OPERATION RISE AGAIN

Johnny Joey Jones Returns to the Field Where He Learned to Walk — This Time, to Help Others Stand

The fog still clung to the Georgia pines when Johnny Joey Jones pulled into the old rehabilitation field. The morning light was pale and uncertain, like the first breath of a new beginning. Dew shimmered on the grass. The air smelled faintly of rain and red clay.

For a long moment, he sat in the truck, engine idling, prosthetic legs still, watching the mist drift over the track where his life had once changed.

It had been nearly fifteen years since he first stepped — or rather, stumbled — across that same stretch of ground. Back then, it was part of his own recovery. The place where a 24-year-old Marine, newly home from Afghanistan, learned to walk again on two titanium legs.

Now, he was back. Not to relearn how to stand, but to teach others how.

A Full-Circle Morning

The small group waiting at the field that morning were all, in one way or another, survivors — wounded veterans, amputees, children born with disabilities. Some in wheelchairs, some with prosthetics, some just beginning to believe that their bodies still held power.

They called him “Coach Joey.”

“Morning, y’all,” he said, hopping out of his truck with the same easy grin that made him a fixture on national television. “You ready to move some mountains today?”

The group laughed nervously. They had all seen him on Fox & Friends, talking about faith, resilience, and the lessons of war. But here, he wasn’t a television personality or a motivational speaker. He was one of them — a man who’d fought his way back from the edge and built a bridge for others to cross.

This was Operation Rise Again, a program Johnny founded two years ago to help wounded veterans and disabled children regain strength, confidence, and purpose through physical and emotional rehabilitation.

“Everybody deserves a second chance at standing tall,” he said. “Doesn’t matter if you’ve got legs or not.”

The Man Behind the Mission

Johnny Joey Jones’s story has been told many times — but never seems to lose its power.

He grew up in Dalton, Georgia, a small town of carpet mills and hard-working families. He joined the Marines right out of high school, fueled by patriotism and a restless drive to do something bigger than himself.

By 2010, he had become an Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) technician, serving in Afghanistan. It was a dangerous job — one of the deadliest in the military. And on August 6, 2010, his luck ran out.

A homemade bomb detonated beneath him, blowing off both his legs above the knee and shattering his right arm.

“I remember thinking, ‘Well, that’s it,’” he said later. “And then the next thought I had was, ‘Don’t let them see you scared.’”

He was airlifted out of the war zone and spent months at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. There, amid pain and prosthetics, something unexpected happened.

“I met other guys worse off than me,” he said. “Blind, burned, missing limbs. And you know what? They weren’t complaining. They were laughing. Competing. Living. That’s when I decided — if they can rise again, so can I.”

From Patient to Teacher

The first time Johnny tried to walk on prosthetics, he fell. Hard. The next day, he fell again. And again. But he kept showing up.

“I told my therapist, ‘If I can make it through boot camp, I can make it through this.’”

That stubbornness paid off. Within months, he was walking. Then running. Then mentoring other amputees who were just beginning their journeys.

He went on to become a motivational speaker, a veterans’ advocate, and eventually, a television host. But deep down, he never forgot the field where he first took those steps.

“Every success I’ve had,” he said, “started right there — on the ground.”

So when he decided to launch Operation Rise Again, there was no question where it would begin: back on that same rehab field in Georgia.

Building the Mission

Operation Rise Again started small — just Johnny, a handful of volunteers, and a few veterans who needed help adjusting to prosthetics. But word spread quickly.

Soon, parents began calling. Could their children — kids born with limb differences, muscular dystrophy, or spinal injuries — join the program too?

Johnny didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he said. “This isn’t just about soldiers. It’s about warriors — of every kind.”

Today, Operation Rise Again runs weekly sessions that combine physical therapy with personal mentorship. Veterans teach kids how to navigate wheelchairs, how to use prosthetic limbs, and most importantly, how to believe in themselves again.

There’s laughter, music, and a lot of falling down — followed by a lot of getting back up.

One little girl named Addie, who lost her leg to cancer, calls Johnny her hero.

“He makes me feel like I can do anything,” she said, her voice small but sure. “He says falling is just practice for standing taller.”

A Morning of Miracles

That foggy morning, Johnny led the group through simple drills — balancing, stretching, walking short distances. Each step was a triumph.

When a veteran named Mark, who’d lost his left leg in a motorcycle accident, hesitated, Johnny walked beside him, matching his rhythm.

“Don’t look at the ground,” Johnny said gently. “Look where you’re going.”

Mark nodded, took a shaky breath, and lifted his prosthetic foot. The crowd clapped as he took his first unaided steps.

A few yards away, Addie was trying to climb a small incline on her new leg. She stumbled once, twice, then gritted her teeth and made it to the top. Johnny whooped and high-fived her.

“That’s my girl!” he said.

The field echoed with applause.

It wasn’t a scene of pity or sadness — it was victory, multiplied by courage.

 

 

 

 

The Philosophy of Rising

Ask Johnny what the program is really about, and he’ll tell you it’s not physical therapy. It’s spiritual.

“We don’t just rebuild bodies here,” he said. “We rebuild belief.”

He tells his students that losing something — a limb, a job, a dream — doesn’t mean losing everything.

“You get to choose what your second life looks like,” he said. “You get to write the next chapter. And you can’t do that sitting down.”

His words carry weight not because they’re poetic, but because they’re proven.

“I’m not special,” he insists. “I just got tired of feeling sorry for myself. And I had people who refused to give up on me. Now it’s my turn to do that for someone else.”

The Lives He’s Changed

One of those “someone elses” is Corporal Brandon Lewis, a Marine who lost his right arm and leg in a training accident.

“When I first came here,” Lewis said, “I was angry at the world. I didn’t think I’d ever be whole again.”

He paused, glancing at Johnny, who was helping a child adjust her prosthetic knee nearby.

“Then this guy showed up,” Lewis continued. “He didn’t talk about being tough. He just showed me that tough doesn’t mean invincible. It means you fall and still laugh.”

Now, Lewis volunteers at Operation Rise Again full-time.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever done,” he said. “Helping others heal is how I healed myself.”

The Children

For the kids, the program feels more like summer camp than therapy. They race through obstacle courses, play soccer, and build lifelong friendships.

Many of them have never met other children with prosthetics before. Here, they see themselves reflected — not as patients, but as champions.

A mother named Carla said her son Ethan, who was born without a left foot, changed completely after joining.

“He used to hide his leg under long pants,” she said. “Now he shows it off and calls it his ‘bionic foot.’”

When asked how that transformation happened, she smiled through tears.

“Johnny told him, ‘God didn’t make you less — He made you unique.’ I think that was the first time my boy believed it.”

The Broader Mission

Beyond the field, Operation Rise Again partners with prosthetic companies, schools, and veterans’ organizations to expand its reach. The goal isn’t just rehabilitation — it’s reintegration.

Johnny’s team organizes job fairs, mental health workshops, and family retreats. They even host an annual “Rise Gala,” where graduates share their stories and celebrate milestones.

Last year’s keynote speaker was a 10-year-old double amputee who stood at the podium, steady and proud, and said, “Because of Mr. Joey, I don’t dream of walking anymore — I dream of running.”

The crowd gave her a standing ovation.

Why It Matters

For Johnny, this work is personal.

“When I was lying in that hospital bed, I didn’t know if I’d ever have a reason to smile again,” he said. “Then one day, a little kid came up to me and said, ‘Are you a robot?’ It made me laugh. That’s when I realized — maybe my scars could make someone else feel strong.”

He calls Operation Rise Again “a thank-you note to the world.”

“It’s my way of saying, ‘Look — even broken things can build something beautiful.’”

A Veteran’s Vision

At sunset, the fog finally lifted from the Georgia field. The last of the students packed up, waving goodbye as they headed home.

Johnny lingered, gazing across the grass. His prosthetic feet pressed into the same earth that had once felt impossible to cross.

He smiled.

“This place gave me my life back,” he said quietly. “Now it’s giving life to others.”

He picked up a football someone had left behind, spun it in his hands, and tossed it toward a group of kids in the distance. They laughed, chasing it across the field.

The laughter echoed through the trees — a sound of defiance, of hope, of rising again.

Epilogue: Standing Tall

A week later, a local paper ran a photo of that morning’s session: Johnny kneeling beside a child adjusting her prosthetic foot, both of them smiling in the sunlight. The caption read:

“The man who learned to walk again now teaches others how to stand.”

In a world often hungry for heroes, Johnny Joey Jones isn’t interested in being one.

“I’m not a hero,” he said. “I’m just proof that life doesn’t end when your legs do.”

He looked out over the field once more — quiet now, bathed in evening gold — and whispered a phrase he often tells his students:

“We don’t fall to stay down. We fall to rise again.”

And with that, he turned toward his truck, ready to come back tomorrow, ready to keep lifting others — one step, one stumble, one rise at a time.