The Good Guys Are Always Supposed to Help

I grew up in that beautiful window of time when Saturday morning still meant something.

You couldn’t just pull up any show you wanted whenever you wanted. You waited all week. And when Saturday finally came, it felt like an event.

Mom’s breakfast burrito in hand. The TV was glowing. No pause button. No streaming menu. No “next episode” countdown. No endless scroll asking if you were still watching.

You were watching.

You had to.

Because if you missed it, you missed it. There was no rewinding.

That was just the deal.

G.I. Joe. MacGyver. ThunderCats. Transformers. He-Man. Hogan’s Heroes. Combat!

That was some of my lineup.

In those TV shows, there was imagination, discipline, courage, patriotism, and adventure before I even knew how to explain any of those words.

G.I. Joe taught me that knowing was half the battle. Transformers reminded me that there was usually more than meets the eye. ThunderCats and He-Man made courage feel loud, bold, and heroic. Hogan’s Heroes had that old-school grit, humor, and resistance built into it.

And Combat!—well, Combat! did something different to me.

That show made service feel real. It showed grit, brotherhood, danger, sacrifice, and men moving forward when things were hard because somebody had to. I honestly believe Combat! was one of several reasons I became a police officer. My football coach sealed the deal on that for sure!

It’s amazing how stories shape you and me into what eventually makes us, us.

The shows you watch, the men you admire, the things you see your father do when nobody is handing out awards—all of that gets inside you. It forms something real.

For me, the message was pretty simple: The good guys? Well, they’re supposed to help!

And I saw that in real life, too.

I had my own real-life MacGyver. His name was Chet.

Chet and I were childhood buddies, and I don’t remember exactly what he finagled together back then. I just remember that he had that same kind of can-do spirit I had grown up around.

Zip ties. Electrical tape. Whatever was lying around.

There was always a way to make something work.

Some of that came from him. Most of it came from my dad.

Not everything had to be perfect. Not everything had to be planned down to the last detail. Sometimes you just looked at what you had, used your head, and got moving.

Because MacGyver was cool on TV. But Chet was real.

And so was my dad’s way of facing life.

My dad showed me that “we’ll figure it out” way, too. He could be tough, no doubt, but he also had this wild, practical optimism about life.

“Let’s go on vacation,” he’d say, “because the bills will always be there!”

And as a kid, you don’t realize how much wisdom is packed into something like that.

Now I do.

He was not saying to be careless. He was saying life is still meant to be lived. Family memories matter. Time together matters. You can spend your whole life waiting until everything is perfect, or you can load up, make the memory, and figure out the rest as you go.

When my dad was growing up, his nickname was “The Figure.” He was not a perfect man, because none of us are, but he was certainly a figure to those around him, especially his brothers. The kind of man other guys noticed. The kind of man people wanted to be like. The kind of man who tried to do the right thing, even when doing the right thing was not easy.

My dad certainly shaped my idea of courage more than anybody.

I remember one night when our neighbor was in trouble. Her husband was menacing, and the whole thing was terrifying to me.

I was scared.

I mean, really scared.

I did not understand everything that was happening, but I understood enough to know it was serious.

And I watched my dad step in.

He did not look away. He did not pretend it was none of his business. He did not wait for somebody else to care first.

He helped her.

I could not see the whole commotion, but I could hear the situation. My mom and I were safely tucked away in our house, and I could tell he was standing his ground. I was certainly glad when the police showed up. Dad had backup then!

Persistence, grit, and that protective strength he had always shown.

Man, I miss him.

That night, among the other thousand actions he took during my life with him, I especially learned that when someone needs help, you help.

My dad also had a way of making sure I understood consequences. I used to believe that if I ever got involved with drugs, he was not just going to spank me, ground me, or sit me down for a long talk.

In my young mind, I was convinced he would just about kill me before he let drugs kill me.

Now, looking back, maybe my imagination made that sound harsher than it really was. But I understood the heart behind it.

He loved me fiercely. He loved all of us kids so much. He wanted better for his kids. He wanted to keep me from heartache before I ever had to learn from it the hard way.

That is the kind of thing America 250 makes me think about. All the sacrifices of the dads and moms from bygone times, and the can-do spirit they exhibited, made America—and us—what we are.

Yes, I love the flags, fireworks, cookouts, parades, and all the red, white, and blue that come with celebrating this country. But underneath all of that, America 250 makes me think about the people who shaped us: the fathers, neighbors, fixers, protectors, veterans, officers, teachers, and ordinary folks who stepped up when stepping up was needed.

The kind of people who did not always say much, but showed you, through their actions, what courage looked like.

Public service can look like a uniform or a patrol car, sure. But it can also look like a father standing firm in a scary moment, a friend with a git-’er-done attitude and zip ties and electrical tape refusing to let a problem win, a family being raised with backbone, a neighbor being helped when it would be easier to close the blinds, or a small, honest business being built around the stories you want to pass down.

That is what America 250 means to me.

Not perfect people. Not perfect families. And certainly not a perfect history. But people who keep trying to do right anyway—people who build, protect, remember, step in, and refuse to let fear have the final word.

And maybe that is why those old shows still mean something to me.

Because they were not really just about cartoons, gadgets, battles, or heroes. They were about becoming the kind of person who does something. Who helps. Who stands. The kind of person who sees trouble and doesn’t just change the channel.

Today, everything is instant. Cartoons are 24/7. Whole seasons drop in weeks or all at once. You can binge in one evening what we used to wait weeks to watch.

And I’m not going to lie—that is pretty cool.

But I still think we lost something when we lost the waiting.

Waiting made Saturday feel like Saturday. Waiting made small things feel big. Waiting gave stories time to settle in.

Those stories had more room to shape us because we were not rushing through them. We had time to sit with them. We had time to remember them. We had time to replay them in the backyard, in the driveway, with action figures, banana-seat bikes, cardboard boxes, sticks, and whatever else we could turn into a mission.

We did not need a perfect setup.

We just needed imagination and a Chet.

Of course, even he needed some help, like a few zip ties and some electrical tape.

America, Land of the Free, is turning 250.

That is a big deal.

But for me, this milestone is not just about 1776. It is about what got handed down: the values, the warnings, the examples, the courage, the service, the grit, and the belief that freedom is not just something you wave.

It is something you live!

You live it in your home, in your work, in how you treat your neighbor, in whether you are willing to help when help is needed, and in whether you still believe this country is worth building into something better.

That is what I want this Fourth of July and America 250 collection to carry.

Not loud patriotism just for the sake of being loud. Not red, white, and blue because it happens to sell in July.

Something deeper.

A memory. A conviction. A thank-you. A reminder that the good guys—and gals!—are supposed to help, and they do. Every day!

I learned that on Saturday morning. I learned it from Combat! I learned it from Reagan-era patriotism. I learned it from Chet. I learned it from my dad.

And somewhere along the way, it has become part of me, too.

That is why I served as a LEO. That is why I still care that liberty still stands. That is why stories matter to me. And that is why I believe what we wear can say something true about who we are and what we still stand for. 

And now, as we head into Fourth of July weekend, all of this feels even more personal.

We get to have my niece and her husband with us. She has been craving family time more deeply, especially after the losses our family has walked through over these last few years. And honestly, I get it. It saddens me, too. I try to remember how precious a table full of people is, because someday there will be an empty seat.

My sister will be here too—the same sister who almost did not make it through COVID. That is always enough to make me stop and thank God for His mercy on her. 

Then there is my brother-in-law, who was just in a very serious accident only days ago. A man lost his leg. My brother-in-law is okay, and again, I thank God for His mercy. My BIL is shaken up, no doubt, but he is still here with us. And even the man who was badly hurt, as much as he is suffering, is still alive.

Daily life “happenings,” or should I say the stories we live, change the way you look at a Fourth of July semiquincentennial weekend.

Wow, that’s a big word.

It makes the hamburgers, hot dogs, fireworks, laughing, folding chairs, and family conversations feel extra special.

It makes you realize that the blessing is not just the holiday.

The blessing is not just the holiday. The blessing is having family still here to share it with. 

Some of our Texas Panhandle family will be unable to join us this weekend, and we will miss them. But soon enough, we will be together in DFW, celebrating my 50th birthday.

Which feels pretty fitting, honestly.

America is turning 250. Happy Birthday America!

I’m stepping into 50. 

A bicentennial baby looking at a semiquincentennial country and realizing more and more that time is a gift.

Family is a gift.

Freedom is a gift.

And none of it should be taken for granted.

Maybe that is why Ben Rector’s line keeps coming back to me: “The best is yet to come.”

I love that.

Not because everything behind us was perfect. It wasn’t.

Not because America has no scars. It does.

Not because our families have not carried grief, fear, close calls, hospital rooms, hard phone calls, or empty chairs.

They have.

I love it because gratitude looks backward while hope looks forward. 

And somewhere between the two, you decide what kind of person you are going to be.

That is what America 250 feels like to me.

A chance to remember what shaped us. A chance to honor the people who stood when standing mattered. A chance to thank God for the people still sitting around the table. A chance to look at our kids, our families, our neighbors, and our country and still believe there is more good worth building.

The best is not behind us.

Not if we keep helping.

Not if we keep serving.

Not if we keep showing up.

Not if we keep gathering.

Not if we remember that the good guys are supposed to help.

America is 250 years into the story.

Still imperfect, loud, and beautiful. Still unfinished. Still worth fighting for, still worth serving, and still worth passing down.

And for sure, that is the point.

We do not have to be perfect to be faithful.

We just have to keep showing up, keep building, keep helping, and keep remembering—and when the moment comes, be willing to stand between trouble and someone who needs a good guy or gal. 

—Gabriel
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Grateful you’re walking this journey with me. See you next time.