as I helped teach Nin Chung English. I am sure he was burdened by my Southern accent for years. Like Paul, his path also diverged as his family moved west. We kept in touch by letters for some time, but eventually the practice faded. Still, I knew that Nin Chung—by then, he had chosen the name John—was carving out his own future in America.
When the seat next to Mr. Olivares opened up, I sat down and reintroduced myself, explaining that I was on my way to classes at Georgia State University. He caught me up on Paul and Vivian. I asked him to pass my greetings to them, and Mr. Olivares and I would regularly exchange greetings as we both commuted. It would be years later, in a Winn-Dixie grocery line, when Paul and I would next meet. Now, both out of college and making our own lives, we were miles away from those young boys we had been when our friendship started. Though we said we would get together sometime, we were in different places and did not follow through.
While the paths that life had in store for Paul, John, and me were not ones that would keep us connected, for me those youthful experiences enriched my life and allowed me to continue expanding my opportunities to know more about the people I meet, whether from a world away or just down the street.
Find more stories from Randall’s youth experiences in his Encouragers Book Series www.RandallFranks.com/Store .

Brothers Divided: A Frontier Family’s Revolution Sacrifice

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A Depiction of Joshua Moses engagement at capture.

Imagine fleeing on horseback through the thick South Carolina underbrush, only to feel the sting of a British dragoon’s sword slashing your arm as you deflect a blow meant for your head. This was the harrowing fate of Joshua Moses in 1781, a North Carolina militiaman captured while visiting kin near the Wateree River. Wounded four times—a deep head cut, an arm laceration, a shoulder pierce, and a minor gash—he was bound and marched toward the chaos of battle. But Joshua’s story, like his family’s, reflects the deeper tensions of a war that pitted neighbor against neighbor and brother against the call to arms.

Life on the colonial frontier demanded every hand to tend farms and protect families. When whispers of rebellion against England rippled through the land in the 1770s, they ignited fierce divisions. In Anson County, North Carolina—home to the Moses clan—Loyalists (Tories) were a formidable force. Continental General Nathanael Greene estimated in 1781 that up to half of North Carolinians were Tories, dominating about half the state’s counties, including backcountry areas like Anson. Petitions from the era show roughly 227 Anson residents pledging loyalty to the Crown, compared to about 355 who had earlier protested colonial grievances as Regulators—a movement that often fed into Patriot support. This near-even split made open rebellion risky; many families chose neutrality to survive raids and reprisals.

John Moses Sr. and his wife, Jane, had settled in Anson County by the 1760s, raising likely four sons—John Jr., Joshua, Samuel, and Robert—and two daughters to adulthood before the war escalated. John Sr. likely died sometime after 1763, leaving Jane a widow in a turbulent time. As conflict engulfed the South, the pull to fight tugged at the brothers’ hearts, but someone had to keep the home fires burning amid Loyalist threats. Samuel stayed behind, farming and safeguarding the family stead, while Robert also remained neutral, later settling near the Wateree. Joshua and John Jr., however, answered the call.

John Jr., the eldest, had migrated south to South Carolina by the early 1780s, near the Wateree River. This was the heart of the brutal Southern Campaign, where British forces occupied much of the state, and local militias waged guerrilla warfare alongside Continentals under Greene. As a private in the South Carolina militia, John served 110 days in 1781 and 1782—short bursts of duty that might have included sieges like Ninety-Six or Augusta, or clashes with Loyalist partisans. His service, documented in state audited accounts, earned him a modest indent for pay, though no federal pension followed.

Meanwhile, back in Anson, Joshua (1748–1836) volunteered under Captain Williams in Colonel Thomas Wade’s regiment (DAR Ancestor #A082368). His unit patrolled Drowning Creek near the NC-SC border, scouting for Loyalists. In one skirmish on Brown’s Creek, they routed a Tory band without fatalities—a gritty echo of the Carolinas’ internal strife. After seven months, Joshua’s company received parole, sending him home on call.

Fate wasn’t done with him. Venturing to the Wateree—likely to check on John Jr. and Robert—Joshua was ambushed alone by dragoons. Captured and wounded, he was hauled toward Eutaw Springs (September 8, 1781), guarded amid the battle’s roar before transfer to Charleston’s crowded provost prison and then James Island. Nine months of harsh captivity followed. In a daring escape, Joshua and comrades paddled an old pirogue for three starving days, reaching Greene’s forces on the Ashley River. Greene granted rations and leave, with the war winding down after Yorktown’s surrender in October 1781. Credited with 16 months total (including imprisonment), Joshua later drew a $53.33 annual pension from 1831. Post-war, the brothers scattered into the wilderness they helped secure: Joshua to Whitley County, Kentucky, around 1813; Samuel to Monroe County, Tennessee; John Jr. and Robert to Jasper County, Georgia. Separated by miles, they carried shared memories of a divided era, passing tales of sacrifice down generations.

Let us never forget that farmers and frontiersmen bled to forge this nation. Patriots Joshua and John Moses Jr. are the uncles of this columnist, who descends from their brother Samuel of Monroe County, Tennessee who helped keep the home fires burning amidst the Loyalist threats.

The descendants of Samuel are included in Randall’s book A Mountain Pearl : Appalachian Reminscing and Recipes

Snow and the Pot-Bellied Stove : An Appalachian Memory

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As I placed the log into the black cast-iron stove, I watched the orange sparks rise from the burning embers within its belly in Grandma’s parlor.

I often stood at its front, hopeful that it would make me feel warmer. It usually did—at least on one side, until I turned and let the other warm.

Of course, I was usually one in a line of young cousins who had just come in from playing in the snow, each wishing to take their turn at the fire.

Snow could be beautiful as a child, as you looked out the frosted pane while it gently drifted up against the cracks in the side of the house.

I remember my first snowman like it was yesterday: rolling those balls into nearly perfect spheres and stacking them until it resembled Burl Ives’ character in “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”No matter how hard I tried, though, I never got mine to sing, dance, or tell any stories—but it was fun trying.

Venturing out in the snow wasn’t an easy task from our home, though, because it always involved being bundled in full winter wear. For my mother, that meant a shiny blue coat that made you resemble the Michelin Man, with layers upon layers beneath.

First came the white, waffled long johns, then your regular clothes—shirt and pants—followed by a pullover sweater that, if seen by any hungry wolf, would send it running for its life. Finally, that puffy blue coat. But that wasn’t everything: You still needed the itchy wool hat and the hand-knitted scarf from our neighbor. The coat’s hood came up over all of it, of course.

So, when you walked outside, you resembled the girl in Willy Wonka who ate the blueberry gum. If you fell down, you’d roll until you hit something to stop you.

This approach to dressing was always a drawback in a snowball battle, because you couldn’t see anything that wasn’t directly in front of you.

Despite the drawbacks, when you did score a snowball victory, it was all worth it. Besides, in that outfit, no matter how hard they threw, you barely felt it—unless they hit you in the face.

The adventure would end when I heard my mother or grandmother calling my name from the porch. I knew then it was time to head in, so I’d stop by the woodpile and pick up a few logs on my way.

Before I could feed them to the stove, though, I’d have to peel off those now-wet clothes.

Once deflated, I’d grab the wood by the door and head into the parlor. Picking up the glove we used for the hot handle, I’d open the door and shove the logs inside, watching the glow of warmth as I warmed my hands in front of it.

Around me were my mom and dad seated on the couch, my grandmother in her rocker, two aunts resting on kitchen chairs near the stove, and a couple of cousins playing board games on the floor. The laughter rose as gently in that room as the snow fell outside, sometimes seeming to cover the howling winds that passed us by.

I always hated to see the evening end, when it was time for the laughter to turn to sleep. We’d trade the stove for a stack of handmade quilts, keeping us warm on an old iron bed as we watched our breath rise while the snow fell outside our windowpane.

Find more stories of Appalachia in Randall’s book “A Mountain Pearl : Appalachian Reminiscing and Recipes”

Doing Things Right : It’s Never Too Soon For Skills

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As I entered adulthood, my late father had already passed away, leaving me as the man of the house. This meant that the various tasks he once handled now fell to me. Household repairs were suddenly my responsibility—either to tackle myself or to hire someone reliable at a reasonable cost. Yard work had been part of my routine for several years, with occasional help on special projects.
I had worked side by side with my father as he built an outbuilding, where he taught me the essentials: framing, flooring, roofing, leveling, sawing, and everything in between. I gained similar hands-on experience with my Uncle Clarence when we completely gutted and renovated a bathroom. The demolition phase initially excited me, especially removing the cast iron tub to repair the subfloor. We used a small sledgehammer to break out the tile and mesh around the tub and floor. What started as fun quickly turned into hard work—lots of it. Over several weeks, we transformed a 1950s bathroom into a 1970s one, and I learned about plumbing, tile work, building a sturdy subfloor, and all the details that went with it.

Learning from all

Not all experiences were as instructive. I once hired a friend’s father to paint the house exterior, including the eaves and shutters, and to build a new back gate. Unfortunately, he wasn’t as meticulous as my parents about doing things right. Upon closer inspection, I discovered shortcuts that bordered on sloppy—and one that was downright foolish. When the gate didn’t fit properly or open and close as it should, instead of taking the time to fix it correctly, he chipped off the end of a brick wall. It was only three bricks, but you don’t damage masonry just to make wood fit. Needless to say, that didn’t go over well, but the damage was done, and there was no undoing it.

Well Experienced Make Good Teachers

Another repair arose when the hot water heater failed, requiring a full replacement. I couldn’t afford a professional plumber, but it was soldered in place, so I turned to my old boss at Dairy Queen, Joe Wyche, for whom I still did occasional odd jobs. He not only taught me the process but stayed to help complete it. The lessons he imparted, along with many others over the years, have paid dividends—I’ve replaced several water heaters in my lifetime.
Since those early days of stepping into the role of man of the house, a lifetime has passed filled with such responsibilities. There are only a couple of tasks I haven’t done or wasn’t taught, even if I never had to apply them. For instance, while I’ve repaired sheetrock, I’ve never installed it from scratch. I was close once, on a project my late mother wanted, but she changed her mind before we reached that step.
All these experiences predated the internet era, when we could simply watch instructional videos. It’s a real blessing to have that resource now, and I’ve used it for some auto repairs. The message I hope to convey is that life can be a series of doing things right or a pattern of sloppiness. My late mother used to say, “When you make a repair or build something, do it as if you were going to live in it yourself.” If you truly care about what you have, you’ll do it right the first time.
I feel fortunate to have had men and women in my life who taught me this principle. You may not have had that advantage, but you can certainly choose that outcome.
Make the decision: Do things right.
As the Bible reminds us in Colossians 3:23: “Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men.”
Read more life incites in Randall’s Seeing Faith : A Devotional