Splinters and Grace

(Testimony, fiction)

I’m Josh—52, carpenter, hands worn from planing oak and a life I nearly split wide. Grew up in Indiana, preacher’s kid—Dad’s sermons boomed, Mom stitched quilts to hold us steady. Church was duty—Sunday ties, guilt for thoughts I couldn’t shake. Bolted at 16—roofed houses in summer, shoveled snow in winter. Twenties and thirties blurred—bar shifts, steel mill nights, chasing calm in dim glow. Men tugged me—not women—something rooted, not romance. Hid it in bottles and screens.

Mill shut at 35—learned carpentry under an old vet, cig smoke and soft cusses. Married at 38—Ellen, kind, flower shop gal—thought it’d anchor me. Four years, done by 42—couldn’t close the distance, not her fault. She dreamed of kids; I chased peace I couldn’t grab. Alone, I’d watch clips—two guys sharing a woman, laughing close, not lovers. That pull—warm, not wild—stirred me deep, a bond I misread ‘til it sank in.

Hit bottom at 47—laid off, whiskey-drowned, shop gone. A roofing pal hauled me to a prayer night—Christ met me, not with fire, but a steady lift (Psalm 40:2—out of the mire). Five years in faith—still feel that hum, a guy’s easy grin at the lumber yard, echoes of those scenes. Not chasing flesh—just connection, quiet and true, His now.

Heart’s ache? Brotherhood—real, not barstool chatter. Thought I’d end solo—shamed for loving men my way, wired off by old reels. Faith’s teaching me—grace don’t fit molds. Men can love men—pure, strong—outside the lines (1 Samuel 18:1—souls tied, no script). Talks with others seeking this—they’re showing faith’s a joiner’s craft, not a lone cut.

Struggles linger—quiet nights pinch, that hum flares when I’m beat. But I’m learning—prayer steadies, men lift men. Covenant’s no dream—it’s hands clasped, hearts open, Christ in the grain (John 15:15—friends, not strangers). Soul’s waking—splinters don’t own me, grace does. This path—rare, real—teaches love ain’t what I feared, but what He builds.