Why Do Our Dreams Return Us to Familiar Places?

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Why do our dreams so often transport us to familiar settings—our childhood homes, old schoolyards, or long-forgotten rooms? For me, these recurring landscapes are no coincidence. I believe our minds seek comfort in the known, anchoring us in spaces where we once felt safe to help us rest, reflect, or even receive deeper insights. My dreams, in particular, consistently return me to my childhood home, a place of warmth and security that continues to shape my sleep and my soul.

In these dreams, I’m back in that modest house, creaky wooden floorboards underfoot, the faint scent of my mother’s L’Origan perfume lingering in the air. The faded diamond-patterned wallpaper in the hall is just as I remember, though the scenes often defy time. I might be my current age, chatting with my parents about challenges they never witnessed, or joined by an old friend I’ve lost touch with, as I was just last night. Nothing extraordinary happens—just a visit, a conversation—but I awaken wondering what it meant. Was that dream a quiet reassurance that my friend, wherever they are, is okay? These familiar surroundings feel like a canvas where my mind paints comfort and connection, even when reality offers none.

This sense of comfort leads me to reflect on why my mind chooses this setting. I’ve read that our brains often choose familiar settings in dreams to process emotions in a safe, recognizable context—a theory that feels true to my experience. My childhood home isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a sanctuary where I feel grounded, whether I’m reliving memories or imagining new moments. It’s not my favorite vacation spot or a fantastical realm—it’s the place where I felt loved, allowing me to rest deeply or confront life’s uncertainties with clarity.

In my youth, dreams of home felt like more than nostalgia. As I pursued a career in entertainment, I believed God used these familiar rooms to offer guidance, showing me paths I might have avoided—opportunities my fears could have blocked or people I wouldn’t have met. These dreams were guideposts, blending divine insight with the study and practice of my waking life. Another dream left me awestruck: I saw a portly, gray-haired black woman, unknown to me, tenderly caring for a young boy. She addressed me by name, offering gentle advice with a warm smile, as if I were one of her charges. A man’s voice called her Grace. When I shared this with my mother, she was stunned. Grace, who died before I was born, had generously given her time caring for my older brother when my mother was a struggling single working mom, long before my time. I’d never heard her name, yet there she was, a guardian angel in my dream. My mother’s eyes lit up, and she said, “You have a wonderful guardian angel watching over you.” Though I didn’t always follow such guidance perfectly, these dreams shaped my path, placing me where I could grow and serve.

But dreams of familiar places aren’t always serene. Nightmares from my youth—tossing and turning in my twin maple bed—still linger in my psyche, like one so vivid I woke bouncing in fear, running to my parents for comfort in the wee hours. These moments, though rare, show that even in distress, our minds cling to familiar settings to confront hidden fears or traumas. For me, such nightmares are exceptions, and my long-ago home remains a refuge where sleep brings solace.

So why do our dreams return us to familiar places? I believe they are the heart’s safe harbor, where we rest, reflect, and sometimes glimpse deeper truths. Whether it’s my childhood home, your old classroom, or another’s quiet street, these settings remind us that even in sleep, we seek comfort to face life’s uncertainties. For me, these dreams are a gift—a blend of memory, faith, and hope that guides me, one familiar place at a time.

Three Lessons to Live Fully

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Easter’s celebration of Christ’s resurrection renews our call to live fully in His service. As we proclaim, “He is Risen, He is Risen Indeed!” we’re invited to carry His message by embracing a richer, more purposeful life. Jesus offers timeless lessons to guide us: love God and others, forgive freely, and trust in God’s provision. Rooted in scripture and tested in my own journey, these truths can transform our lives. Let’s explore how.

Love God and Others

Jesus taught that the greatest commandments are to love God with all your heart, soul, and mind, and to love your neighbor as yourself (Matthew 22:37-40). This love is the foundation of a full life. What would your days look like if you placed God at the center and loved others with His love?
I’ve struggled with this. I’ve always wanted to keep God first, but at times, I’ve placed myself on a pedestal—chasing my successes, wants, and desires. When I did, my failures hit hardest because I took my eyes off Him. Keeping God at the center isn’t always easy, especially when life feels overwhelming. Start small: dedicate a moment each morning to prayer, inviting God to guide your heart. This practice shifts our focus, deepening our love for Him and those around us.

Forgive Others

Loving others fully often requires letting go of past hurts, which brings us to Jesus’ second lesson: forgiveness. He taught that forgiving others frees us from bitterness and aligns us with God’s grace (Matthew 6:14-15). What grudges are you carrying that Christ could help you release?
For years, I harbored resentment toward childhood bullies, past heartbreaks, and those who wronged me. That anger tainted my interactions, leaving me guarded. But one day, I knelt at the altar and surrendered it all to Christ. In that moment, I felt free. I could stand beside those I once resented, not with anger, but with God’s peace. Forgiveness can feel daunting, especially for deep wounds. Pour out your pain, then pray and release it to God. This act unlocks inner peace and stronger relationships.

Trust in God’s Provision

Finally, Jesus calls us to trust in God’s provision. He encouraged His followers not to worry about material needs but to seek God’s kingdom first, trusting that God will provide (Matthew 6:31-33). This trust reduces anxiety and fosters a life of faith.
Raised by parents shaped by the Great Depression, I grew up mindful of hunger and need. Preparing for lean times felt natural, making trust in God’s provision one of Jesus’ hardest lessons for me. Yet, as I practiced seeking His kingdom first, I found peace in His faithfulness. Trusting God can feel daunting in times of financial strain. Start small: pray over one worry, like a bill or decision, and watch how God provides. Over time, this builds a life rooted in purpose, not fear.

Live Boldly for Him

Refreshed by the truth that He is Risen, let’s carry these lessons into our daily lives. This week, pray for one person you struggle to love, forgive, or trust God about. Step boldly into the highways and byways, living fully in Him, with Him, and for Him. May your life reflect the love, freedom, and faith of the risen Christ.

Chance Meetings and Nashville Memories

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I messaged a Heart of Texas Records friend, Tracy Pitcox, on Facebook, hoping we’d cross paths during our uncoordinated Nashville visits. Little did I know God had plans to weave old friends and new moments together in Music Valley Drive—a corner of Music City that still feels like home.

Randall Franks and Kevin Shorey

Nashville’s changed since my youth. High-rises have replaced old landmarks, but Music Valley Drive, tucked near the Opryland Hotel, holds some of its feel. The hum of country music lingers here, even if only in visitors’ memories. This is where I first brought my band, The Peachtree Pickers, in the early 1980s for a bluegrass festival at the KOA Campground. We returned in 1984 to perform at the Grand Ole Opry’s 59th Birthday Celebration nearby. Over time, the Ernest Tubb Record Shop’s stage, and later its Texas

Tracy Pitcox, Justin Trevino, Randall Franks and Jack Phillips.

Troubadour Theater, became my venues for Midnight Jamboree performances. In 2011, I filmed scenes for Lukewarm nearby. Every visit stirs memories. I even brought my youth mentees here to meet Grand Ole Opry star Jesse McReynolds. After eating at Shoney’s, we jammed with the legend in the parking lot—a moment captured in my documentary The Road to Nashville, proof that music flows freely on Music Valley Drive.

This trip, I’d come for a TV appearance on the AM Kevin Club with Kevin Shorey, arranged by long-time friend Ruth Brown, and a major 8 Track Entertainment “Sunday in the South”  event for Shenandoah, Jason Aldean, and Luke Bryan and a debut event for Ira Dean’s “I Got Roads.” 

8 Track Entertainment Executives Jeff Goodwin (left) and Noah Gordon (right) with Randall Franks at 8 Track Entertainment #1 Party. Goodwin and Gordon are long-time friends of Randall with Goodwin being his former manager and Gordon a fellow artist and co-writer.

Arriving early for a lunch meeting, I wondered. At Cooter’s Dukes of Hazzard store, I grinned at General Lee memorabilia, recalling friends like Sonny “Enos” Shroyer, a steadfast supporter in my acting career. Nearby, I paused at cement footprints from stars who left them in the ‘80s and ‘90s—friends like “Doc” Tommy Scott, now gone, their signatures a quiet testament to Nashville’s past.

I headed to Cracker Barrel, a spot steeped in memories. In the ‘90s, I’d lunch there with Opry friends like The Whites or share a moment with Garth Brooks and his then-wife Sandy at nearby tables. Once, fans mobbed me for photos—a humbling blessing—and the manager comped our meal.

On this day, as I reached the Cracker Barrel porch, the stars aligned: Tracy Pitcox, a DJ and country music promoter, stepped out with artist Justin Trevino and young steel guitarist Jack Phillips. I waited for Tracy to finish a call, then called his name. We swapped stories, grinning ear to ear, our shared history in country music sparking laughter.

Joyce Jackson and Randall Franks

My Memories of Jim Reeves

Just then, a country music mainstay arrived—Joyce Jackson, a friend from the ‘90s when she worked with Mae Boren Axton, the songwriter behind “Heartbreak Hotel.” Joyce joined our chat, and we snapped photos before she and I settled inside. Over lunch, she shared her book, My Memories of Jim Reeves and Other Celebrities, and I was touched to find myself mentioned in its pages. It’s a heartfelt glimpse into classic country’s inner world—well worth a read.

That day reminded me: when you set your heart on connection, God often nudges the right people into your path. Music Valley Drive, with its echoes of my past, became the stage for new memories with old friends. It’s a lesson in faith and fellowship I’ll carry forward.

Riding Dollar Back to Common Ground

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I gripped Dollar’s reins as she spun 180 degrees, testing my rusty riding skills. With effort, I turned it into a full 360, regaining control. It had been 20 years since I’d last swung a leg over a horse, and I’d lost much of my knack. Yet Dollar stayed patient with me as we worked together on the set of The American’s Creed, a historical film set during the American Revolution. Horses, like humans, prefer the company of those they trust—and I was determined to earn hers.

Randall Franks (left) as “Capt. Robert Shields” with Dollar and Butch Culpepper as “Jeremiah Weer” with Charlie on the set of The American’s Creed. (Courtesy: Peach Picked Productions: Ashley Robillard)

I’d spent my childhood glued to westerns, both films and TV shows, dreaming of the open range. My Granddad Bill had lived that life, cowboying out west in his youth at the turn of the 1900s. From what I’ve heard, he was a fine horseman, punching cows and driving steers to market. I never got to learn from him—he passed before I was born—but those old westerns gave me a glimpse of what his adventures might have been like. As an actor, I longed to star in one, though I came up in the era of police dramas like In the Heat of the Night and endless sitcoms.

Filming The American’s Creed gave me a taste of that dream, even if it wasn’t a western. I was nursing a broken leg back to health, and mounting Dollar was a struggle. I climbed up the wrong side, awkwardly lifting my mending leg over the saddle. No doubt she was annoyed—and I couldn’t blame her. In life, we all get irked by folks who rub us the wrong way. But just as Dollar tolerated my fumbling, we often have to push past slights or annoyances to find a way forward.

That day, as I steadied her after her spook, I felt a flicker of the past—those western scenes where a horse bolts and the rider hangs on. Here I was, living it, albeit in a Revolutionary War setting. Over time, Dollar and I found our rhythm, syncing our timing and intuition to nail the scenes. By the end of the shoot, we were old friends. If I ever get to do a western, I’d love to ride with her again.

The greatest lesson came clear: people drift in and out of our lives, some for a moment, others for years. Like Dollar and me, we must seek common ground to avoid facing off like gunslingers in a dusty street. Hopefully, if it comes to that, Dollar would be waiting nearby—not for a getaway, but to carry me off into the sunset. Check out more about the short film, and its documentary at RandallFranks.com/The-Americans-Creed.

The Ripples of Life

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My father cradled a stone in his palm, its edges smoothed by time. “It takes just the right one to skip,” he murmured, “sending ripples with every touch upon the water.” With a flick of his wrist, he cast it forth, and three perfect bounces danced across the lake’s glassy face. From each fleeting kiss, ripples bloomed outward, a fleeting echo, before the stone slipped beneath the depths. He stooped again, lifting another. “Your turn,” he said, guiding my hand. “Spin your wrist like so.” I let it fly, and though it obeyed his wisdom, my stone skimmed but twice. More practice, I knew, would stretch my ripples farther.
As the last whispers of my throw faded into the stillness, my father beckoned me to our boat. We glided homeward across the lake, pausing only to cast a line into its mysteries. Those stones, with their delicate arcs, became a mirror for our lives—vessels adrift on a vast sea, trailing wakes that touch unseen shores.
Picture the world as an endless expanse of water, each soul a boat carving its path. For nearly eighty years, we sail, mooring at landings woven into the tapestry of time. Our first harbor lies within the arms of youth, cradled by parents who nurture us toward bloom. We drift beside their docks—home’s sturdy planks, work’s steady tides, the laughter of friends, the lessons of school—tethered yet yearning.
Some among us stir the waters early, our deeds rippling beyond the shallows. A triumph in sport, a melody struck true, a bold endeavor—these lift us into the light, catching the eyes of those who paddle near. Yet for most, youth’s ripples are soft, mere whispers lapping at the shore—first loves, first labors, friendships unfurling beyond kin.
Then come those who plunge into college, a cascade of severance as they cut parental lines. They drift anew among kindred spirits, their boats bobbing through four or five summers until degrees crown their voyage. The boldest make waves—masters of the field, scholars of the mind, leaders of the throng—their wakes a testament to ambition’s swell.
Cast off from these shores, we steer toward the open waters of adulthood, paddling to stand alone. Some falter in the swell of first storms—new dwellings, interviews, unfamiliar tides—and briefly seek refuge at the parental dock, steadying their hulls. But soon we find our own moorings: a craft to call ours, a roof to shield us, a haven wherever it may rise. Here, we seek souls whose currents align with ours, companions for the hours beyond labor and lineage.
In this season, our wakes grow vivid, etched upon the waves. We glide past comrades, patrons, strangers who might become friends, each meeting a thread in a tapestry of thousands. Some greet this dance with ease, while others shrink from the tide of voices. With every encounter, we choose: to drift gently alongside, honoring their course, or to crash like a tempest, unsettling their seas.
Life’s ebb and flow offers both. I have known souls who tethered their boats to mine—through work, study, service, or the quiet grace of friendship. Their presence lingers like a calm tide, stirring smiles or a longing to sail once more. Yet others have churned the waters with disdain, leaving only wreckage in their wake—whether by chance or design, it matters little. Their names alone summon a shiver, a dread of crossing paths.
Not long ago, I met a voyager from thirty years past. Our first meeting had been a fleeting ripple—a hello, a smile, a captured moment in a photograph. But in this reunion, we traced the currents of old moorings, unearthing treasures we’d not known we shared. We spoke of Dallas, my fiddle teacher from youth, his stern wisdom and wry quips sparking laughter across the decades. What once seemed a faint touch swelled into a deeper wave, revealing how our separate journeys had brushed the same shores.
In that reflection, I saw my ripples endure beyond thirty winters—unimagined, yet cherished, as they returned to wash over me with grace. So it is with every soul we meet: a touch may ripple for a moment or echo through the years. As you chart your course, let your wake be a gentle gift, reaching far beyond the horizon. Like my father’s stone, skipping true across the lake, may my ripples—however humble—find a distant shore, guided still by his steady hand.

Who deserves our love?

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Love—who hasn’t wrestled with its mysteries? From ancient ballads to modern movies, we’ve spent countless words and melodies trying to capture its many faces.

Through my life, I’ve experienced familial love from parents, siblings, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. Its depth varies by person, but for me, Mom and Dad shine brightest—their love steady and enduring. People say parental love is unmatched, the kind that would sacrifice anything to save you.

Grandparents often come next, their affection a gentle extension of that instinct. Many note it’s easier to love grandchildren; they’re spared the burden of discipline needed to shape responsible adults. For those of us blessed with these bonds, we return that love naturally, striving to ensure our parents and grandparents feel loved and cared for as they age.

Romantic love, though, has been elusive—a chase where I rarely convinced my heart’s choice to feel the same, even as others tried to win me over. I spent years pursuing those who inspired me to fall. As a teen, I’d craft special gifts to show my feelings—like restoring an old cedar keepsake box, carving her favorite flower into it. The effort fell flat, teaching me over time that such gestures were often futile. I fell for those I couldn’t sway, and though some saw me as their match, I proved hard to convince. The few times I shared a path with a lady, she moved on, leaving “elusive” as the constant refrain of my romantic story.

Yet where romance faltered, friendship flourished. When I broke a bone, friends brought meals and drove me to rehab; when funds dried up, a quiet gift arrived. If something needed fixing, someone stepped in—sometimes for a song, often for free. This Christian brotherly love has sustained me through life’s highs and lows. God sent friends to uplift me daily—best companions in personal moments, public service, ministry, acting, music, and writing. Some have passed, but their love still echoes; others remain, brightening my world with their presence.

Beyond that, I see a love for humanity—acts of kindness with no strings attached. Ever helped a stranger gather spilled groceries or rallied neighbors against a wildfire until firemen arrived? We offer these blessings not for reward, but in hope they’ll spark a chain of good, making our world better.

Above all, God’s love for me, and mine for Him, gives it meaning. “That he who loveth God love his brother also,” says 1 John 4:21. So, to whom do we owe love? Everyone who crosses our path. It’s not about degrees—it’s about doing it fully, every day. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that love—given freely, without measure—can ripple out and change the world. Are you changing the world?

Speaking Your Success into Being

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Have you ever wondered why we have a tongue? Is it merely a tool to utter nonsense to those around us? Not everything that rolls off our lips is trivial—far from it. Words hold power, and what we speak can shape our lives in ways we might not expect.

Consider a night from my youth. I sat with my mother after watching the premiere of In the Heat of the Night. Inspired, I turned to her and declared, “If I’m ever on television, it’ll be on this show.” I had no plan, no connections—just a bold thought I voiced aloud. Some might have dismissed it as a childish boast, but five months later, I stood on that set. God planted the idea; I spoke it, claimed it, and He moved. That moment taught me our tongues can breathe life into dreams.

History echoes this truth. Consider the Committee of Five—Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Roger Sherman, and Robert Livingston—who drafted the Declaration of Independence. Four of them are my kin, and while I share their blood, it was God who gifted them words that altered destinies. Scribed and proclaimed by town criers across the colonies, their syllables birthed a nation. Were they uniquely blessed? Yes, but their example reveals what’s possible when inspired speech meets divine purpose.

What have you spoken over your life lately? We may not draft nations, but we pen the founding documents of our own stories. Whether whispered in prayer, shared with loved ones, or written in quiet moments, our words carry weight. Faith tells us they can unlock extraordinary opportunities. Psalms 130:2 pleads, “Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications,” reflecting the hope that God listens—“From our lips to His ears.” If He plants the thought, He waits for us to claim it aloud.

Does every claim come to pass? If it aligns with His will and our covenant as Christians, I believe it can. Yet caution is key. Proverbs 18:21 warns, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof.” We can just as easily speak disaster as blessing. A modern echo, often tied to Ralph Waldo Emerson, adds, “Be careful what you set your heart upon, for it surely shall be yours.” Our speech shapes reality.

So, be mindful of what you utter. Your tongue can curse or bless, destroy or build. I urge you—set a positive future in motion. Speak life, uplift others, and create momentum for God’s purpose. Your success may well begin with the next words you say.

Is There Value in Knowing Where You Came From?

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We cleared the supper plates, leaving a few pieces of fried chicken, boiled ‘taters, and garden-fresh green beans to cover for tomorrow. The smell of fresh-baked cornbread hung in the kitchen as Aunt Short sliced her homemade chocolate pie, passing wedges around the table. With dessert and fresh-brewed coffee in hand, I knew the adults would settle in for hours of storytelling. Uncle Jay slipped out to toss wood on the fire, then returned, packing his pipe with tobacco. As he lit it, smoke curled above his head, and tales began tumbling from their tongues.
Since I was a child, I’ve been spellbound by the old folks’ stories—shared around that table or by the hearth’s flicker. One favorite took me to Fort Watauga, 1776, amid the struggles to settle western North Carolina. Cherokee warriors under Old Abraham laid a two-week siege, arrows and musket balls flying as settlers returned fire from the fort. “Jump, my Bonnie Kate!” Uncle John Sevier hollered, yanking her over the wall—she’d been caught milking cows outside. That daring rescue sparked a love that’d one day make them Tennessee’s first Governor and First Lady.
My kin—the Scottish Kilgores and English Sherrills—joined the Overmountain Men, marching to Kings Mountain to rout the British. Along the way, they picked up the German Weirs. Sitting quietly, I soaked up decades of wisdom from ancestors living and dead—Scottish bagpipes rallying our men, fiddles driving frontier trade days. Patriots fought at Trenton and Kings Mountain, settlers clashed with Native Americans, and later generations endured Shiloh’s bloodied fields and Normandy’s beaches.
Closer to home, family feuds simmered for decades. Grandpa’s scars bore witness—seven healed-over knife wounds from a brawl he barely survived, a bullet lodged too deep to remove. Mama’d recount those close calls, her voice hushed, fueling my young imagination with heroes among our kin. Another memory lingers: an old family saint who’d ask strangers, “Who are your people?” Give her a name, and she’d spin chapters of their history—tidbits even they didn’t know—tying us to the past with a knowing grin.
Little survived of the world before American shores, just scraps from Scotland, Ireland, England, and Germany. Names, songs, and tunes lingered, played on instruments handed down since the 1600s. Generations settled land, founded towns, and drifted south and west from New York, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and Virginia, rooting deep in Tennessee, Kentucky, and Georgia.
At 12, I began digging—courthouse to courthouse, graveyard to graveyard. Now, the internet unearths wonders with a click. Those bagpipes hailed from clans who won Scotland’s freedom under Robert the Bruce. German kin shaped Lutheran theology, Irish forebears defied Cromwell, and an English ancestor—Geoffrey Chaucer—penned The Canterbury Tales.
Every century’s tales show what our folks endured, letting us walk tall, proud of who we are. Learn your people’s stories—it’s no accident you’re here. You carry the dreams of generations, meant to shape the future.

God’s Piloting Spirit

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Years back, I had a show in a small North Carolina mountain town I’d never visited, though I’d played many nearby. Wanting a scenic drive, I planned extra time to meander through the mountains and arrive well ahead of schedule.
I’ve never trusted electronic GPS—printed maps were always my go-to. But this time, I consulted an online mapping service before leaving home and printed the directions. With a smile, my truck packed, and a sense of adventure, I set off into the unknown.
The drive was pleasant, winding through Tennessee toward North Carolina, until the directions went awry. I turned off a major highway onto a quiet county road, then a rougher one, then a gravel track. Soon, I was rattling along a dirt path—two lanes shrinking to one, pocked with dips and holes. I pressed on in faith until I hit a farm gate blocking a pasture. The internet map had led me to a dead end.
If this were a leisurely jaunt, I might’ve laughed it off. But with a job ahead and time slipping away, stress crept in. I still had hours to travel and a deadline to meet. Inch by inch, I turned my truck around on that narrow lane and retraced my steps to the last decent road. I stepped out, glanced at the sun, checked my watch, and reckoned the direction I needed. Pointing my truck accordingly, I navigated a web of backroads until I hit a familiar state highway. Pedal down, I rolled into town just half an hour late—still early enough to prep and take the stage, hoping to make memories for the crowd.
The conventional route would’ve taken three and a half hours. My “adventure” stretched it to six. Trusting my instincts had pulled me out of the wilderness, but had I leaned on them from the start, the day might’ve stayed leisurely instead of turning tense.
Why share this? On the surface, it’s a simple lesson: don’t blindly trust tech. Dig deeper, and it’s more universal. When we let others chart our course, we risk veering off track—sometimes innocently, sometimes not. I recovered thanks to a frontier spirit inherited from ancestors who braved unmapped wilds on foot and horseback. But what if I hadn’t?
It’s a reminder to weigh who’s guiding us. Do they care about our success? Maybe that’s why Reno & Smiley sang, “I’m Using My Bible for a Road Map.” God’s guidance—through spirit and sense—steered me where I needed to be, using my gifts to touch others. So, are you relying on GPS, or God’s Piloting Spirit?

Fool’s Gold: Lessons from a Childhood Quest

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From childhood, I learned that not everything that glitters is gold.

I remember my boyhood experiences as a child playing by myself around a nearby creek. The gurgling of the water as it rushed over the rocks always filled my soul with a sense of peace. The sounds of the birds simply became an orchestra of a soundtrack beneath the creek sounds.

I was pulling rocks from the bottom of the creek to begin a fort, and I stirred up a flurry of gold glittering in the water. I thought, I’ve struck gold. This would solve those financial problems I heard my parents talking about.

I decided to collect as much as I could that day and bring it home to share with my folks.

I had seen in westerns the miners panning for gold, so I pedaled home quietly entered in the back door avoiding my mom, borrowing a pan and a shovel from the garage.

After coming back I panned for the little flakes compiling them in a repurposed tobacco sack now used for marbles.

After endless hours of the endeavor, darkness was coming on, so I collected my gains, my tools and got on my bike and pedaled home to beat the street lights from coming on.

When everything was put away, I proudly presented my day’s endeavors to my dad.

He opened the sack, looked inside and said, “Son, come over here.” He lifted me up upon his knee and said to me look inside this bag. I did thinking how proud I was of my efforts.

Beside the bag he held out his ring finger which held his wedding band and said, “Now, look at my ring. Does what you have in the bag look like what’s on my finger?”

I looked back and forth between the sack and his ring and I looked up at him and said,

“They are different. Why are they different?”

He smiled and said, “Because, son, all that glitters is not gold. What you have here is a bag of iron pyrite, often called ‘fool’s gold’.”

“So, it’s not worth anything?”, I asked.

“Well let’s think on that,” he said. “How long did you spend on gathering this bag?”

I told him all day. He asked me if I worked hard at it and I told him that I was plum tuckered out.

“Did you enjoy the time you did it?” he asked.

“I did,” I told him.

“Have you learned anything from the experience?” he inquired.

“Yes, I learned that sometimes you can spend all day trying to get the gold and come home empty-handed,” I said.

He said that is a good lesson, but another one was not to jump at every shiny thing in life.

“If you do, you may find out too late that shiny things are not what is best for you in your life,” he said.

Before he set me back down, he pulled the drawstring on the bag, handed it back to me.

“Son, thank you for what you tried to do for our family,” he said. “Your heart was in the right place. Just keep trying.

“Next time, you may just find a true treasure. Just learn a bit and maybe talk to me about it before jumping feet first into it,” he counseled. “Also, I would get your mom’s skillet washed and put back before she realizes you were using it.”

I smiled and climbed off his knee.

“Son, why don’t you put that bag on your bedpost? I think when you see it, it will remind you that bright and shiny isn’t always what’s best for us,” he said.

“Sure Pa,” I said.

Not too long ago, I was going through some boxes in my attic, and ran across that white bag of fool’s gold, I was reminded the adventure of that day was such a great memory. I could almost hear the creek again emanating from the iron pyrite in my hand.

That childhood lesson has tempered my choices throughout my life. I found those shiny things my father was talking about are more than just gold. They could be a beautiful girl, a flashy car, a better job, a big house or every imaginable toy an adult might want.

While, sometimes I have weakened being drawn for a time to shiny things, I have managed to step back from the precipice before jumping feet first without a full review of what I was about to swallow hook, line and sinker.

Are you jumping for every shiny thing that comes your way? Maybe, it’s time to look more deeply into your personal bag of fool’s gold before you buy that next thing that glitters in front of you.