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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.

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.

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.

Loving Beyond Measure : Being There When It Matters Most

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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