Edward Uptegrove: A Virginia Patriot Story

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Among the earliest German settlers in Pennsylvania were a Mennonite group known as the “Original 13” families. This included three brothers—Derick (Dirk), Herman, and Abraham Op den Graeff—who arrived aboard the ship Concord on October 6, 1683. They helped found Germantown (now part of Philadelphia) and, in 1688, signed the Germantown Quaker Petition Against Slavery—the first organized religious protest against slavery in the colonies.

It was Isaac Vanbibber Op Den Graeff’s son, Edward Uptegrove (also spelled Updegrove or similar), who was born around 1739 in Pennsylvania. He married Sarah Lewis, and together they had at least six to eleven children, including Isaac Uptegrove (1761–1817); Susanna/Susannah Uptegrove (1760–1840), who married Benjamin Melton in Albemarle County in 1787; Hannah Uptegrove (1770–1854), who married Elisha Collins in Albemarle in 1794; Solomon Updegrove; and others who later simplified the surname to “Groves” after moving to North Carolina.

In the mid-to-late 1760s, the young family migrated to Albemarle County, Virginia—a rapidly developing Piedmont frontier region of rolling hills and fertile river valleys. Still largely rural and agricultural, the county was transitioning from wilderness clearings to established plantations and small settlements, with Charlottesville emerging as its new courthouse village.

As murmurings of revolution grew, local leaders—including a young Thomas Jefferson—organized resistance. In 1774, Albemarle County held meetings opposing British policies. In spring 1775, following the Gunpowder Incident (when Virginia’s royal governor Lord Dunmore seized colonial gunpowder in Williamsburg), the county formed an Independent Company of militia. Roughly 155 volunteers (later growing to nearly 300) marched toward Williamsburg to demand the powder’s return or compensation, though they turned back before any major confrontation.

Local men also enlisted in Virginia Continental regiments, such as the 14th Virginia, which fought in major northern campaigns like Brandywine and Germantown. The county supplied recruits, provisions, and militia musters. Edward likely first felt the Revolution through committee activities and musters in the mid-1770s, with demands increasing by the late 1770s.The war arrived physically in 1778–1779 with the transfer of thousands of British and German (Hessian) prisoners captured at Saratoga. Starting in early 1779, the Albemarle Barracks (near Charlottesville along what is now Barracks Road) housed up to about 4,000 prisoners. This placed a tremendous logistical burden on the rural county, bringing economic activity, security concerns, escapes, and constant interactions with the community as locals supplied food and guards.

Benedict Arnold’s British invasion of Virginia in late 1780 prompted the Virginia legislature to relocate temporarily to Charlottesville for safety. The county remained relatively quiet on the battlefield until June 1781, when Banastre Tarleton’s raiders struck Charlottesville itself, aiming to capture the legislature and Governor Jefferson. The raid brought direct combat, property damage, and chaos—partially thwarted by Jack Jouett’s famous nighttime ride.

At the height of Virginia’s crisis, Edward stepped away from raising his young family to answer the call. As a private in the Albemarle County militia in 1781, he joined thousands of everyday Virginians who shouldered muskets to defend their homes. That pivotal year, traitor Benedict Arnold’s forces torched Richmond, while “Bloody Ban” Tarleton’s cavalry threatened the heart of Albemarle. Local militia scrambled to protect families, supplies, and the prisoner barracks while supporting the broader campaign that funneled British troops toward Yorktown.

Though no single battle bears Uptegrove’s name, his service embodied the quiet resolve of local defenders whose vigilance helped secure victory at Yorktown in October 1781. He returned to civilian life but died by 1785, leaving a patriot legacy recognized by the Daughters of the American Revolution (Ancestor #A117995).Uptegrove’s story reminds us that the Revolution was won not only on famous battlefields but also in county militias across the land. His descendants spread across the frontier, carrying pride in Edward’s service and instilling that commitment to country in generations to come.

Edward Uptegrove is Randall’s maternal 6th Great Grandfather.

Read more of Randall’s writing in his books from his Store.

Ordinary Heroes: The Remarkable Founders of America

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There are many ways to celebrate the founding of our country. Two hundred and fifty years ago, 56 men gathered to debate how the 13 colonies would move forward as a new nation. These delegates came from every colony, representing a remarkable cross-section of American life. Some were wealthy and well-established in their professions, while others were ordinary tradesmen and farmers. That, in many ways, was what America’s early years were all about. It wasn’t about nobility or inherited privilege—it was about ordinary people having a voice in shaping their future whether they were in that room or serving near their home.

One such man was frontier farmer Thomas Arnett Sr. (1740–1808) of Augusta County, Virginia. Soon after the battles of Lexington and Concord, he volunteered as a private in Captain Pryor’s Militia Company. In addition to his military service, he contributed 300 pounds of flour from his modest farm to support the Continental Army. From 1775 until the war’s end, Arnett found multiple ways to have his say in the struggle for independence.

The spirit of resistance first took root in Boston, where tradesmen and ordinary citizens publicly objected to the Crown’s oppressive taxes, beginning with the Stamp Act. The Sons of Liberty emerged from that early resistance, spreading the cause of liberty across the colonies from the shadow of Boston’s Liberty Tree. Declaration signer Samuel Adams was a founding member of the group. Though he struggled financially as a businessman—he even lost the family brewery—his passion for creating a free nation proved far more valuable. Through his tireless efforts, Adams helped lay the groundwork for generations to come.

Another signer, George Walton of Georgia, rose from humble beginnings. Orphaned young and raised by an uncle, he was apprenticed to a carpenter. Largely self-educated, he became a lawyer and eventually served as governor of Georgia.

Signer Abraham Clark of New Jersey showed little interest in personal wealth. As an attorney, he devoted much of his practice to helping ordinary people who could not afford legal representation. Contemporaries described him as “limited in his circumstances, moderate in his desires, and unambitious of wealth.”

It was John Adams of Massachusetts who famously observed that about one-third of the population supported the Revolution, one-third remained Loyalist, and one-third stayed neutral. Among the founders who shaped the nation’s spirit, Adams stands out as one of the most influential. He was often unpopular among his fellow delegates, largely because of his relentless push for independence. It was Adams who helped steer the young Thomas Jefferson of Virginia into the role of primary author on the committee tasked with drafting the colonies’ grievances against King George III.

That committee included Adams, Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin of Pennsylvania, Roger Sherman of Connecticut, and Robert R. Livingston of New York. It was Virginia’s Richard Henry Lee who first advanced the cause with his resolution declaring the colonies “free and independent states” in June 1776. The committee was formed in response, and by July they had prepared a draft for debate.

In his original draft, Jefferson included a powerful condemnation of the slave trade and slavery itself. Unfortunately, that passage was struck out after objections from delegates in both the northern and southern colonies. While the focus remained on achieving independence, the ideal of freedom for all had been planted—though it would take nearly another century and the lives of hundreds of thousands of soldiers before that ideal began to be realized.

The Congress approved the final text on July 4, 1776—the date we celebrate as our nation’s founding. The actual signing of the engrossed document took place primarily on August 2, 1776, a moment famously reflected in John Trumbull’s iconic 1818–1819 painting of the June 28th presentation by the committee.

Among the signers, Roger Sherman of Connecticut stands in a class by himself. A self-made man who began his working life as a cobbler, Sherman is the only delegate to sign all four of the nation’s foundational documents: the Continental Association; the Declaration of Independence, the Articles of Confederation, the U.S. Constitution, and he also served on the committee that helped draft the Bill of Rights. A version of the Bill of Rights in his handwriting still exists today.

These men—and the countless ordinary citizens who supported them—created something unprecedented in world history. In an age dominated by monarchies, they offered the radical idea that ordinary people could govern themselves. They gave the world a new hope for freedom and self-determination. Two hundred and fifty years later, that experiment continues. Whether by attending a Revolutionary War reenactment, participating in a grave marking ceremony for one of these patriots, joining a local Independence Day celebration, or watching a parade, there are many meaningful ways to honor their extraordinary legacy this year. If that isn’t worth celebrating, I don’t know what is.

The columnist is related to Thomas Arnett Sr., paternal 6th Great Grandfather; and he is related to 48 signers of the Declaration including most of those mentioned above.

Read other writings from Randall Franks in his books: Store

I wonder where does the time go?

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Each day I find myself rising and trying to find my way through a long list of tasks that need my attention. Sometimes I wonder why the list does not shorten, but it continues to remain steady. The list of course contains many of the same ones you have on yours—washing, cleaning, mowing, trimming, and a myriad of daily tasks: cooking, shopping, errands and other routines. Those are always on the list.
Then I decide to add to the list constantly for my career—more writing, more music, more personal appearances. With each choice the list grows. Volunteering and public service makes the list also, adding additional hours and tasks to be done.
I was talking with someone this week, sharing how since April I have been trying to get a chance to plow my garden spot and get something planted, but between the to-do list and the rain, it’s just not come to pass.
That’s what got me wondering: Where does the time go?
It’s a question we all mutter when weeks, months or even years suddenly slip away unnoticed—a rhetorical sigh that captures surprise, nostalgia and a touch of regret about how fast life moves. It’s not asking for a literal answer (time doesn’t “go” anywhere physical); it’s an emotional outburst about the fleeting nature of our days, a modern cousin to the ancient Latin tempus fugit—“time flees.”
Science offers some comfort for why it feels this way. As we age, each year becomes a smaller slice of our total life so far. A year that felt endless to a five-year-old (20 percent of everything they’d ever known) is only two percent by age fifty. That’s the proportional theory of time perception, first laid out by philosopher Paul Janet in 1897. On top of that, our brains collect fewer fresh “novel frames”—distinct memories—once routines set in. The same commute, the same chores, the same deadlines blur together, so entire seasons vanish in hindsight. Even our mental “frame rate” slows; we simply take in fewer snapshots per second, making days race by like a video played at half speed.
I know that each day I aim at completing a number of tasks before I turn around and find it’s time to hit the hay—and then, in eight hours, I start again. That old idiom itself carries a quiet echo of simpler times. “Hit the hay” dates back to the early 19th century, when many mattresses were literally sacks stuffed with hay or straw. “Hitting the hay” meant flopping down onto that scratchy, farm-style bed at the end of a long day—the same humble origin behind its cousin phrase, “hit the sack.”
So here we are, lists unchanged, garden still waiting, another sunrise already on the horizon. The real wonder isn’t that time vanishes; it’s how little of it we notice while we’re living it. Maybe the question isn’t “Where does the time go?” but what we choose to do with the small, steady portion that’s still right here in front of us.
Find more of Randall’s writings in his books at the Store.

Creating Positive Momentum: Small Steps, Lasting Change

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Sometimes we work toward making positive momentum in our lives. We’ve all been there. These steps can take many forms, and they rarely arrive with fanfare or a dramatic soundtrack. More often they begin quietly — a decision, a small action, or simply the recognition that something needs to shift.

For some, momentum looks like a career move. I haven’t had one of those in many years, at least not in the traditional sense. Public service in political office might qualify, but even then the distinction matters. At the state or national level, it can become a genuine career with resources and staff. At the local level, however, there’s very little money involved, so I’ve never viewed it that way. It’s service, not a stepping stone.

For others, momentum takes the shape of an entrepreneurial adventure — launching a product, starting a business, or bringing an idea into the world. In my case, that has meant publishing my new book, Frankly Speaking: Thoughts on This and That. After years of notes, reflections, and scattered drafts, seeing it finally take shape felt like building real forward energy.

Sometimes the push is more domestic. It might be tackling that long-undone project around the house — the one that has quietly become part of the scenery. For me, it’s the growing piles that gather dust: materials waiting to be organized into scrapbooks, old mail that needs shredding, work papers that still require filing, and the miscellaneous accumulation of years that somehow never quite gets addressed. Each time I chip away at one small corner of it, I feel the satisfying click of momentum.

And then there are the deeply personal changes — the ones that happen inside our own skin. Losing weight. Establishing a better exercise routine. Stopping an annoying habit. Personally, I don’t think I need to lose weight, though I know I can always improve my life with more consistent exercise (which tends to take care of the weight question anyway). As for annoying habits, I believe I’ve cast most of them into the dust bin of the past. I pray regularly to keep them there, and so far that discipline has served me well.

The question that lingers for all of us is this: What is the best approach to create and maintain momentum once we decide to move forward?

From what I’ve observed in my own life and in the lives of people around me, momentum rarely comes from grand, sweeping resolutions. It comes from something steadier and more humble: choosing a direction and then protecting the small, daily actions that keep you facing that way.

First, clarity matters. It helps to name the thing you actually want — not the vague “I should get organized” or “I should exercise more,” but something specific enough to act on. “I will spend fifteen minutes each morning sorting one pile of papers.” “I will walk three times this week.” “I will write one page of the book every weekday.” Specificity turns intention into a plan.

Second, start ridiculously small. The bigger the leap we try to make, the more likely we are to stall. Tiny steps build confidence and reduce the friction that kills momentum before it begins. A single drawer cleaned out. One paragraph written. One evening without the old habit. These micro-victories accumulate and, more importantly, they train us to trust ourselves again.

Third, protect the chain. Momentum loves consistency more than intensity. Missing one day is usually harmless; missing two or three in a row is where the slide begins. Simple tools help here — a visible calendar where you mark each successful day, a friend you check in with, or even a quiet evening reflection where you ask, “Did I move forward today, even a little?”

Fourth, celebrate honestly but lightly. Acknowledge the progress without turning it into a production. A quiet “That felt good” or a small reward that doesn’t undo the effort (a favorite tea instead of a celebratory dessert, perhaps) keeps the emotional energy positive without creating new problems.

Finally, stay compassionate with yourself when progress slows. Life has a way of interrupting even the best-laid plans. The difference between people who maintain long-term momentum and those who don’t often isn’t talent or willpower — it’s the willingness to begin again without self-scolding. Dust yourself off, remember why you started, and take the next small step.

Whether your current momentum is aimed at a career shift, a creative project like a book, clearing out the physical or mental clutter at home, or simply becoming a healthier version of yourself, the principle remains the same: direction plus small, consistent action eventually creates real movement.

The piles in my study are smaller than they were last month. Pages of the next writing project are slowly accumulating. And each small win reminds me that positive momentum isn’t about transforming overnight. It’s about refusing to stay stuck — and choosing, day after day, to move forward just a little more than yesterday.

What about you? What small step could you take this week that would create a bit of positive momentum in your own life? Sometimes the best columns are the ones that leave us both thinking and acting.

Read more of Randall’s work in his books in the Store or on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Randall-Franks/author/B00K9XIDN4

Laughter in the Pews: Church Chuckles

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One of my readers kindly suggested I share a bit of comedy in this column to lift the spirits of folks back home. Some of the best laughs I know come from church and the honest wisdom of young’uns.

Take my nephew, for instance. A few years back he asked if he had a guardian angel.

“Sure you do,” I told him.

“Your guardian angel is always with you.”

“Does he eat with me?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Does he sleep with me?”

“Sure.”

“Well that must have been who kicked me out of bed last night,” he said.

Kids have a way of cutting straight to the point, and so do a lot of the old church stories that still make the rounds. Like the one an older fellow told me about where radio was invented:

“In the Garden of Eden,” he said.

“What?”

“God took Adam’s rib and made the first loudspeaker.”

Then there’s that little-known fact about Noah’s Ark. Seems there were three camels on board. The first was the camel many people swallow while straining at a gnat. The second was the camel whose back was broken by the last straw. And the third was the one that shall pass through the eye of a needle before a rich man enters the kingdom of Heaven.

Of course, prayer doesn’t always bring exactly what we expect. Farmer Jud and his wife Jeweldine, a childless couple, prayed long and hard for a baby. Their answer came in the form of triplets. When the preacher congratulated them on their answered prayer, Jud just shook his head and said, “Yep, but I never prayed for a bumper crop.

”Another woman, tired of searching for the right man, finally prayed, “Lord, I’m not asking for anything for myself, but please send Mother a son-in-law.”

And then there’s the young fellow who was asked by his prospective father-in-law, “Can you support my daughter in the manner she’s accustomed to?

”The boy thought for a second and answered, “She ain’t gonna move, is she?

”I’ve always heard that bread cast upon the waters returns to you. It may be true for bread, but I’ve noticed all the bread we keep sending overseas sure doesn’t come back the same way.

Laughter has always been important in our family, even though our people tend to be stoic by nature. That stoic streak runs strong in me too. Folks often ask why I don’t smile more. Sometimes I tell them, “I’m smiling on the inside.”

Because of that, the moments of real joy and laughter mean even more to me. May laughter fill your days, friends. After all, God must have a sense of humor—otherwise He would have never made someone quite like us, would He?

Catch more of Randall’s Comedy on Itunes in Comedy Down Home: https://music.apple.com/us/album/comedy-down-home/1733917822

Read his books also for an occasional laugh, check out our store.

Adam Sherrill’s Ride: From King’s Mountain to Boyd’s Creek

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In the chill December of 1780, in the midst of a three-pronged attack against the British-aligned Cherokees, Adam Sherrill’s horse suddenly stumbled on the frozen ground near Boyd’s Creek. The rider was thrown hard amid a sharp engagement with a Cherokee war party. Pain exploded through his chest as several ribs snapped. Before he could rise, a Cherokee warrior sprang upon him, tomahawk raised for the kill. In that frozen instant, a ball from a comrade’s rifle found its mark. The attacker fell. Adam, gasping, was pulled to safety by his fellow Overmountain Men. The wound would heal, but the memory of that narrow escape—and the hard service that preceded it—would stay with him for the rest of his long life.

Lying on the rough pallet as his ribs knit together in the weeks that followed, Adam Sherrill had time to think. Time to let his mind travel back across the mountains to the journey that had brought him and his family to this hard-won victory—and forward with worry about what lay ahead for those still in the field.

The pain in his side was sharp, yet it paled beside the fire of remembrance and the ache of concern. For Adam had marched not alone, but shoulder to shoulder with his brothers George and Samuel Jr., alongside their father Samuel Wilson Sherrill Sr., and with his brother-in-law Colonel John Sevier in one of the most remarkable campaigns of the Revolutionary War.

The Journey to King’s Mountain


By 1780, Adam Sherrill, born in 1758 on the Yadkin River country of North Carolina, had already put down roots in the Watauga settlements of what would become Washington County, Tennessee. Like his brother George, he had signed the Watauga Petition in 1776, declaring the mountain people’s desire for order and protection. His brother Samuel Jr. stood with them as well. In late September of that fateful year, the brothers—Adam, George, and Samuel Jr.—along with their father, rendezvoused with Colonel John Sevier’s regiment (their brother-in-law through sister Catherine “Bonny Kate” Sherrill) at Sycamore Shoals in Carter County. There, amid the crisp autumn air and the gathering of rugged frontier riflemen, the Overmountain Men prepared to cross the Blue Ridge. The family marched as a unit of resolve. The march itself was legendary: steep mountain trails, cold rains, dwindling rations, and the knowledge that they had left their own families exposed to Indian raids. Yet they pressed on, linking with other North Carolina militia before descending on King’s Mountain on October 7. There, on that rocky knob in South Carolina, the Overmountain Men unleashed a fierce, close-quarters battle. Adam, George, Samuel Jr., and their father fought in the thick of it under Sevier as Ferguson’s command disintegrated. When the smoke cleared, Ferguson lay dead, more than 700 of his men were captured or killed, and the tide of the Southern Campaign had turned. The victory at King’s Mountain would later be called the “turning point” that led to Yorktown. For the Sherrill brothers and their father, it was simply the day they stood with kin and neighbors to help save the frontier. After the battle, they marched the prisoners up to near Gilbert’s Town in North Carolina, then on to Morganton in Burke County, before returning home. These were just a couple of the many hard engagements fought to carve out the frontier they would call home.

Return to Boyd’s Creek, Recovery, and Concern


As Adam’s ribs slowly mended after Boyd’s Creek, he could take satisfaction in the broader campaign that secured the western settlements. Yet a fresh worry gnawed at him. Still sidelined by his injuries, he could not join the continued march south with George, his brother-in-law John Sevier, and the other friends and family who pressed onward. Reinforced by Virginia troops under Colonel Arthur Campbell, they crossed the Tennessee River toward Hiwassee, destroying Cherokee towns in a punishing expedition that lasted into the new year. Adam’s concern for their safety weighed heavily during his recovery—another chapter in the family’s shared sacrifice on the volatile frontier.

Closing Reflection


Adam Sherrill would go on to marry his second wife Rebecca Kilgore in Washington County in 1789 (daughter of one of the five Kilgores of Kings Mountain), raise a family, and eventually settle at the Head of Sequatchie (Gravelly Spur area) in what became Cumberland County, Tennessee. His brother George would later recount their shared service in a pension application, preserving the memory of the Carter County rendezvous, the march to King’s Mountain, and the hard fighting that followed. Their father Samuel’s quiet participation and Samuel Jr.’s steadfast presence added further layers of family resolve. Adam died in 1827.

He left no pension application of his own, yet his service—marked by the triumph at King’s Mountain, the near-fatal moment at Boyd’s Creek, and the anxious wait while loved ones marched to Hiwassee—lives on in the stories passed down through his descendants.

In the quiet moments of recovery on that winter pallet, Adam understood what many patriots felt: the Revolution was not won in grand declarations alone, but in broken ribs, long mountain marches, rifle shots that saved a brother’s life, and the quiet worry of those left behind.

Adam Sherrill is the maternal fourth great grandfather of the author. You can learn more about his descendants in the books of Randall Franks in our store, such as A Mountain Pearl.

A Harley, Ice Cream Cones, and Lessons for a Lifetime

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One never knows from where your positive influences in life might come.

When I was an overweight teen on my first real job at the Dairy Queen, a man rode into my life on a black Harley Davidson to take a job as store manager. He would widen my perspective on the world.

Ed Cross fit all the stereotypes a young teen might associate with a biker in the 1970s: long hair, wearing black leather, and hanging out with other biker friends.

All I had seen of bikers in my life to that point were film depictions, which left some initial fears and concerns about what to expect. Ed changed all those early misconceptions for me. He was a hardworking, caring individual whose laughter and jokes filled the hours of our work environment with a positive spirit.

His strength—which carried an air of fear associated with it—kept a bunch of male and female teenagers, as well as adults, in line while keeping food going out the windows from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m. daily.

Ed taught me business tools which I have used throughout my life—doing product inventories, placing warehouse orders, counting cash register tills, and making deposits. I watched and assisted him in fixing equipment of all kinds to help us keep operating.

I saw him work double shifts when others were not available. I watched him reach out to help young people among our staff who were going through a tough time in their lives and who felt they could not turn to anyone else.

Whenever my days at the Dairy Queen come to mind, it brings back memories of all the laughs, all the lessons learned, and the hours spent together making an honest living.

Without Ed, my early music career would never have flourished. Because of him and our store owner Joe Wyche, I seldom worked a Friday or Saturday, allowing me the opportunity to tour and appear around the country while keeping a steady income.

I think, at least I hope, Ed knew all the difference he made in the lives of us Dairy Queen kids. If there is someone who has made a difference in your life, I hope you will take the time to share with them the impact they had.

Read more of Randall’s writings in his books. Find them in the Store or on Amazon.

Animals are Christians too — aren’t they?

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When there was no place among people for Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem, the animals made room for the birth of Jesus in a stable. Donkeys and horses were probably among the first to look upon the Son of God.
Isn’t it only appropriate that there be a place for them in the Kingdom of God?
I am reminded of an old farmer, Jebadiah Cross, who had worked his fields side by side with his old gray mule named Flossie for many years. When Flossie died, he called the Presbyterian preacher to come and do the funeral for his Flossie. Upon arrival, the elderly preacher stepped down from the buggy, dusted his long black overcoat, and straightened his black stovepipe hat. He prepared himself for comforting the family. He was shocked when Jebadiah led him to the barn and he discovered the dearly departed Flossie was only a mule.
He clapped that hat back on his head, said there was no way he would ever preside over a service for a mule, and high-tailed it toward his carriage.
So Jebadiah called on the new Methodist minister—just in his twenties, fresh from seminary. This was to be his first funeral. Nervously, the young man came out to visit. After discovering that Flossie was not a member of the family, he swallowed hard and broke the news that he could not do it because he was worried about how his new congregation might react.
Finally, he called a Baptist pastor. The pastor arrived in a Ford Model T. It gave a little sigh of relief when the middle-aged, well-fed preacher stepped to the ground. Again, Jebadiah led the clergy through the house and back into the barn where Flossie lay in state. The Baptist studied the situation, scratched his chin, and concurred with his fellow clergymen that he couldn’t lead a funeral service for a mule.
As the pastor headed for the barn door, Jebadiah looked down at his faithful companion, stroked her mane and said, “Well, Flossie, I guess I’ll just have to keep that $10 for the preacher.”
The Baptist pastor turned and said, “You should have told me Flossie was a Baptist.”Animals are sometimes better friends than most folks are.
Cats, dogs, fish and birds can all make differences in our lives. Some folks are cat people—I am not a cat person. Not that I have anything against them. It is just when I am around them I sneeze, itch, scratch, turn blue and eventually die. But if there is a cat anywhere to be found, nine chances out of ten it’s rubbing up against my leg like I’m its long-lost kin.
When I look at a potential date, one of my first questions is: “Do you like pets?” If they have a dog, I know that I am safe—well sort of. Some of them can leave a permanent impression. I have one of those on my right leg. Boy, old Bugar sure could bite. Ever since I was a little boy, I have been a dog person. You can do so much more with a dog. What can cats do anyway? They lay around the house and eat. That is a man’s job isn’t it? Might explain why so many women have cats instead of men. Most women probably want only one animal laying around the house anyway; at least cats don’t talk back.
But dogs, they can hunt, play Frisbee, scare off bad guys. I remember one of my first dogs when I was little, Brutis. I couldn’t have been more than three-feet tall. He was six feet tall if he was an inch—and I’m not stretching the truth one bit. He could stand on his hind legs and look my dad in his eyes. Often my dad would say after supper, “Why don’t you go out and play with Brutis.”
Play with Brutis? That dog played with me. I was like a big, squeaky toy for him. He had this little game he would play—let’s see how many times we can knock Randall to the ground. He was a good trainer; eventually I learned how to play dead. I will say this: Brutis was a cultured dog. He had the finest taste in clothing. One time he felt that I was not dressed quite right, he held me down and tore every stitch of clothes off me.
I think it was his way of saying, “My mommy dresses me funny.”
My mother did not care for his fashion advice and he was soon on his way to destination unknown. I sort of envision him on the defensive line of the Bulldogs. He sure knew how to tackle. So yes, I reckon animals are Christians too—or at least good enough Baptists to get into Heaven.
And if they’re not, well… I hope the Good Lord has a big enough barn and a preacher who’ll take the ten dollars. Because a life without dogs like Brutis—and mules like Flossie—just wouldn’t be half as much fun.
From the comedy story “Animals are Christians Too — Aren’t They?” by Randall Franks, used by permission of Peach Picked Publishing. Read more stories in Randall’s books available in our Store.

Wake Me, I’m Dreaming

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Some nights the line between dream and reality feels thinner than the sheet on my bed.
When I was a child, I was taught not to tell anyone what I had dreamed until after breakfast. I never understood the reason for that warning, but I have followed it all my life — at least on the mornings I could remember my dreams at all.
Sometimes they hover just beneath the surface, right on the tip of my tongue. Other times they sink deep into my subconscious, muddled and lost forever. For some dreams, that may be a mercy.
I still carry one vivid childhood dream I never speak about. In it, I experienced my own death up close and personal. I woke in tears, ran to my parents with my heart pounding as if the event had truly happened. Of course, my childhood was also filled with the classic falling dreams — those endless descents where you never quite hit bottom and always wake just before you do. I had always heard that if you ever did hit bottom, you wouldn’t wake up.
As I moved into my teen years and young adulthood, my dreams changed. They became guides. Often they were remarkably detailed, placing me in places I had never been, among people I did not know, and then quietly showing me exactly where I was supposed to go. The experience felt almost like a video game — years before video games were common.
What amazed me most was that, days or weeks later, I would find myself standing in the exact setting I had dreamed, surrounded by the same people. Suddenly I knew what to do, whom to see, and why the dream had come in the first place. It was as if heaven had given me a dress rehearsal for my own life.
I realized God was using my sleep to prepare me — showing me where He wanted me to go, whom He wanted me to meet, and what He wanted me to pursue. Through that guidance my early years seemed to flourish. There were times, however, when I failed to follow the map: either because I couldn’t remember the dream clearly or, more often, because of sheer foolishness — insisting on my own will instead of letting God’s plan unfold.
You might say this is all a bunch of malarkey. If you haven’t lived it, I suppose it’s hard to believe. But I am convinced God communicates with us in many ways, and for a season He chose my dreams.
Eventually those guidance dreams faded. Perhaps I had reached the place He intended, or perhaps I had strayed so far that the coached path was no longer open to me. I still miss those days. Life was often a struggle, yet I felt I knew where I was going.
That certainty was far better than the uncertainty that has marked so much of the path I walk now. A few times since, I have experienced something similar — that sudden, powerful sense of déjà vu, the feeling that I have been exactly here before, doing and seeing precisely this. I have always taken it as quiet reassurance that I am where I am supposed to be.
As the years passed, my dreams grew gentler. They became dreams of comfort, carrying me back to the past or forward into some possible future, but almost always returning me to my childhood home no matter how old I was in the dream. One recent dream left me especially baffled. There was no one I knew, no event being replayed, nothing familiar except the setting itself. Everything else was new ground. The only clear message I carried into waking was a feeling of being in a situation beyond my control, unable to help people who I sensed needed help.
Perhaps it was preparing me for something still ahead, something I cannot yet imagine.
I try to limit my time in the sleep world. I want to be fully awake for every moment of this life rather than spend it slumbering. Still, I cherish the nights when a dream carries me back to the past, forward to a possible future, or lets me steal a few precious minutes with loved ones who are no longer here. When I wake from those visits, I always thank God for the gift.
Maybe that’s why I sometimes whisper, even now, “Wake me — I’m dreaming.” Not because the dream is bad, but because it feels so real and so full of grace.
Dreaming, like life itself, has its dark sides. Yet overall my life has been enriched and blessed by what I have seen in that quiet, mysterious state between sleeping and waking.
I hope the same is true for you — that your nights bring pleasant dreams and your days bring happy moments, whether you are awake or asleep.
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Well Side or Sick Side? The Waiting Room Divisions

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Some time ago, I found myself sitting in my doctor’s office for a routine annual test. It was the first time I noticed that the waiting room had been divided into two sections: one clearly marked “Well Side” and the other “Sick Side.”
I figured I belonged on the Well Side. But before long, I noticed someone else in my section coughing persistently. I’m sure the new division is meant to limit the spread of germs. Still, since everyone is breathing the same air in the same room, I wonder how effective it really is.
Why, after all, do healthy people go to the doctor? I like my doctor, but I don’t just drop in because I think he might be lonely and then pay for the privilege of keeping him company.I also couldn’t help wondering whether this well/sick division might eventually spark a class-action lawsuit. Perhaps one group will claim discrimination because they can’t see the TV as well as the other, or because the “well” patients have to walk farther to reach the bathroom.
Maybe the Census Bureau will soon add two new categories to divide us by: sick and well. Politicians might then begin courting favor with each group, offering targeted benefits to win their votes.
As I sat there pondering these two emerging political powers, a bigger question occurred to me: What should the real criteria for membership be?I was on the Well Side because I was there for an annual checkup. But I get that checkup to make sure my medication isn’t making me sick. And I take medication because I’m not entirely well. So technically, I don’t qualify for the Well Side—otherwise, I wouldn’t need the meds in the first place.
That realization suggested I should move to the Sick Side. But then those patients might give me something, so I refused to acknowledge that I belonged there either.In reality, all of us in that waiting room must be sick in some way, or we wouldn’t be there at all. Perhaps the signs should simply read “Somewhat Sick Side” and “Sicker Side.” At least that way, we’d all be in this together.
Considering the deep divisions currently facing our country—divisions that seem constantly widened by the media and politicized by elected officials—maybe creating even more groups isn’t the wisest path forward.
Perhaps the better approach is to eliminate unnecessary divisions, promote better understanding, foster genuine cooperation, and work together so that everyone is along for the ride. Ultimately, whether we are well or sick, old or young, rich or poor, one color or another, one religion or another, one political party or another, or one ethnicity or another, we must remember this: Within the borders of the United States of America, our goal is to be one people—Americans. The divisions we choose to align with, or into which we are born, must never prevent us from achieving that.
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