GM Celebrate Recovery

"Turn the Page" was written 52 years ago and I'm still turning them today😃
🎶Here I am, on a road again
There I am, on the stage
Here I go, playing star again
There I go, turn the page🎶

“Jesus looked at them and said, ‘With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.’” Matthew 19:26

It has been said that our choices control our circumstances and our decisions determine our destiny. In recovery we are learning to make good choices, healthy choices, for perhaps the first time in our lives. But, if we neglect our quiet time with God, meetings, service to others, or our support team, we can easily fall back into – and get stuck in – our old, dysfunctional decision-making patterns. Then we slowly begin to take back our will and try to run our lives on our own power. The good news is that with Jesus and the support of other people that he provides for us, we can get back on track. We can get unstuck and start working a healthy and fruitful recovery program once again.

In the late 1960s, when The Rifleman was still echoing through living rooms across America, Chuck Connors received hundreds of fan letters every week. Most were the usual kind — people asking for autographs, photos, or a few kind words from their television hero.

But one envelope was different. It came from a 12-year-old boy in Kansas named Michael. The letter was short, written in shaky pencil lines:

“Dear Mr. Connors,
My dad died last year. Mom says I should try to be brave, like Lucas McCain. But I don’t feel brave. I cry a lot. I wish I knew how to be strong like you.”

When Chuck read it, he didn’t hand it to an assistant. He didn’t file it away. He sat at his kitchen table, poured himself a cup of coffee, and wrote back by hand.

His reply began simply:

“Dear Michael,
Real bravery isn’t about not crying. It’s about standing up again after you do. I cry too, sometimes. But I try to keep going, because there’s always someone who needs us to.”

He told the boy about his own struggles — how he’d lost friends in the war, how he’d failed more times than people ever knew. He wrote, “Courage isn’t born from being tough. It’s born from love — for your family, your country, your friends.”

A few weeks later, Michael’s mother wrote back to thank him. She said her son had taped the letter to his wall and read it every morning before school. “He started smiling again,” she said. “You gave me my boy back.”

Decades passed. Chuck Connors went on to star in more films and TV shows, but that letter never left him. He often told friends, “If one kid out there feels stronger because of me, then I’ve done my job.”

When Connors passed away in 1992, that same boy — now a grown man, a father himself — attended his memorial. In his pocket, folded and worn thin from years of reading, was the same letter signed:

“Your friend,
Chuck Connors.”

Sometimes, a few honest words from a stranger can light a fire that lasts a lifetime.
And maybe that’s what The Rifleman really stood for — not just a man with a rifle, but a man with a heart big enough to remind us that courage still lives quietly in kindness. 🤍

Every morning before sunrise, I found the same thing waiting on the counter—a crooked sticky note in my father’s handwriting.

I never thought much of it.
The note was always the same kind of thing: “Don’t skip breakfast,” or “Drive safe,” or just a lopsided smiley face. Sometimes, if he was feeling bold, he’d write “Proud of you, kid.”

Dad wasn’t a talker. He was a warehouse man—boots, flannel shirts, and a back that ached from loading pallets for thirty years. He left for work before the rest of the world woke up. Those sticky notes were his version of conversation.

I usually rolled my eyes. I was twenty-two, trying to juggle community college, shifts at the diner, and late nights staring at my phone until my eyes burned. A piece of neon paper couldn’t change any of that. Most mornings, I’d crumple the note without reading twice, shove it in my pocket, and forget about it by lunch.

Then one Tuesday morning, the counter was empty.

No crooked square of yellow paper. No rushed handwriting slanting to the left. Just silence and the hum of the fridge.

I remember calling out, “Dad?” even though I knew his truck wasn’t in the driveway. Hours later, the phone rang. A supervisor from the warehouse. His voice shook as he told me my father had collapsed between shifts. Heart attack. They said it was quick.

It didn’t feel quick to me.

At the funeral, I expected a handful of old family friends, maybe a few coworkers. Instead, the church was packed. Men in steel-toed boots, women in hairnets from the packing line, a teenager in a letterman jacket who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—until he started crying.

One woman stood up. Her hands trembled as she held a folded sticky note. “Your dad left this on my locker every Wednesday,” she said. “When my husband was sick, he wrote, ‘You’re not alone.’ I still carry it in my wallet.”

Then the teenager spoke. “He wrote me notes on the back of shipping labels. Said, ‘Keep showing up, it matters.’ Nobody else at work ever said that to me. It kept me from quitting.”

Person after person shared. Notes about birthdays, exams, surgeries, rent being late. He hadn’t just left sticky notes for me. He’d left them for everyone.

That night, I went through his room. On the top shelf of his closet sat a shoebox, beat up and sagging at the corners. Inside were stacks of unused sticky pads, and behind them… a notebook.

Every page was filled with dates. “Maria’s chemo.” “James’s job interview.” “Tom’s daughter’s recital.” Next to each date, a reminder: Write note.

I sat there on the carpet until sunrise, surrounded by the scraps of his handwriting. For the first time, I didn’t roll my eyes. I cried.

A week later, I found myself at the diner where I worked. One of my coworkers looked tired—really tired. Her kid had been sick, bills piling up. I grabbed a sticky note from my bag, scribbled “Hang in there. You’re stronger than you think.” and stuck it to her coffee cup.

She stared at it for a long time before smiling through wet eyes.

That was the first one.

Now I leave them everywhere—at gas pumps, on bus seats, tucked under windshield wipers, slipped into tip jars. Some people throw them away. Some smile. Some cry. But every time I press one down with the heel of my hand, I feel closer to Dad.

I finally get it.

He didn’t change the world with grand speeches or money he didn’t have. He did it with paper squares no bigger than my palm. He showed up, day after day, with small reminders that people mattered.

And maybe that’s all this life really asks of us. Not perfection. Not applause. Just the courage to keep showing up for each other—even when no one’s looking.

So tomorrow morning, before the sun comes up, I’ll leave another crooked sticky note behind. Just like him.

Because kindness doesn’t always roar—it often whispers on a scrap of paper, reminding someone, “You matter more than you know.”

A disco ball is made from hundreds of pieces of broken glass - yet together, they create something dazzling and full of light. 💫
You are not broken.
You're a disco ball. Keep shining. ✨🪩

After 21 years of marriage, one day my wife pulled me aside. She looked at me gently and said there was something she wanted from me: she wanted me to spend an evening with another woman. To take her out to dinner, and maybe to a movie afterward.

“I love you,” she said, “but I know she loves you too. And I want you to give her a little of your time.”

That other woman was my mother. She had been living alone for 19 years, ever since my father passed away. Between work, daily life, and my three children, I only visited her occasionally.

That very evening, I called her. I asked if she would like to go out to dinner with me.
“Is something happening?” she asked, surprised.
“No, nothing special,” I replied. “It’s just that… I’d like to spend some time with you. Just the two of us.”

On the other end, a long silence. Then her voice, emotional: “I’d really love that.”

The following Friday, I went to pick her up. I was a bit nervous; it had been a long time since we had gone out, just the two of us. She had dressed up, hair done, wearing the same dress she had worn for her last wedding anniversary with Dad. When she got in the car, her smile was that of a little girl.
“I told my friends I was going out with my son tonight… they were all curious. They want to know everything!”

We chose a simple, intimate little restaurant. She took my arm as if we were at a grand gala.
Sitting at the table, I read the menu aloud: her eyesight had grown weak, making the print hard to read. When I looked up, she was there, watching me with a tender expression.
“When you were little, I used to read the menu to you…”
“Then it’s only fair that now it’s my turn,” I replied.

We dined, chatting—not extraordinary, just us, our lives, our memories. We talked so much we forgot about the movie. But it didn’t matter. That evening was already perfect.

When I drove her home, she said: “I want to do this again. But next time… let me invite you.”
I smiled. “Promise.”

Back home, my wife asked: “How was it?”
“Better than I could have imagined.”

But that second outing never happened. A few days later, my mother passed away suddenly from a heart problem.

A few weeks later, I received an envelope. Inside was the restaurant receipt. She had already paid for two. Attached was a small note in her own handwriting:
“I didn’t know if there would be a next time, so I paid in advance. It’s for you and your wife. That evening meant a lot to me. I love you, my son.”

That day, I truly understood how much the little things matter.
How important it is to say “I love you,” and to make time for those who love us.
Because nothing in the world is more precious than that.

In November 1978, Paul Newman’s life changed forever when his only son, Scott, died at the age of 28 from an accidental drug and alcohol overdose in a Los Angeles hotel. Scott, an actor and stuntman who had appeared in films such as The Towering Inferno and Breakheart Pass, had struggled for years with substance abuse. Paul, who had enjoyed one of Hollywood’s most stable careers, suddenly faced the most devastating personal loss of his life. In interviews, he would later admit that the shock of that phone call and the reality of losing Scott was something he carried every single day afterward.
Paul described himself in those days as “angry, guilty, and hollow.” He acknowledged that he had often been absent during Scott’s formative years because of his acting career. The guilt over not being there more weighed heavily on him, and he candidly admitted to replaying their interactions in his mind, wondering what signs he had missed. The pain was compounded by knowing that Scott’s struggles were not sudden, but had developed over time while Paul was balancing public success with private responsibilities.
In the months following Scott’s death, Newman withdrew from the public eye as he grappled with grief. He shared in an interview that he would wake up in the middle of the night, thinking of conversations they never had. Friends recalled how Paul’s eyes would well up whenever Scott’s name was mentioned, even years later. It was during this period that he began reflecting deeply on the nature of addiction, how it destroyed families, and how society often treated it as a moral failure rather than a disease.
By 1980, Paul had decided to channel his grief into action. Alongside his family, he established the Scott Newman Center in Los Angeles, dedicated to educating young people about the dangers of drug and alcohol abuse. The center focused on prevention through peer-to-peer outreach, educational programs in schools, and providing resources for parents. Paul was personally involved, attending events, speaking to teenagers, and lending his name and credibility to the cause. He believed that if Scott’s story could reach even one person and steer them away from drugs, his son’s life would have a lasting impact.
Paul’s philanthropic work expanded in the years that followed, but the Scott Newman Center remained deeply personal. Even when he later launched the Newman’s Own brand in 1982 to fund charitable causes, he often singled out the center as a mission born from love and loss. In public talks, he admitted that philanthropy had helped him cope with grief, giving him a purpose beyond acting and racing. He did not romanticize the pain, but he acknowledged that working to save other young lives gave Scott’s memory a sense of meaning.
Over time, Paul spoke more openly about the challenges parents face when trying to help children battling addiction. He warned against denial and stressed the importance of early intervention. In one candid reflection, he said, “I thought my job was to let him find his own way, but sometimes love needs to be more hands-on.” That admission resonated with countless parents who had faced similar heartbreak.
The loss of Scott was something Paul carried privately even as the world saw him as a Hollywood icon. Those who knew him well said that no award, box office success, or professional milestone ever outweighed the void left by his son’s absence. Yet, by turning that pain into advocacy, he ensured Scott’s story would be told in classrooms, community centers, and public forums for decades to come.
Even in his later years, when his career was winding down, Paul would still attend events connected to the Scott Newman Center, speaking to audiences with the same conviction as he had in the early 1980s. He understood that while he could not change the past, he could help shape the future for others.
The grief never disappeared, but it became a force for good, transforming personal tragedy into a mission that protected countless young lives and kept Scott’s name alive in the most meaningful way possible.

A pastor asked an older farmer, decked out in bib overalls, to say grace for the morning breakfast.
"Lord, I hate buttermilk", the farmer began. The visiting pastor opened one eye to glance at the farmer and wonder where this was going.
The farmer loudly proclaimed, "Lord, I hate lard." Now the pastor was growing concerned.
Without missing a beat, the farmer continued, "And Lord, you know I don't much care for raw white flour". The pastor once again opened an eye to glance around the room and saw that he wasn't the only one to feel uncomfortable.
Then the farmer added, "But Lord, when you mix them all together and bake them, I do love warm fresh biscuits. So Lord, when things come up that we don't like, when life gets hard, when we don't understand what you're saying to us, help us to just relax and wait until you are done mixing. It will probably be even better than biscuits. Amen."
Within that prayer there is great wisdom for all when it comes to complicated situations like we are experiencing in the world today.
Stay strong, my friends, because our LORD is mixing several things that we don't really care for, but something even better is going to come when HE is done with it. AMEN!

On Christmas Eve 1968, as Apollo 8 orbited the Moon, astronaut Jim Lovell joined his crewmates in reading from Genesis 1: “In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth.”
Broadcast to millions back on Earth, those words cut through the darkness of space and the turbulence of the times, reminding a weary world that the same God who hung the stars in place is still the Author of all life.
Today, we remember Jim Lovell not only for his bravery as a pioneer of space exploration, but also for his quiet and profound witness—pointing humanity’s gaze beyond the moon, to the One who created it. His life and words still call us to lift our eyes to the heavens and give glory to the Creator who made it all.

Two meals...one burnt after an hour at 900°F, the other cooked to perfection after three hours at 300°F.
Same ingredients.
Different results.
It was such a solid reminder:
Growth isn't about rushing. It's about the right pace.
In a world that glorifies speed and hustle, we forget that some of the best things in life.... skills, success, even healing...take time.
So if your journey feels slow right now, don't stress.
You're not falling behind.
You might just be slow-cooking something exceptional.

💖✨ When Audrey Hepburn was once asked about her beauty secrets, she penned a remarkable message—words so powerful they were later shared at her funeral. Her advice?

🌸 For lovely lips, speak words of kindness.
👀 For beautiful eyes, see the good in others.
🍽️ To stay slim, share your food with the hungry.
👧🏻 For gorgeous hair, let a child run their fingers through it daily.
🚶🏻‍♀️ For graceful posture, walk with the knowledge you're never alone, because those who love and have loved you walk beside you.

She believed in nurturing people even more than things—never giving up on anyone, always caring, helping, and loving.

Audrey reminded us that beauty isn’t found in clothes, makeup, or hairstyles, but in the warmth of the eyes, reflecting the heart, the tenderness of the soul, and the passion with which we live.

True beauty, she said, only grows deeper with time. 🌹❤️

To the person who broke into our fireworks stand and drove off with thousands of dollars worth of inventory in the back of your Dodge truck—thank you.

Not because we enjoyed waking up to damaged buildings and missing product. Not because theft is ever justified. But because your actions reminded me of something bigger: people are hurting.

And when someone risks everything to steal in the early morning hours, under cover of darkness, with multiple cameras, they probably don’t need punishment as much as they need help.

So here’s what we want to say:

No hard feelings.

We weren’t called to mirror the darkness—we were called to shine through it. When the world hands us hate, we hand back grace. Not because they deserve it, but because He gave it to us first. We don’t match this world… we rise above it.

� “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” – Romans 12:2
� “Do not repay anyone evil for evil… Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” – Romans 12:17, 21
� “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you.” – Luke 6:27

You clearly needed something more than we needed those fireworks. If you’re reading this—or if someone who knows you is—I want to offer you $200 cash. No questions asked. Not as a reward for stealing, but as a small act of grace to help you get back on your feet. If you’re willing to come forward, I’ll even offer you a job. Really.

Because maybe what you need more than fireworks… is a fresh start.

We lead Johnny Fireworks with faith, grace, and hope. And we believe in second chances more than we fbelieve in revenge.

So if you’re out there—or if someone recognizes this truck—share this post. Not to shame you. But to reach you.

License Plate: WMM9533

Let’s turn a loss into a story of redemption.

No judgment. No cops. No shame. Just a hand up.
“PLEASE SHARE” - Johnny Fireworks Little Red Barn

Being a good person is a choice. Don't let people fool you into believing that truly good people never have bad thoughts, are never tempted by the easier path, by the low road, never mess up or act out selfishly. Never believe a person can be good without making a conscious effort.

Every single time you do something good, you've made a decision to make the world a little brighter.

Goodness is not an inherent trait, it is a choice. Keep making it! I see you, I'm proud of you, and I'm rooting for you!