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.
Read more Randall in his books found in our Store.

Cast into Memory: Reflections on a Fishing Trip

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Ripples float endlessly across the lake as a large frog croaks in the distance.
The line running from the end of my pole drifts slightly with the light current, pulling away to my left as the red-and-white float bobs along with the ripples.

Much of my first fishing adventure had been spent simply trying to get the worm-baited hook into the water. My childhood attempts at fishing with my dad, especially early on, often mirrored the classic episode of The Andy Griffith Show in which Howard Sprague spends more time with his hook caught in a tree—or his own pants—than in the water.

In retrospect, my dad’s patience as he taught me the basics and answered my endless questions was remarkable: Why do fish eat worms? Why do we have to put the hook through the worm—can’t we just throw them in and let the fish eat them? Why do we need a float on the line? And why do I seem to do better when I cast the line behind me instead of in front?

These are just a few of the questions I still remember.My father was a lot like me—outdoor sports weren’t really his thing. Yet he believed it was important for me to learn them, and more importantly, for us to share the experiences he had once enjoyed with his own father and uncles. In the midst of those simple lessons, deeper truths were quietly passed along.

The bonds created between a father and son through positive shared experiences; a growing respect for the natural world and the people and creatures who share it with us; and a clearer understanding of what is expected of you when you become a man.

I am so grateful he took that time with me. Often, those moments seemed strategically placed around the toughest points in my life, when I needed his input, his lessons, his hope, and his insights the most.

By establishing that groundwork when I was young, our relationship had a smoother path as the years passed. Even as an older teen, when I began testing the boundaries by asserting my own authority, we were able to work through those tense moments. What could have driven us apart instead became teachable experiences that strengthened our bond.

Perhaps my father’s early passing forever set my perspective of our relationship in the warm nostalgia of youth. We never quite reached the “best friends” stage that often develops between fathers and adult sons, because he was still very much in the role of dad. That role would never have fully ended, of course, but after college, as I took on more responsibility for my own life, I had hoped our conversations could have taken on a different, more equal form.

It is this time of year when my father’s memory feels closest. We shared so much during the warm months of the year. I am thankful that God placed me in a family with two parents who were present and actively involved. So many young people do not have that blessing. As the news of the world seeps into my awareness, I can’t help but wonder how many troubling headlines might have been prevented if more mothers and fathers had been present and participating in their children’s lives.

Are you present in your children’s lives? Are you teaching them the lessons they need? Do they show respect for other people, and creatures? If not, may I suggest a fishing trip?

There is something iconic and idyllic about those opening shots of The Andy Griffith Show, with Andy and Opie Taylor walking along a country road, fishing poles over their shoulders. Funny how so many of us still long for that kind of simplicity. We may never fully reclaim it, but it never hurts to take the walk.“So, take down your fishin’ pole.”

Find more stories from Randall in his books in our STORE.

A Narrow Escape from the Battle of Wyoming

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Retreating on foot through the smoke and chaos, young Sergeant Giles Parman pulled his musket close and slipped into an overgrown thicket, using a fallen oak log as cover. Three Iroquois warriors passed within yards of him, their war cries echoing as they hunted stragglers. That desperate moment of survival would haunt him for the rest of his life.

One of the greatest motivating forces in wartime is the stories of fellow countrymen who suffer at the hands of the enemy. My 6th great-grandparents, Giles and Elizabeth Parman, lived such a story—one deeply interwoven with one of the Revolutionary War’s most devastating frontier defeats.

The Battle of Wyoming, also known as the Wyoming Massacre, occurred on July 3, 1778. What began as a military engagement soon became a sensationalized horror that spread across the colonies, fueling outrage and patriotic resolve.

Giles Franklin Parman Sr. (SAR Patriot # P-265930), born in 1758 in the Wyoming Valley, and his wife Elizabeth Penn were raising two young children on their roughly 100-acre homestead in the Plymouth District. At the time, this area was part of Northampton County, Pennsylvania (later Luzerne County). The Wyoming Valley itself formed a fertile, canoe-shaped corridor stretching 20 to 25 miles along the North Branch of the Susquehanna River and measuring about 3 to 6 miles wide between the flanking Appalachian mountain ridges.

Word of the invading force spread rapidly through the valley’s tight-knit farming communities. A mixed army of British-allied Loyalist Rangers—about 110 men under Major John Butler—and roughly 460–600 Iroquois warriors, primarily Seneca led by chiefs Sayenqueraghta (Old Smoke) and Cornplanter, had entered the northern valley around June 30–July 1. They quickly overran smaller outposts, destroying farms, running off livestock, and killing or capturing some residents in the prelude to the main assault.

At about age 19–20, Giles was already serving in the Pennsylvania militia, which required all able-bodied men aged 18–53 to answer the call. As a sergeant in the Northampton County Militia, he likely led a small squad of 10–20 local farmers. With his own homestead threatened and his young family at risk, he probably loaded Elizabeth and the children into a wagon and hurried them to the safety of Forty Fort (near modern Kingston/Wilkes-Barre), the main Patriot stronghold, before mustering with his men.

Inside Forty Fort, a heated debate raged among the roughly 375 Patriot defenders (five companies of militia plus a small Continental detachment). Lieutenant Colonel Zebulon Butler, a Continental officer home on furlough, and Colonel Nathan Denison urged caution, advising the men to remain behind the stockade and await reinforcements. Hot-headed subordinates, including Captain Lazarus Stewart, demanded an immediate offensive to protect homes and families. The majority voted to march out.

On the hot afternoon of July 3, the Patriot force—accompanied by fife and drum playing “St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning”—advanced northward from Forty Fort to open ground near Kingston. Giles and his men joined the formation as the Patriots established a battle line and initially pushed back the Loyalist Rangers with disciplined volleys. The crack of musket fire filled the air, but the line’s terrifying collapse soon became apparent amid smoke and screams as the right flank gave way under the hidden assault by Iroquois warriors.

Giles and his squad were suddenly inundated by war cries and a galling fire that shattered the Patriot line. The battle turned into a chaotic rout within 30–45 minutes. Panic spread as men fled toward the river, woods, or forts. Historical estimates place Patriot deaths at 160–300 or more in the fighting and immediate pursuit, with many scalped or killed while trying to escape. Loyalist and Iroquois losses remained light.

Giles survived the battle and made a desperate way back toward his family, with pursuers close behind. The scene around him was one of horror—neighbors cut down, the valley’s defenders broken in what colonists quickly called a “massacre.”

The exact path Giles and his young family took in the immediate aftermath has been lost to time. Did they remain sheltered in Forty Fort? Or did they risk returning briefly to their Plymouth District homestead to salvage what they could?

On July 4, Colonel Denison surrendered the fort under terms negotiated with Major Butler: the defenders would not take up arms again, and private property would ostensibly be respected. Family accounts and lore suggest Giles continued fighting for a total of about seven years in militia service (a figure repeated alongside his friend Michael Girdner), so he may not have been present for the formal surrender—allowing him to keep defending the region without strictly honoring the agreement.

Despite the capitulation, discipline among some Iroquois warriors broke. In the hours and days that followed, scattered killings, plundering, and burnings occurred across the valley. Homes and farms were looted and torched; livestock was driven off. While Major Butler largely restrained his white troops and claimed no non-combatants were harmed, the frontier reality included real brutality and revenge—motivated in part by earlier Patriot raids on Iroquois villages. Exaggerated tales of atrocities (including stories of the debated “Bloody Rock”) spread rapidly through colonial newspapers, inflaming public fury and helping inspire the 1779 Sullivan Expedition against the Iroquois.

Giles and Elizabeth helped bury and mourn neighbors and friends. They endured the “Great Runaway”—the desperate flight of hundreds of women, children, and elderly into the mountains and swamps, where many perished from exposure. Giles continued militia duties protecting the frontier through much of the remaining war, a common pattern for Northampton County men focused on local defense rather than distant Continental campaigns.

After the war, the family remained in Pennsylvania for a time. Giles sold and migrated westward around 1792–1793 to Greene County, Tennessee, settling along the Nolichucky River. There he served as a justice of the peace, road overseer, election inspector, and helped found the Flat Branch/New Providence Baptist Church in 1803. Elizabeth died before January 10, 1799. Giles then remarried Phoebe (Gilbert) Woolsey. Across both marriages, he raised roughly 11–12 children. Later, the family moved to Knox County, Kentucky (near modern Corbin), where Giles received a land grant, built a plantation on the Cumberland River, and raised horses. He died there in 1832.

Giles represents the archetypal Revolutionary frontier Patriot: an ordinary young farmer and family man thrust into extraordinary circumstances. Unlike officers or Continental soldiers in major eastern battles, he and thousands like him in the Pennsylvania and New York back country fought a grinding, personal war of home defense against raids that blurred the lines between military action and civilian terror. His survival at Wyoming, continued service, and subsequent life as a community leader and westward migrant embody the Revolutionary promise—defending liberty on the edge of settlement, then helping build new communities in Tennessee and Kentucky as the nation expanded. Giles’s life mirrors the resilience of countless unsung Patriots who paid the price for the freedoms that followed.

Read more of Randall’s writings in his others books found at Randall Franks Store .

No man is an island: The lasting effect of friends

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John Donne wrote, centuries ago, “No man is an island.”

Sometimes I catch myself living as though I were one anyway.

If we are lucky we surround ourselves with family, friends, and acquaintances. Yet how often do we truly belong to one another? Some of us seldom leave the self-imposed exile of our personal islands long enough to share a sunset, a walk on the beach, or the sight of a kite snapping in the sea breeze.

When I stand before the mirror, the man looking back at me is no longer the little boy who once stood there. I wonder: Did the choices I made widen his world, or did they simply add another layer of sand to the shoreline of his isolation? Have I built bridges to the mainland, or have I merely reinforced the water around me?

Life has a way of answering that question when we least expect it. A note arrives, a memory surfaces, a few words on a screen remind us that Donne was right: no matter how isolated we try to become, we remain part of the main.

Years ago the connections came by letter and long phone calls. Today our islands come equipped with an umbilical cord called the internet. I can scroll through the status updates of hundreds of “friends” without ever speaking to a soul. The illusion of connection is effortless — and sometimes genuinely helpful. Not long ago a childhood friend posted a simple message wishing to right some old, perceived wrongs and wipe the slate clean. In minutes we were talking again after decades of silence.

So the technology can build bridges. But it can also keep us staring at screens instead of looking into one another’s faces. We trade handshakes for heart emojis, shared laughter for shared posts. That is a tremendous loss.

In the end, friends — real, present, flesh-and-blood friends — are what pull us off our islands and onto the continent Donne described. Their lasting effect is not measured in likes or follows. It is measured in the simple, irreplaceable moments when we stand together on the same patch of sand, watching the same kite dance against the sky.

Read more from Randall Franks in his Encouragers book series.

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.