She said it the way one might mention the weather—inevitable, already decided by something larger than either of us.

“We’re going to volunteer at Sovereignty Ranch for the fall festival.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of purpose.

Sovereignty Ranch—tucked into the hills of Bandera, Texas—was founded in 2021 as a sanctuary for faith, stewardship, and service. It is a living testament to what can happen when people return to the land not as owners, but as caretakers of God’s creation.

Dedicated to regenerative farming, the ranch exists to restore the earth to its purest form—so it can once again yield the very best food that God intended for us. Those who work here understand this sacred exchange: we are not the masters of the soil; we are its stewards. Sovereignty Ranch is filled with people who know that tending the land is a form of prayer, and that service—to God, to the earth, and to one another—is the highest harvest of all.

Adi has always had a servant’s heart. When she loves a cause, she doesn’t ask how or when; she simply steps into motion. I’ve come to see that’s how she loves God too—with both feet on the ground and no hesitation in her yes.

“How long are we going?” I asked, though we both knew the conversation had already shifted from discussion to logistics.

“However long they need us.”

I nodded, half committed, half clinging to comfort.

That night, I went to bed thinking I’d probably find a reason not to go. But somewhere around two in the morning, I woke to a clarity that didn’t belong to dreams.

“Go to Sovereignty Ranch,” God said. “I want you to serve in My Name.”

Oh yes—it was clearly God. The All-Knowing Voice. Guidance untouched by anything less than pure. It was unmistakable—inscrutable—powerful. It didn’t arrive as sound, but as certainty, echoing through the deepest part of me. 

When God speaks, even softly, there’s no room left for negotiation.

At dawn, we stirred awake, the first light slipping through the curtains. Adi turned toward me, her eyes calm, already carrying the quiet knowing that always seems to reach her first.

“We’re going to Sovereignty Ranch,” I said, my voice rough with sleep. “God sent me a message in the middle of the night.”

She smiled, peaceful and unsurprised. “I prayed to God last night before we fell asleep to reach you in the night.”

For a moment, we just looked at each other, the silence between us thick with awe. Two prayers—one spoken, one received—meeting somewhere in the dark.

Thrown into the Mix

We arrived at Sovereignty Ranch in the late afternoon on Thursday, the five-hour drive from Galveston unwinding behind us like a ribbon of resolve. The air in Bandera carried that faint sweetness of mesquite and sun-warmed dust—the kind that makes you feel both far from everything and exactly where you’re meant to be.

The restaurant was calm, the afternoon rush fading into the quiet hum of dishes and conversation. Mollie Englehart, the owner, greeted us with open arms and the kind of warmth that can only come from exhaustion tempered by faith. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink?” she asked, already halfway to the kitchen.

Through a series of unexpected turns, much of the staff had thinned, but not vanished. A few loyalists remained—each one a story unto themselves. Some were professionals with other careers who had set aside their own lives to help during the shortage. Others were longtime members of the ranch family—relatives of Elias, many of whom had come from Mexico or from California, where Mollie and Elias once ran a ranch before 2021. They hadn’t grown up under this Bandera sky, but they carried with them the same steadfast devotion to the land and to God’s work. Their roots ran deep in faith and soil alike, and though the setting had changed, their purpose had not. Together, they stood as family—not merely by blood, but by calling—and they weren’t about to let this sacred ground falter.

There was a quiet nobility in it all, this unlikely collection of souls gathered around a shared sense of purpose. You could feel it in the air—the kind of devotion that can’t be hired, only born.

For me, it had been years since I’d worked in a restaurant. Back when I was struggling to become a comedian, restaurant work was both my safety net and my stage. I bartended, waited tables—did whatever I had to do to keep the lights on while chasing a dream that hadn’t yet learned to feed me. Those nights were full of promises—glimpses of future laughter from the stage—yet exhaustion always found a way to quiet the dream, if only for a moment in time.

All of it came rushing back when Mollie looked at us with tired eyes and said, “Can you work the bar?” Then to Adi, “Would you mind running the register?”

There was no time for training. The war had already begun—metaphorically, but no less intense.

Whatever muscle memory I once had behind a bar was gone. My so-called expertise had been reduced to a willing heart. Yet, somehow, that was enough.

In the midst of the battle, an order came in—an Old Fashioned. I froze. The recipe hovered just out of reach, like a word on the tip of the tongue. Years ago, I could’ve made one blindfolded, but now I stood there, an unarmed soldier behind enemy lines of bitters and bourbon. Before I could admit defeat, the man who’d ordered it—Andrew—smiled and leaned forward, his tone kind, his timing perfect, as if he’d seen this scene before and knew his line by heart.

“Here, let me walk you through it.”

I followed his gentle instructions step by step, stirring carefully, praying silently. I knew it wasn’t perfect—too sweet, not enough bitters—but Andrew lifted the glass, took a sip, and said, “It’s great. Just the way I like it.”

And in that moment, grace tasted a little like bourbon and orange peel.

The End of the First Day

Our first Friday came to a close. Ten hours on my feet left me both drained and strangely full. I hadn’t worked like that in years—not since the days when hard work was survival. By the time the final plates were cleared, I could feel the fatigue deep in my bones.

Yet beneath it all was gratitude. I realized how blessed we’ve been—how far removed we are from this kind of daily labor. For us, this mission had an end date. For Mollie and Elias, it’s life itself. Every morning brings new challenges, new faces, and the sacred obligation to show up again.

There’s no room for self-doubt or perfection here. Only the rhythm of obedience—show up, serve, and listen for God’s next call.

That night, the heavens opened. Rain came in torrents, lightning split the horizon, thunder rolled across the hills like a drumbeat from another time. I heard none of it. I slept the sleep of surrender—deep, dreamless, and certain only of this: morning would come, and with it, something unseen was waiting.

I told myself I’d stay a week, maybe ten days. That much I could do. But somewhere beneath the comfort of that thought, I already knew—
God wasn’t finished.

More to come…

David