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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.

Chaos in the Clothes Closet: Life’s Unexpected Lessons

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I heard the crackle and then the sound of a tree crashing to the ground. At least, that’s how it sounded in the dead of night.

I headed to the wall to turn on the light, but I stubbed my toe on the cedar bedpost. Holding my foot, I hopped over to the switch and flipped it on. When I could finally set my foot down, I found the source of the noise. Half my walk-in closet was now on the floor, like a chaotic thrift store; plaid shirts, blue, grey, and every shade of brown suits were wrestling for space. The metal shelves and shoes from above had joined the fray, leaving massive holes where anchors once held.

I wish I could say I took it in stride, but with my toe throbbing, I was more annoyed at the timing than anything. I decided to leave the mess for morning, turned off the lights, and crawled back into bed.

The next day, I moved each suit to the guest room bed, laying them out like patients in recovery. The white shelving and supports were next, placed on the guest room’s hardwood floor. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months without any motivation to fix it, until a call reminded me the guest room was needed.

Isn’t life like that sometimes? Unexpected, like a closet collapsing or a water leak in the bathroom. Or it could be more profound—a job loss, an accident, or a life-altering diagnosis. We’re not the sole authors of our lives, but how we react is our choice. Do we greet adversity with a grimace or with hope?

I’ve seen both types of people: those who seem to carry the world’s sadness, their anger and profanity a constant leak. And then there are those with an inner fortitude, facing even the gravest of circumstances with a strength that seems unbreakable.

Which one do you want to be? I choose the latter, striving to face life’s trials with the faith and determination that can transform even a simple task like rebuilding shelves into something empowering.*

So, with a new resolve, I’ll rebuild the shelves, straighten the guest room, and as Mr. Rourke from “Fantasy Island” would say, “Smiles, everyone, smiles….” Keep smilin’ no matter what comes your way!

A Happy Tear

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As we travel unique roads in life, it is sometimes saddened by the fact that those that travel along with us eventually step off the path.

They can simply follow a different route, taking the path of least resistance, or they may choose a steeper climb.
Sometimes they find a life peril that they cannot overcome.

Either way we look at life, it includes comings and goings. People enter our lives sometimes for a season, sometimes for years. Then one day they are no longer on the journey with us.

This time of year for me brings those absences closer to my mind and gives me more of a desire to reflect upon happy times past.

As we look deeply into our minds eye, those folks who made such an impact upon us are often among those that are absent.

I found the other night as I tried to find sleep, my head turned on the beige cotton pillow case while making an a dent in the heavily stuffed pillow. No matter which way I turned my head, or my body, the gray matter inside my head just kept churning out images from across the years. The moments I saw made me exceptionally happy. Childhood games of play, college dates, and moments that shaped who I am.

All of these filled my head so, I couldn’t find sleep, so eventually I just got up and watched TV until the movie I was watching lulled me to sleep.

Despite the respite of sleep, the next day the images remained flashing in my thoughts. I found myself welling up inside not understanding really why. My body was doing it, just on its own course.

The tears flowed down my check as these people who had meant so much in my walk were visible to me again.

The longer God blesses us with time, the more people will flow in and flow out of our adventure. Some reach so down deep within us, that we are left with a huge hole inside when they are gone. Those holes never really fill, they are just left along the roadside. But from time to time, a smell, a photo, a place brings an artesian spring to life from the bottom of those holes and the water finds our eyes and a few drops drip out upon our cheeks.

For most, the tears of sadness long ago emptied, and those that now flow are happy memories, tempered with some amount of missing.

This time of year, though I am ever mindful that men are not suppose to cry, it seems I do run up on a few more artesian springs dripping on my cheeks from time to time as I have at least in my mind looked back down the path at those left behind, on another road or raised beyond my reach for now.

I pray that any waterworks in this time of year which come to you are underlined with a happiness that once was and hope for what will be.

May 2025 be a year of amazing opportunities for all of us.

I thought I had lost my marbles

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I was going through some boxes in the attic the other day and came across something that spurred some fond memories.

It was an old cotton tobacco bag with a tie string. These were designed to keep the tobacco fresh and protected but instead inside of it was my collection of marbles that were an amazing part of my youth.

A marble is a small, spherical object often made from glass, clay, steel, plastic, or agate. Typically those are around 13 mm (1⁄2 in) in diameter. These colorful toys can be used for various games, such as marble runs or races, or created as a form of art.

I don’t know if children still play marbles but for me it was an amazing past time.

A couple of friends would draw a circle on the ground in the dirt, drop marbles into the circle and then we would take turns shooting to knock the marbles out of the circle. Of course, the winner got to keep the other player’s marbles. So, our collection could grow or reduce depending upon our skill with our favorite shooter and the skill and strength of our thumb flick.

I am amazed that this childhood collection actually survived all these years. I was not the best player in the world, so I must have become tired with playing and stored away my marbles. I sort of figured I had lost my marbles years ago. Most people would probably say something similarly.

I don’t know if that little boy could have imagined who the adult man would become.

He certainly could not have imagined the crooks and turns of love and life in general. I have many friends who have remained throughout my life, others who fell by the wayside. I have fell in love several times but never successfully. The process never took as it was. That was definitely not how young Randall envisioned his future. But God had another plan.

Professional opportunities have taken me around the U.S., Canada and Mexico entertaining folks from all types of stages and placed me of TV and in films for audiences around the world. Those are also things little Randall could never have seen coming. But I will say, I was blessed by each and every moment thus far and look forward to anything He allows ahead.

Playing games was a vital part of every childhood day. Those kept us physically active, mentally engaged and strategically learning and growing. As adults, we need the same type of activities to make each day better. We all work hard to make a living; so a little time each day doing something for recreation stimulating our mind and/or our body is productive for us all.

I fondly miss those days when I looked forward to the sun coming up and I hit the door running to fill the day with all types of adventures and games. Finding people to play with and creating game to play was all that was on my mind. I guess as adults, we see our hobbies in this way – fishing, hunting, sports, racing, motorcycling, bicycling and others. So, in a way we have days from time to time we rush out of the house looking forward to doing these things with our friends and/or families.

As I stared into the beautiful colors of those marbles rolling them around in my hand, I could see myself on my knees shooting with ease at the marbles in front of me within the circle. I could hear the clicking sounds they made as they hit. I could feel my bag heavier after winning.

Marbles may be bygone for me, and I am sure there are some who would say I lost them long ago, but I am sure glad I ran across them at least for a bit before returning them to their box once again for safe keeping until I find them again.

The Spirit of the generations

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Have you ever really wondered where it is you are from? How did your folks come to be in this place or how did you get to where you are? Can you point to some place and say that there is home?

I have spent a lot of time of late looking back upon our part in the founding of America. The men and women, their sacrifices, their words. I wrote a piece recently highlighting 48 members of my family who sat in a hot room in Philadelphia with 8 other men and hammered out the Declaration of Independence. It brought me to realize when family members work together, they can change the world.

It is really amazing how today thanks to the internet, we can know more about the people that came before us, honor their contributions or learn from their mistakes.

Have you considered that upon your back you carry the hopes and dreams of generations of people who struggled through famine, disease, war, oppression, endless hours of labor? All of their years of faith in God, effort, sometimes sacrifice, in some cases even martyrdom is now upon you to carry the family’s banner passing it to the next generation.

That is a heavy weight to consider as we lean back in our leather recliner grasping tightly to the remote flipping through the channels hoping for something to watch. Oh, look there’s “Braveheart,” so you watch a few minutes of the struggle Sir William Wallace depicted that some of our ancestors endured. I had grandfathers on both sides of those battles. Flip a few more channels and there’s “Dances with Wolves,” so you watch some of the cruelty some of our ancestors inflicted upon others. I had family on both sides of those fights too. A couple of more channels over is “Gettysburg” and there we see brother against brother fighting for their lives in the War Between the States. I had grandfathers on both sides in that war.

There are so many epic struggles in history upon which our peoples stood on one side or the other, sometimes taking up arms, sometimes just trying to survive as the world careened out of control around them.

In recent years, I have written stories about how my grandfathers stood face-to-face, sword in hand, fighting in hand-to-hand combat, thinking it’s just lucky they both had their children prior to that battle.

Family experiences help to shape us. Sometimes we choose not to pay attention or have no knowledge of them. They are still within us. Lately, I embarked on an investigation to see how many of the Encouragers that God placed into my life were actually related to me while neither of us knew it at the time. I have found over and over again that the spark of friendship that built that opportunity was probably planted when our long-ago grandparents fell in love and their hopes and dreams for us were passed along in our Spirits.

Does blood alone make one family — no, not always, in order to be family, there are other attributes that must be there. A sense of caring, love, fair play and mutual respect are a start. But as a basis the shared experiences of those that came before will always connect those who carry a bit of their ancestors within them.

It is amazing though how each generation struggles through the same issues: putting a roof over one’s head; clothes on one’s back, food on the table and paying the bills. Most of this is accomplished by one simple teaching — work hard and with God’s help you will succeed.

These are the basics in every generation’s experience, it’s what we bring to the table beyond these basics that help to give a family a sense of accomplishment.

I was raised in a family where kin folks cared about each other, they helped all they could, didn’t always agree but usually ironed out those differences especially following a gentile tongue lashing by the most senior member of the family reminding them that differences are usually petty compared to the big painting that reaches back through the years.

In this world where everything moves so fast, I encourage you to pass along the wisdom of the generations in every way you can find because we are the standard bearers for all those behind us but more importantly for those ahead of us.

The bottom of the pile

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It is hard to walk away when you are at the bottom of the pile.

I remember fondly the springs and summers. Hours of play after completing my chores around the house. Of course, as I got older, I took on odd jobs like mowing neighbor’s yards to earn a little money.

In my neighborhood, we had a great group of children. We all would gather to play and race our bikes down suicide hill.

I remember one accident that sent me flying through the handlebars and sliding down the pavement for 20 feet or more. That still hurts just thinking about it. I had sores all over me from that adventure.

There were no cell phones — so the kids were kept on what I call time leashes. When we left the house, we were expected to come back by a certain time, usually mealtime.

Of course, if any of us got into mischief, the news traveled faster than us and the punishment was waiting for us when we got home. In my case, a few choice words from Mom followed by “You just wait ‘til your father gets home.”

Those waits coupled with the sound of my dad pulling his belt out of his pants were always worse than the whipping themselves.

One thing about it, my father never punished me undeservingly, and while I can’t remember a single whipping, I sure learned the life lessons that accompanied them.

My friends and I had about a two to three-mile radius in which we played that encompassed, fields, woods, several neighborhoods and some stores. We had a Colonial Grocery Store, a Krystal, a gas station, dry cleaners and a Gulf Service Station within our travel patterns.

We would get in our share of disagreements with each other. That would lead usually to some hurt feelings and some rolling around on the ground ‘til someone would say “Uncle.” We always seemed to come through it. There really were no children who caused trouble in my age bracket. A few older ones sometimes got into mischief, but we always managed to keep out of trouble.

Do not get me wrong, there were bullies. We were just blessed not to have them on our street, at least for very long. I remember when I was about seven there were two brothers who took great pleasure in picking fights with me. At least, it seemed that way at the time.

A boy my age named Chris Sands moved in. His parents had just divorced, and at that time, it was not as usual, as it is now. I’ll never forget one meeting with those brothers that had me at the bottom of a wrestling match that I just could not win. Chris was the new guy in the neighborhood and saw that I was being unfairly targeted for this fight and stepped in to pull the other boys off me. From that moment on, he was my friend — that is until he later moved away, and I lost track of him.

While time has erased many of the memories of the time we spent together hanging out as kids, that one action by the new boy on the block sticks in my mind. He saw something that was not right, and he did something about it. Not knowing the social lay of the land and the dynamics of the neighborhood hierarchy, he stuck his neck out for me. That is bravery.

Now I’m not advocating fighting as a way to resolve issues for children or adults. I was taught that it takes much more courage to walk away than to actually fight. But when they jump on you, there are just a few hurdles you have to get over before you can walk away.

I learned a valuable lesson from Chris that day. I have always tried to stick up for others, but sadly, especially when I started to serve in local politics, I found there were few willing to stick up for you as the bullies come out to tear you down, especially during an election.

Folks often do not like to stick their neck out to help other people, but when someone does, it makes our community a better place. Even during an election, it is better to walk away and not engage in the lowering of the standards of decency often practiced by other candidates and their backers.

We are truly blessed with people who work every day to help those who face many kinds of battles.

Childhood friends from far away

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I crowded into the MARTA bus headed towards downtown Atlanta. I grabbed a seat as the bus filled up. A black lady in gray dress and heels got on and I noticed that there was no available seat, so I rose and moved towards the back giving her my seat. As I got situated near the rear door, I wrapped my arm around the rail of the bus and placed my feet appropriately to keep me steadied as the bus stopped and started along the rest of the trip to Central City Park. As I sat there I started looking at the man sitting near me and realized it was Mr. Olivares. He was heading to his job downtown. I had not seen him in years and initially he did not recognize me.

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Grandpa’s Lessons

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

Summer jobs — life lessons

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As the school year comes to a close, my mind always wanders to days at Dairy Queen No. 8 on Clairmont Road near Chamblee. I spent my entire teenage life and college years working at that establishment.
For a youth growing up in my community, the Dairy Queen was the place to be. Joe Wyche, a Georgia Tech graduate, who had spent several years with the Dairy Queen corporation building Dairy Queens all over the world, owned it. He was there in the late 50’s as the company laid the blocks for this neighborhood walk-up ice cream store which would
later feature the Brazier burgers with all the fixings, tenderloin sandwiches and onion rings. He later decided to purchase the
franchise area.
Joe was a boss that gave many youth a chance they may not have gotten elsewhere. I know there were many times he kept teenagers on the payroll not because he needed them but because he thought they needed something stable in their lives.
He is an avid sports fan, happily watched his sons, Sam and Bubba, go on to play college and professional football. Sam would eventually be the head coach of the Cincinnati Bengals and a network sports commentator.
Joe and his late wife Barbara ran the store. Of course, they had several able-bodied managers and adult employees.
Manager David Payne originally hired me. It was the first summer I was old enough to qualify for working. I’ll never forget how nervous
I was at the interview but David hired me anyway and I was flung to the wolves. What I mean is, I jumped in feet first with the able
assistance of another experienced Dairy Queen worker, who happened to be a long time friend and just slightly older than me, Rhonda
Fischer.
One of my first duties was cleaning out the storage refrigerator in the topping cooler. Much like Andy Griffith in “No Time For
Sergeants,” having the honor of such a duty elated me. It would be much later that I would find that cleaning that refrigerator was a
close second to Griffith’s latrine duty.
Slowly, I was taught how to make each of the Dairy Queen favorites, “The Peanut Buster Parfait,” “The Banana Split,” “The Strawberry
Shortcake,” three sizes of cones and every imaginable flavor of milkshake from pineapple to peanut butter.
It was not long before I mastered the Dairy Queen cone curl. Even though it has been years, I think it is like riding a bicycle. I
believe I could still draw a cone pretty close to its exact weight and proportions. Yes, everything we made was to meet certain
specifications.
I began my job at $1.65 an hour, which I am sure seems like not much by today’s standards, but it was for me and I was glad to get it.
After David left, Ed Cross replaced him. Ed arrived his first day on his Harley Davidson, dressed in black. He had long hair and tattoos.
While the biker images had influenced a state of caution in my youthful thinking, through the years, I got to know Ed. He changed
that image as I found him to be someone you could depend on with your life. One thing about it, the teenagers who passed through would not even attempt to pull any shenanigans on Ed or Joe. I learned a lot about how to be a leader and a boss from both of them.
After several years on the job, at various times, I moved into the position of assistant day manager and night manager. I was told I was
one of the youngest in the system. I even worked the early shift with morning manager Ellen Hawley as she rolled out the biscuits for
breakfast and Becky Pirkle who sizzled the bacon and ham on the grill. What I learned about hiring, firing, working with and managing
32 employees of all ages is still part of me.
As my music career grew, Ed, Joe and the late Virginia Sapp, who also was a manager, all accommodated my touring schedule, allowing me to be on the road. I seldom worked a Friday or Saturday night, which was unusual in the fast food business since those were the busiest times.
But I was usually on stage somewhere pulling my fiddle bow across the strings.
When Joe decided to retire, he sold the store. It was a sad day for all of us. I stayed on for a while, as did several of the employees.
When I finally left Dairy Queen, it was like leaving a family.
I still find myself waxing nostalgic about early morning suppers with Joe, Barbara and Virginia at Denny’s after closing, midnight movies
with all the crew, handing a well-curled cone to a little kid to see it gobbled up in one bite and the exhaustion following a 99-cent
special on banana splits.
I would not trade one hour I spent at the Dairy Queen for the finest job on Wall Street or one cent more than I earned.
So teens, don’t be afraid to take those summer jobs which you think are low paying, you might just learn something that will change your
life.

The day that follows sleep

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I got up this morning and wondered what will the day bring.

Each morning that I awake, I push myself from the bedclothes, I shake off the grogginess left by sleep.
I move my legs towards preparing myself for the day – wash, shave, brush, comb, fresh clothes and so then it begins. What will the day be?

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