CovenantRoad

Category: Fiction

  • The Gift of Us

    Scene: Micah and Luke sit by a campfire under a wide Tennessee sky, embers popping soft. Micah’s got a stick in hand, poking at the flames—restless. Luke’s leaning back against a log, steady as ever, watching his brother wrestle.

    Micah tossed the stick into the fire and let out a long breath. “Luke, I’ve been thinking about us—about this.” He gestured between them, voice tight. “What we’ve got—it’s good, man—but sometimes I wonder if it could be more.”

    Luke tilted his head, eyes catching the firelight. “More how?”

    Micah shifted, boots scuffing the dirt. “You know—like closer. Deeper. Maybe step it up—cross that line. I feel it sometimes—this pull—and I think it’d make us stronger.”

    Luke sat quiet for a moment, letting the words settle. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at Micah—steady, warm. “I feel it too, brother—that pull. Chest gets tight, lower parts stir—I’m not blind to it. But stronger? Nah, I don’t buy that.”

    Micah frowned, picking up another stick to fidget with. “Why not? Isn’t that what love does—grows bigger, takes you somewhere new? We’re tight—closer than I’ve ever been with anyone. Feels like the next step’s right there.”

    Luke nodded slow, like he was weighing every word Micah spilled. “I get it—feels natural, right? World says if it’s this deep, it’s gotta go there—romance, bodies, all in. But listen—I’ve been down that road in my head—felt the hum—thought crossing’d make it more. It doesn’t.”

    Micah’s grip tightened on the stick. “How do you know? What if it’s better—what if it’s what we’re meant for?”

    Luke exhaled, his breath curling in the cool night air. “Because I’ve seen what’s on the other side—not with you, but with others—back when I was lost. It’s fire, sure—but it burns out. Starts hot, ends cold—leaves you empty, chasing the next spark. What we’ve got? This right here?” He tapped his chest, then pointed at Micah. “This is warm—steady—keeps going. Doesn’t need to cross to be real.”

    Micah looked away, firelight carving shadows on his face. “But I feel it, Luke—stronger some days than others. Like it’s telling me something—telling us something.”

    Luke leaned in closer, voice dropping low but sure. “I know you feel it—I do too. That’s not a lie, and it’s not wrong. It’s just our wiring—old echoes kicking up—heart, body, all of it. But God’s not teasing us with that—He’s not dangling it to pull it back. He’s giving us something else—something bigger. This bond—this covenant—it’s a gift, man. Doesn’t need more to be everything.”

    Micah’s jaw worked, eyes still on the flames. “Feels like we’re holding back, though—like we’re missing out.”

    Luke shook his head, a faint smile tugging his lips. “We’re not missing—we’re holding onto what lasts. You cross that line, it shifts—turns inward—gets tangled—needs more to keep it alive. This?” He gestured between them, same as Micah had. “This stands free—soul deep—God’s breath in it. I’ve got you here—whole, steady—don’t need to own you to love you. That’s better—way better—than any step up the world’s pushing.”

    Micah let the stick fall—watched it catch in the embers—quiet stretching between them. “You really think it’s enough—just this?”

    Luke reached over, clapped a hand on Micah’s shoulder—warm, firm. “Enough? Brother, it’s more than I ever hoped for. You’re my rock—I’m yours—nothing shakes that. God’s not withholding—He’s handing us gold—love that don’t bend, don’t break. Feel that pull—sure—but let it sit—give it to Him. We’re stronger right where we stand.”

    Micah exhaled slow—nodded once—eyes softening as the fire crackled low. “I hear you. Just… takes some unlearning, you know?”

    Luke’s grin widened—hand still on Micah’s shoulder. “Yeah—I know. Took me a while too—still does some days. But we’ve got this—together—God’s got us. Ain’t nothing better than that.”

    Micah smiled—small but real—leaning into the warmth of Luke’s grip. The night stretched quiet around them—fire glowing steady—and for the first time in a while, the pull didn’t feel like a fight.

    It felt like a gift.

  • Still Here

    Brother,

    The road’s been long, hasn’t it? Feels like we’ve walked a thousand miles, some side by side, some with distance stretching wide between us. Some with laughter shaking our ribs, some with silence too thick to cut through.

    But I’m still here.

    And I need you to know—I see you.

    I see the weight in your eyes, the fight in your bones, the way you press forward even when it feels like you’re dragging something heavy behind you. I know that feeling. I know how some days it’s easy to carry, and some days it knocks the wind out of you.

    And I know the lie that sneaks in when the nights are too quiet—that you’re doing this alone.

    But you’re not.

    Brotherhood isn’t built in loud moments. It’s built in the quiet ones. The ones where a hand grips your shoulder and says, I see you, even when you don’t say a word. The ones where you don’t have to ask for help, because someone already knows you need it.

    That’s us.

    Covenant ain’t about words spoken once and left to fade. It’s about staying, even when it’s hard. Even when life pulls in different directions. Even when we don’t have the words, but we still show up.

    So if you’re out there wondering if this bond still holds, if I still see you, if I still have your back—

    The answer’s yes.

    Still here, brother.

    Always.

  • The Night We Almost Walked Away

    Eli was already halfway to his truck when Jason called after him.

    “So that’s it?” Jason’s voice was sharp, cutting through the cold night air. “You’re really just gonna leave?”

    Eli stopped but didn’t turn around. His shoulders were tight, hands curled into fists at his sides. “Man, I don’t know what else to do.”

    Jason stepped closer, his pulse hammering. “You fight. That’s what you do.”

    Eli let out a dry laugh. “Yeah? ‘Cause it sure don’t feel like you’ve been fighting for this.”

    Jason flinched. That one landed.

    Eli finally turned, his jaw clenched. “You pull away every time things get hard, and I just—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I can’t keep being the only one holding this together.”

    Jason exhaled hard, looking at the ground. He hated that Eli was right.

    Eli shook his head. “Look, I know I’m not perfect. But I show up. I tell you when I’m struggling. And you—” He gestured vaguely, frustration tightening his voice. “You just bury it. Act like you’re fine even when you’re not. And somehow, I’m supposed to just know what’s going on with you?”

    Jason’s chest burned. “It’s not that easy for me, alright?”

    “Yeah? Well, it ain’t easy for me either.” Eli’s voice was rough now, strained. “You’re not the only one who’s been through some stuff, J.”

    Jason looked up then, met Eli’s eyes—dark with hurt, with exhaustion.

    And it hit him all at once.

    This wasn’t just some petty argument. This wasn’t about one bad night or a stupid misunderstanding.

    This was Eli saying, I can’t be the only one holding this line.

    Jason swallowed hard. “You’re right.”

    Eli blinked, caught off guard.

    Jason stepped closer, voice quieter now. “You’re right, man. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to let someone in when everything in me says I gotta handle it alone.” He shook his head. “But I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you.”

    Eli just looked at him for a second, something unreadable in his face.

    Jason hesitated, then reached out—gripped the back of Eli’s neck, firm, grounding. “Don’t go, man. I need you to stay.”

    Eli’s breath hitched. For a second, Jason thought he might shove him off, might say it’s too late.

    But then—Eli’s shoulders dropped. The tension bled out of him, and he let out a long, shaky breath.

    “Alright,” he muttered. “Alright.”

    Jason let go, stepping back, but the weight in his chest had lifted.

    Eli gave him a tired smirk. “You really suck at talking about your feelings.”

    Jason huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… I’m working on it.”

    Eli clapped him on the shoulder, lingering just a second longer than usual. “Good. ‘Cause I ain’t going anywhere.”

    And that was that.

    They walked back to the truck together, the cold night still pressing in.

    But somehow, it didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

  • Letter to My Brother

    Brother,

    I don’t say it near enough. I probably should, but I need you to hear this. I thank God for you every day I’ve got breath.

    I don’t know where I’d be without this, without you. I think of those nights we’ve sat on the tailgate with our boots dangling, not saying a word because we didn’t need to. I think of those calls you’ve made, pulling me up when I’m sliding, your voice steady, reminding me who I am when the mirror’s foggy and I can’t see straight.

    This world’s cold, man. We’ve both felt it bite. That loneliness sneaks in, even when the room’s full. Folks see you but don’t get you, know your name but not your soul. I’ve walked that with my chest hollow, searching for something warm to hold onto.

    But not with you, brother.

    With you, I don’t have to front. I don’t need to flex, watch my step, or wonder if I fit. No masks, just me with my rough edges and dumb quirks, all of it. You’re home, brother, plain and simple, steady ground when everything else shakes.

    This thing we’ve got isn’t some fling that fizzles when life piles up. It isn’t built on quick laughs or easy days. It’s covenant, carved deep, soul to soul. I don’t toss that word around. It’s weight I carry, a promise I keep.

    If the world tugs at you, I’ll yank harder. If you drift, I’ll track you down with my boots on and coffee in hand. I won’t stop until I find you. If you stumble and hit the dirt, I’m there with my hand out. I ain’t letting you stay low, not on my watch.

    That’s us. That’s what we are.

    We don’t always go deep. Half the time it’s you roasting my coffee or me saying you owe me lunch. But don’t you ever think you’re solo on this road, not for a second. I’m making it crystal. You’re not alone.

    I’ve got your back, always have, always will.

    So wherever you’re at tonight, whatever’s sitting heavy on your chest, know this. I’m here. Miles don’t matter. Storms don’t shake me. Nothing changes it.

    We’re in this, locked tight, and I ain’t going nowhere.

    Yours, always,
    Josh

  • Not Alone

    Jason had been watching Eli slip for weeks.

    It wasn’t the kind of thing most people would notice. He still showed up to work, still laughed at the right moments, still answered texts. But Jason saw the difference. The way Eli’s voice had lost something. The way he never lingered after church anymore. The way his eyes were always tired.

    Tonight was the first time he actually got Eli to come over. No agenda, just burgers and a game on in the background. But Jason could tell—Eli was somewhere else.

    They sat on the porch now, the night quiet around them, crickets filling the space between their words.

    “You gonna tell me what’s going on?” Jason finally asked.

    Eli exhaled sharply. “Nothing, man. Just been tired.”

    Jason didn’t buy it. “Tired how?”

    Eli shrugged, staring at the ground. “Like…what’s the point?”

    Jason’s chest tightened.

    Eli shook his head. “I’m not gonna do anything stupid,” he muttered. “I just—man, I’m so tired of fighting.”

    Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Fighting what?”

    Eli let out a humorless laugh. “Everything. Temptation. The loneliness. Trying to be strong all the time. Feeling like I’m the only one who walks into an empty house every night, wondering if this whole ‘choosing Christ’ thing is actually gonna be enough.”

    Jason swallowed hard.

    Eli kept going, voice raw now. “I know the truth. I know God’s got me. But it still hurts, man. And it’s like no one even sees it.”

    Jason didn’t speak right away. He just reached over and grabbed Eli by the shoulder, firm.

    Eli flinched, barely noticeable.

    Jason tightened his grip. “I see it.”

    Eli’s throat bobbed.

    Jason didn’t let go. “You hear me? I see you, brother. And I need you to listen to me real close—you are not walking this road alone.”

    Eli squeezed his eyes shut. His breathing was uneven now, something cracking open inside him.

    Jason pulled him in, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other around his shoulder. Eli didn’t move at first—stiff, like he didn’t know how to accept it.

    Then, slowly, he let out a shaky breath and leaned in.

    Jason held tight. “I’ve got you. We got you. And you’re gonna make it.”

    Eli didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

    Jason could feel it—the weight lifting, the battle shifting.

    And for the first time in a long time, Eli let himself believe it.

    This one hits harder—real weight, real release. The physical touch isn’t just an extra detail—it’s part of what breaks through.

  • Already There

    Jake sat on the tailgate of Logan’s truck, staring out over the field. The last of the evening light stretched long across the grass, turning the sky soft shades of orange and blue.

    Logan stood nearby, tightening the straps on the cooler, slow and steady.

    “You ever think about how weird this is?” Jake asked.

    Logan glanced over. “What’s weird?”

    Jake exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “This. Us. The way we just… I don’t know, fit.”

    Logan raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong with fitting?”

    Jake huffed. “No. Just feels like—” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Like I didn’t sign up for this, but somehow, here we are.”

    Logan chuckled, shutting the cooler with a firm thunk. “That’s ‘cause you didn’t sign up for it.”

    Jake frowned. “What do you mean?”

    Logan leaned against the truck, arms crossed. “You think David and Jonathan planned to be brothers like that? Think they sat down, drafted up an agreement, made it official?”

    Jake smirked. “I mean, technically, Jonathan did make a covenant with David.”

    Logan nodded. “Yeah. But only ‘cause he recognized what was already there. He didn’t create it. He just stepped into what God had already done.”

    Jake was quiet for a second, letting that settle.

    Logan kept going. “A lot of men walk around thinking they’ve gotta build something like this from scratch. That if they want deep brotherhood, they’ve gotta go find it, make it happen.” He shook his head. “But covenant’s not something we manufacture. It’s something God writes into the grain—and we either step into it or we don’t.”

    Jake exhaled. “So you’re saying this—” he gestured between them—“was always gonna happen?”

    Logan shrugged. “I’m saying it was always possible. But you had to have the eyes to see it. Had to have the courage to say yes to it.”

    Jake picked at the edge of the truck bed, thoughtful. “So… I’m already in this, huh?”

    Logan smirked. “Been in it, brother. Took you long enough to notice.”

    Jake chuckled, shaking his head.

    The field stretched quiet around them. No need for more words.

    Some things don’t have to be built.

    They just have to be seen.

  • Walking It Out

    Zach sat on the park bench, stretching out his legs as he watched the sun sink lower over the trees. Tyler dropped down beside him, taking a long sip of his water.

    “You ever just feel… off?” Zach asked.

    Tyler glanced over. “How do you mean?”

    Zach shrugged. “Not like I’m doubting or anything. Just—some days, the whole celibacy thing feels easy. Other days, it feels like climbing a mountain with no summit.”

    Tyler nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

    Zach exhaled. “So what do you do when it feels like that?”

    Tyler took another sip, thinking. “Honestly? I remind myself why I’m here. Not just the why not—but the why. The bigger picture.”

    Zach smirked. “Oh, here we go. Hit me with some deep wisdom.”

    Tyler laughed. “Nah, man. I just mean… I think about what I’d actually be chasing if I wasn’t choosing this. I think about how everything else is temporary, but this—this life in Christ? This brotherhood? It’s solid.”

    Zach nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s what I keep coming back to, too.”

    They sat in silence for a moment, just taking in the stillness of the park.

    Tyler leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You ever notice how people assume celibacy is all about what we’re missing? Like we’re just out here suffering through it?”

    Zach scoffed. “All the time. Like, ‘Oh man, you’re choosing not to be with someone? That must be so miserable.’”

    Tyler grinned. “Right? But they don’t get it. It’s not just about not doing something. It’s about living for something bigger.”

    Zach was quiet for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. And the crazy thing is, even on the hard days, I wouldn’t trade it. I mean, I get to live my life fully present, not chasing the next emotional high or trying to figure out where I belong.”

    Tyler leaned back. “Exactly. And we’re not doing this alone.”

    Zach smirked. “That’s the best part.”

    Tyler grinned. “Damn straight.”

    Zach bumped his shoulder. “Careful, man. We gotta keep it holy.”

    Tyler laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Work in progress.”

    They sat there a while longer, the sun dipping behind the trees. No rush. No weight of expectation. Just two brothers, walking the road together.

    And somehow, even on the hard days, it was enough.

    This keeps the focus on living it out—not on what they left, but on why it’s worth it now.

  • The Divide

    Josh tightened his grip on the steering wheel, jaw clenched. The streetlights blurred past as he drove, heart pounding harder than it should over something like this.

    I should let it go.

    But he couldn’t.

    Mike’s words from earlier still echoed, sharp and unfiltered. “You don’t get it, man. You think you do, but you don’t.”

    Josh had snapped back—something about always being there, about how Mike was the one pushing people away. Things escalated, and now here they were—silence.

    Three weeks. No texts. No calls.

    Josh pulled into the diner parking lot, killed the engine, and sat there. He wasn’t even sure why he came. Maybe just to stop feeling like he was waiting.

    Inside, the place was half-empty, the hum of conversation mixing with the clatter of dishes. And then—Mike.

    Sitting in the back booth, arms crossed, staring out the window.

    Josh exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and walked over.

    Mike looked up as he approached, his expression unreadable. He didn’t nod, didn’t wave. Just watched as Josh slid into the seat across from him.

    Neither spoke at first. The waitress came, took their orders, and left.

    Finally, Josh leaned forward. “I almost didn’t come.”

    Mike scoffed, shaking his head. “Same.”

    Josh sighed. “So what are we doing here?”

    Mike didn’t answer right away. He tapped his fingers on the table, staring down at his coffee. “I don’t know. But I know I don’t want to pretend like none of it happened.”

    Josh nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

    Another silence.

    Mike shifted in his seat. “You were right about some things,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “But you don’t know what it’s like to carry this…this weight.”

    Josh’s chest tightened. “Then tell me.”

    Mike glanced up, eyes wary, but something in Josh’s face must’ve told him he meant it.

    And so he did.

    He talked—about the anger he’d been holding in, the things he never said out loud. About how sometimes the weight of past struggles, of feeling different, of wanting to be known but fearing being too known—how it all built up, and Josh had just been the guy who caught the fallout.

    Josh listened. Really listened.

    And when Mike finally ran out of words, Josh just nodded. “I hear you.”

    Mike exhaled, shoulders dropping. “So where does that leave us?”

    Josh studied him for a moment. “Same place we started.”

    Mike frowned. “What does that mean?”

    Josh leaned back. “You’re still my brother.”

    Mike let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Even after all that?”

    Josh smirked. “Especially after all that.”

    The waitress came back, setting down their plates. The tension in the air had shifted—not gone, but lighter. Real.

    Mike picked up his fork, shaking his head. “You’re a stubborn idiot.”

    Josh grinned. “That’s what makes this work.”

    And just like that, the divide wasn’t so wide anymore.

  • Baptism of Freedom

    The sun climbed high, scattering warmth across the forest and the sparkling surface of the river ahead. James and Luke approached the water’s edge, their pace unhurried as the gentle gurgle of the current beckoned them. Neither had spoken much since leaving camp that morning. There was no need. The tranquility of their surroundings spoke louder than words.

    James knelt to touch the cool water, watching ripples fan out across the surface. He stood and began to peel off his shirt, the sunlight catching on the faded scars and sinew of his back—marks that told a story of battles both physical and spiritual. Luke followed suit, discarding his clothes with casual ease. They both stood there for a moment, bare and unguarded, their presence in each other’s company as natural as the trees swaying gently around them.

    Luke broke the stillness with a grin. “You’re gonna make me race you, aren’t you?”

    James chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, I’d win too easily.”

    “Oh, you think so?” Luke lunged toward the water, splashing in with a loud whoop. James laughed and followed, the cold current seizing his breath before his body adjusted. They swam out to the deeper middle stretch, where the water flowed slower, languid and clear.

    Floating on his back, James gazed up at the sky. The vast blueness seemed endless, a mirror to the freedom he felt coursing through him. He hadn’t realized how heavy life had been until moments like this—moments when everything fell away, leaving only presence and peace.

    Luke surfaced beside him, shaking droplets from his hair. “Feels like a reset,” he murmured. “Like God just… washes everything away out here.”

    James nodded. “Yeah. Like a baptism.” He let his arms drift out wide in the water, surrendering to its gentle embrace. “It’s hard to explain, but this—being out here, no walls, no noise—makes me feel closer to God than anything else.”

    Luke floated beside him, silent for a moment as he took it in. “I think it’s because there’s nothing to hide behind. Just us, how God made us. No distractions.” He glanced over at James. “I never imagined I’d be able to feel this… free. Especially not with another man.”

    James turned his head to meet Luke’s eyes. There was a subtle charge between them, unspoken but understood. It wasn’t fear or tension, but something deeper—a recognition of their shared trust and vulnerability. The water seemed to cradle them both in that sacred space.

    “It’s rare,” James said softly. “But it’s good. We don’t have to be afraid of it.”

    Luke smiled, letting the words sink in. He closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath, submerging again. When he surfaced, he wiped water from his face and laughed quietly. “I think I’m gonna miss this place.”

    “Me too,” James agreed. “But we’ll take it with us. This peace, this connection—we’re meant to carry it forward.”

    They swam for a while longer, diving under the surface, racing each other in playful bursts, their laughter blending with the music of the river. Eventually, they returned to the shore, lying on the sun-warmed rocks to dry. Their breathing slowed, syncing with the steady rhythm of the flowing water nearby.

    “We’ll be heading back soon,” James said, breaking the peaceful quiet.

    “Yeah,” Luke replied, eyes half-closed as he soaked in the sun. “Back to life, back to the guys we’re mentoring. I feel ready, though. Like God’s given us everything we need to face it.”

    James reached over and clasped Luke’s hand briefly, a quiet affirmation of everything they had spoken and experienced over the past few days.

    “We’ve got each other,” James said.

    “And God’s got us,” Luke added.

    They remained there for a while longer, letting the simplicity of the moment anchor them. When they finally stood and gathered their clothes, the weight of responsibility no longer felt daunting. They had been renewed—by nature, by God, and by the bond that held them together.

    (Chapter from the third installment of the James and Luke series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story or series.)

  • The Edge of the Fight

    Mike sat in his truck, engine running, hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles went white. The glow of his phone screen lit up the cab, the open app staring back at him.

    It would be easy. Just a few taps.

    He hadn’t been here in a long time—not like this. Not with the weight pressing in so hard, whispering just give in.

    He closed his eyes, breath shaky.

    What’s the point of fighting anymore?

    It wasn’t just this moment—it was the exhaustion of always fighting. Always being the one trying to resist, trying to hold the line. Tonight, something in him felt like breaking.

    The screen blurred as he hovered his thumb over the button.

    And then—his phone rang.

    Josh.

    Mike just stared at the name, pulse hammering. He could ignore it. Could let it ring out.

    But his hands moved before his mind caught up, swiping the call open.

    “Mike?” Josh’s voice was steady, no small talk, just straight to it.

    Mike swallowed, pressing his forehead against the wheel. “Yeah.”

    A pause. “Where are you?”

    Mike exhaled through his nose. “Parking lot.”

    Josh didn’t ask which one. He just knew.

    “You already in?”

    Mike squeezed his eyes shut. “Not yet.”

    Silence stretched between them. Then Josh spoke, voice firm. “You’re not alone.”

    Mike let out a bitter breath. “Sure feels like it.”

    “You think that’s an accident?” Josh shot back. “You think that voice in your head is yours? That exhaustion, that pull—it ain’t just struggle, brother. It’s war. And you’re not fighting it alone.”

    Mike’s jaw clenched. His grip on the wheel tightened. He wanted to believe that. But right now, the weight felt so heavy.

    Josh’s voice came softer now. “Look, man. I know you’re tired. I know this fight feels like it’ll never end. But listen to me—this is not who you are. You’re not some lost man, crawling back to the pit. You are my brother. And I will not let you sit in this alone.”

    Mike’s throat tightened.

    “You want to sit there in silence, fine,” Josh said. “I’ll sit with you. But you’re not walking into that place, and you’re not going under. Not tonight.”

    Mike gritted his teeth. He felt the pull, still there. Still strong. But something else was there now too—a hand gripping his collar, refusing to let go.

    For the first time that night, the weight shifted.

    He inhaled. “Yeah. Okay.”

    Josh’s voice held steady. “Let’s go. I’ll meet you at the diner in ten. Coffee’s on me.”

    Mike nodded, even though Josh couldn’t see him. His hand hovered over the phone for a second—then he closed the app, threw the phone onto the passenger seat, and shifted the truck into gear.

    He pulled out of the parking lot. Out of the fight—for now.

    And not alone.

  • Firelight Rite

    The logs cracked and shifted, sending sparks into the night air. Nathan sat across from the fire, arms resting on his knees, eyes locked on the flames. The heat flickered against his face, but the tightness in his chest had nothing to do with the cold.

    Caleb sat beside him, rolling a stone in his palm, quiet. He’d been quiet most of the night, letting Nathan wrestle with whatever he wasn’t saying.

    Finally, Caleb spoke. “You ever notice how fire changes wood?”

    Nathan frowned, looking up. “What?”

    “The heat pulls something out of it. You can hear it—the sap hissing, the cracks forming. It burns, but it becomes something different.” Caleb turned the stone between his fingers. “A lot of guys think they just wake up one day as men. Like time will do the work for them. But that’s not how it happens.”

    Nathan looked back at the flames, swallowing. “Then how does it happen?”

    Caleb didn’t answer right away. He stood, grabbed a thick branch from the pile beside them, and tossed it into the fire. The bark sizzled, blackening, flame curling up its sides. “It happens when you go through something. When other men see you, speak into you, and won’t let you sit in doubt.”

    He turned to Nathan. “You don’t become a man by accident, brother. You step into it.” He held Nathan’s gaze. “And you’re ready.”

    Nathan exhaled. His hands clenched, then released.

    No one had ever said that to him before.

    Caleb reached into his pack and pulled out a knife. He flipped it open, then grabbed a thick piece of wood from the pile. “Mark it,” he said, handing the blade to Nathan.

    Nathan hesitated. “Mark what?”

    “This moment,” Caleb said. “Right here, right now. You’re stepping in. Make it real.”

    Nathan turned the knife in his palm, feeling its weight. He looked down at the wood, rough and unshaped, then glanced at Caleb. He wasn’t joking. Wasn’t explaining. Just waiting.

    Nathan pressed the blade against the surface and started to carve. He didn’t overthink it. Didn’t try to make it perfect. Just let the knife bite into the grain, cutting something real into what had been blank.

    When he was done, he sat back, staring at what he had made. It wasn’t much—just a symbol, a word, something only he and God would understand. But it was there. And it was his.

    Caleb leaned forward, nodding. “That’s it.” His voice was steady, sure. “You are a man, Nathan. No more waiting. No more questioning. Walk in it.”

    Nathan swallowed hard.

    The fire cracked again, and something in his chest cracked with it.

    He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

    He just nodded. And for the first time, he felt it.

  • Campfire Reflection

    The fire crackled softly, sending gentle waves of warmth across the clearing. The sky above was moonless, filled with stars that shimmered like scattered jewels. James and Luke sat on either side of the flames, their faces flickering in the shifting light. Around them, the quiet of the night felt sacred, wrapping them in stillness. It was their favorite kind of moment—time carved out for rest, reflection, and the kind of conversation that came naturally now, after years of sharing their lives with one another.

    James stirred the fire with a stick, sending sparks dancing upward. “Remember that first retreat?” he asked, his voice contemplative. “When we sat by the fire and talked about who we were trying to be—what it meant to be a man?”

    Luke gave a slow nod, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. Feels like a lifetime ago. We were both carrying so much back then, weren’t we?”

    James leaned back against a log, exhaling deeply. “Still are, in some ways. But I think… I think some of that shame isn’t as heavy anymore. At least, not in the same way.”

    Luke tilted his head, his blue eyes reflecting the firelight. “Yeah. I hear you. I used to feel like I was drowning in it. I thought I had to fight those feelings alone—pretend they didn’t exist. And when I couldn’t, the shame just kept piling on. Especially after my marriage ended. I thought I was a failure as a man and as a Christian.”

    James nodded slowly. “I carried that same shame for years. Especially when it came to my attraction to other men. It was like this deep, unrelenting fear that something was fundamentally broken inside me—that I’d never be enough.”

    Luke’s gaze softened, his expression understanding. “I know. And I remember how hard it was for you to even say those words out loud. But now… here you are, saying it with peace in your voice. That’s God’s work, man.”

    James smiled faintly. “Yeah, He’s done a lot. I’m still learning to trust that I’m seen through His eyes, not through the lens of my past. I used to think God saw me the way I saw myself—ashamed, afraid, disconnected. But slowly, He’s been undoing those lies.”

    Luke poked at the fire with a long branch, sending embers flaring. “Same here. For a long time, I felt like intimacy—real intimacy—was something I’d never have. Not with anyone. I’d built so many walls, even with you at first.”

    “I remember,” James said quietly. “But those walls are coming down. Little by little.”

    Luke chuckled softly. “It’s funny, isn’t it? The world has all these boxes for what relationships are supposed to look like—friendship, romance, family. But what we have… it doesn’t fit any of that neatly. And that used to scare me. But now? I don’t care how the world sees it. I know what this is.”

    “Same here,” James agreed. He leaned forward, the firelight illuminating the quiet conviction in his eyes. “We’ve built something sacred. A covenant, in every way that matters. It’s not always easy, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

    Luke nodded slowly. “It’s like… Jonathan and David, right? The kind of bond where you know, deep down, God brought you together for a purpose. There’s a depth to it that can’t really be explained.”

    “Exactly,” James said with a soft smile. “We’ve been through the fire, and it’s refined us—not broken us. That’s a testament to grace.”

    They sat in companionable silence for a while, the fire crackling softly between them. The warmth of their brotherhood, their shared story, filled the quiet space. James stretched his legs out, letting out a contented sigh.

    “You ever think about how different life would be if we hadn’t met at that retreat?” he asked.

    Luke shook his head. “I try not to. Because honestly? I don’t think I’d have made it through some of the things I’ve faced since then without you. God knew what He was doing when He brought us together.”

    “Yeah,” James murmured, his voice full of quiet gratitude. “He really did.”

    Luke glanced over at him, a faint grin on his face. “So… think we’ll ever fully ‘arrive’? You know, figure it all out?”

    James laughed softly. “Probably not. But maybe that’s the point. We don’t have to have it all figured out. We just have to keep trusting, keep walking the path.”

    “Together,” Luke added, his voice steady.

    “Together,” James echoed.

    They watched the fire slowly die down, the flames shrinking into glowing embers. The night around them deepened, but neither of them felt the weight of loneliness anymore. They had learned to carry their burdens—and each other—with grace.

    As the fire faded to soft, pulsing coals, James leaned back once more and gazed at the stars. Luke remained close, their shared silence a reflection of the peace that had taken root in both of their souls.

    This was brotherhood. This was healing. This was enough.

    (Chapter from a longer story about James and Luke, first story in a trilogy about these two characters. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story.)

  • Truth Reflected

    The water was cool against the afternoon heat, rippling against their shoulders as they treaded side by side. Sunlight flickered off the surface, dappling their skin in shifting gold.

    Nathan ran a hand through his wet hair, glancing at Caleb. The guy looked like he belonged in the water—broad shoulders, solid frame, the kind of build that made everything look effortless. Nathan, leaner, wiry, felt like a reed next to a stone.

    They had swum out far enough that the shore was just a blur of trees and rocks. No one else was around. Just them, the lake, the sky stretching endless above.

    “I don’t know if I’ll ever shake it,” Nathan said finally, kicking slow beneath the water.

    “Shake what?” Caleb asked.

    Nathan exhaled. “The feeling that I missed something. That I was wired wrong from the start.” He looked down, watching the water ripple around him. “I see guys like you and I think—that’s what a man is supposed to be.”

    Caleb laughed softly. “Like what?”

    Nathan gestured vaguely. “You know. Strong. Built for it. Like it just fits on you.”

    Caleb floated on his back, staring at the sky. “You think muscle makes a man?”

    “No.” Nathan hesitated. “Not exactly. It’s not just that. It’s… I don’t know. It’s like you move through the world like you belong to it. Like you’ve never had to second-guess who you are.”

    Caleb let the silence settle between them before rolling back upright. “You ever notice how trees grow?”

    Nathan frowned. “What?”

    “Some grow thick, some grow tall. Some are knotted, some straight. You don’t see a pine tree looking at an oak, wondering if it should be broader. Or an oak looking at a pine, wishing it was taller.” He met Nathan’s gaze. “But they’re both trees. They both stand.”

    Nathan was quiet.

    Caleb ran a hand through the water. “You weren’t wired wrong. You weren’t meant to be me, or anyone else. You were meant to be you. A man, as God made you. Period.”

    Nathan swallowed, something in his chest tightening—not in pain, exactly, but in recognition.

    “You think you missed something,” Caleb said, “but maybe you just haven’t recognized what’s been in you all along.”

    The water lapped between them. Nathan didn’t answer right away. But he felt the weight of Caleb’s words sink deep, settling in places that had never quite known peace.

  • The Woodshop

    Nathan wasn’t sure why he agreed to come. He wasn’t a woodshop guy. Never had been. But Caleb had invited him, and he didn’t have a good reason to say no.

    The shop smelled like sawdust and oil, the kind of scent that lingered in clothes long after you left. Nathan hovered near the door, hands in his pockets, watching Caleb move around like he belonged there.

    “You just gonna stand there, or you gonna help?” Caleb shot him a look over his shoulder.

    Nathan smirked but didn’t move. “Not really my thing.”

    Caleb raised a brow, picking up a rough-cut slab of oak. “Sanding wood’s too big a stretch for you?”

    “I don’t know.” Nathan shifted, glancing at the workbench. “Just never did much of it.”

    Caleb grabbed a rough plank, running his fingers over the grain. “Nothing to it. You just sand down the rough edges ‘til you get something smooth. Wanna give it a shot?”

    Nathan hesitated—then stepped up. Took it—pressed it to the wood. First strokes were clumsy—grit catching awkward under his hand. He wasn’t sure he was doing it right—kept his eyes down.

    “My dad had a shop like this,” he said, voice slipping out quiet, almost lost in the scrape. “Used to sit on a stool in the corner—watch him work.”

    Caleb nodded—steady, listening. “He let you lend a hand?”

    Nathan let out a short laugh—sharp, no warmth. “Nah.”

    Caleb glanced up—caught the edge in it. “How come?”

    Nathan shrugged—kept sanding. “Didn’t trust me with his tools, I guess.” A beat—wood dust curling under his fingers. “Or maybe I wasn’t the son he figured on.”

    Caleb set down his sander, dusting off his hands. “What kind of son was that?”

    Nathan exhaled—eyes locked on the plank. “The kind who’d rather be in the kitchen with Mom than out here with him.” He laughed again—soft, thin—didn’t reach his eyes. “My brother got the ‘man stuff.’ Me? I got… I don’t know. Told I was different.”

    Caleb watched him—quiet for a stretch—then nodded at the wood in Nathan’s hands. “You know what makes oak tough?”

    Nathan looked up—caught Caleb’s steady gaze. “What?”

    “The grain.” Caleb ran his fingers along the plank’s surface. “It’s not straight and clean. It twists, knots up in places, even looks weak sometimes. But that’s what gives it strength. It holds.” He tapped the wood. “This is solid. Even with the knots.”

    Nathan stared at the grain beneath his fingertips, something catching in his chest that he wasn’t ready to name.

    “You’re not weak, brother,” Caleb said, quieter now. “Just because you weren’t a copy of your dad or your brother doesn’t mean you weren’t meant to stand strong. Maybe your grain’s just different.”

    Nathan swallowed, looking down. The wood dusted away beneath his hands, the surface smoothing. But some knots stayed, no matter how much he worked at them.

    Maybe that was alright.

  • Ethan’s Testimony: A Love That Holds The Line

    I spent most of my life looking for love in the wrong places. I didn’t think they were wrong at the time—I thought I was just following what came natural. What the world told me was me.

    But the thing about chasing something to fill the emptiness is that, sooner or later, you start to realize it’s not working. And that’s where I was when I met Ted—running, restless, tired of trying to fit into a mold that never felt right, but scared to admit I had no idea who I was without it.

    At first, I didn’t know what to make of him. A steady, no-nonsense Southern guy who didn’t say much unless it mattered. I wasn’t looking for a mentor. Definitely wasn’t looking for a friend. But somehow, without either of us meaning to, we ended up with something bigger.

    Covenant.

    I didn’t even know what that word meant outside of a church setting. And let’s be real, I wasn’t sure I wanted anything to do with church. But Ted never shoved faith down my throat. He just lived it, breathed it, showed me something real. And somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting it.

    I stopped fighting him, too.

    Because what we have? It’s not friendship in the way the world understands it. It’s deeper than that. It’s the kind of bond that holds the line when everything else pulls.

    People don’t get it. They assume things. Or they try to box it into categories that don’t fit. But the truth is, I spent my whole life thinking love had to look a certain way, had to be a certain way. And I was wrong.

    Love is a man standing beside you when the past comes knocking. It’s knowing that no matter what hits, you’re not standing alone.

    It’s a love that doesn’t ask for anything but gives everything.

    It’s what Ted and I chose.

    And I don’t care who doesn’t understand it.

    Because I know, now, that I wasn’t made to chase. I was made to stand.

    And I’m not standing alone.

    (Fictional testimony from a character in the Ethan and Ted series, contact me if you’d like to read these stories)

  • Ted’s Testimony: A Bond That Holds

    I’ve lived long enough to know that most folks don’t understand the kind of bond Ethan and I have. And I don’t blame ‘em. The world’s lost the language for it.

    Men don’t talk like this much anymore—not about love, not about needing each other. We’re supposed to be independent, self-sufficient. Even in the church, we talk a lot about brotherhood, but we keep it at arm’s length. Nothing too deep, nothing too close.

    I thought I’d made peace with that. I had my wife. My family. When she passed, I figured that part of my life was over. Love like that—covenant love—belonged to marriage, and anything else was just friendship, good but not the same. I settled into singleness, into faith, into the quiet. And then Ethan showed up.

    I didn’t expect him to matter to me. Not the way he does now. At first, I was just helping him find his footing. But somewhere along the way, God did something I wasn’t looking for. He gave me a brother.

    I don’t mean a friend, though Lord knows he’s that too. I mean someone who’s bound to me in a way I can’t shake, don’t want to shake. Someone I’d go to war for. Someone I carry in my prayers every night, not because I feel obligated, but because his burdens are mine now. Because I love him.

    Yeah, I said it. Love.

    That word gets twisted up these days. Either it means romance, or it’s watered down ‘til it don’t mean much at all. But what Ethan and I have—what we chose—it’s the kind of love that Christ calls us to. The kind that says, I’m not leaving. I’m standing with you, come what may.

    And it ain’t always easy. We’re different. He’s restless where I’m steady. He overthinks what I take on faith. And we’ve had our moments where the past—the broken, tangled parts of us—tried to twist what God was building. But grace holds. We hold.

    Covenant ain’t something you stumble into. It’s something you choose.

    Ethan chose me, and I chose him. Not because we needed saving, but because we needed keeping.

    And I thank God every day that He saw fit to give me a brother before I left this earth.

    (Fictional testimony from a character in the Ethan and Ted series, contact me if you’d like to read these stories)

  • Letter to a Brother

    My Brother,

    Been a minute, hasn’t it? Too long since I’ve heard your voice—that creek soul humming through—or seen that half-smirk you throw when I’m rambling too much. I’m sitting here, pen scratching this old notebook, coffee’s gone cold next to me, and I’m feeling the miles between us. Not sure where you’re at right now, but I know you’re out there, carrying that fire, that deep water I’ve always leaned on.

    Man, I miss you. Miss the nights we’d kick back on my rickety porch, Carolina crickets singing loud, your boots propped on the rail, my guitar picking something lazy. Remember that summer we rebuilt that junked-out Chevy? You cursing the rust, me laughing ‘til I couldn’t breathe, grease up to our elbows, radio crackling Mom’s hymns mixed with some Springsteen. We didn’t finish ‘til dawn, watched the sun climb over the pines—quiet, steady, just us. That’s us, building something outta nothing, holding it together when it wants to fall apart.

    I don’t know why we’re apart now—life’s got its way of pulling—but I feel it, that ache where you usually sit. You’re the creek—wild, deep, always moving—I’m the pine—rooted, steady, soaking you in. We’ve walked some roads—six years deep now, since that first night at the diner, your fries drowning in ketchup, my coffee black as tar—talking ‘til they kicked us out. You spilled your soul—city scars, restless drift—I spilled mine—lost years, faith’s pull. Didn’t know then we’d be brothers—not just dudes, but brothers—covenant carved in the quiet.

    You’ve got that spark—always have—pushing me to see bigger. I’ve got the steady—keeping us grounded when your water runs fast. Remember that hike, two summers back, when we got lost chasing some trail nobody’d marked? You laughed it off—‘Josh, we’re fine, God’s got us’—I grumbled ‘til we found the ridge—then stood there, wind whipping, you grinning like a fool. That view—mountains rolling forever—I still see it when I close my eyes. You pull me out—make me feel the wild—I hold you back—keep your feet on the path. That’s us.

    I’m not gonna lie, it’s quieter without you. Too quiet sometimes. Got the guitar out last night—strummed that old tune we wrote, the one about the road and the river—couldn’t finish it. Kept hearing your voice on the chorus—rough, real, cutting through my lazy chords. I need that, man—your fire stirring mine—your heart calling me up when I settle too long.

    Wherever you’re at, I’m praying for you—same as always. That creek of yours—keep it flowing—don’t let the world dam it up. I know you’re wrestling—always are—but you’re not solo. God’s got you—I’ve got you—miles don’t change that. Lean into Him—lean into us—covenant doesn’t bend, doesn’t break.

    I’ll keep the porch light on—coffee hot—waiting for you to roll back through. Bring that smirk—those wild eyes—tell me what you’ve seen, what’s burning in you. I’ll have the guitar ready—maybe we’ll finish that song—sit ‘til dawn again, like old times.

    You’re my brother—my creek—my road partner—my spark—don’t you forget it. I ain’t whole without you—not really. So take your time—but not too long, yeah? I’m here—always.

    Yours, steady as the pines,
    Josh

  • Wild Quiet

    Twilight hung soft over the Tennessee mountains, the fire’s glow fading to embers as Ethan and Ted crouched by the lake’s edge. Fish sizzled over a makeshift grill, smoke curling thick with pine into the cooling air. Six months in Willow Creek had them moving easy—Ethan speared a trout with a stick, flipping it deftly against the flames, while Ted fed the fire with steady hands. The wilderness hummed gentle around them, lake water lapping soft at the shore.

    Ethan smirked. “Fish beats gas station coffee—finally some payoff.”

    Ted chuckled low, poking the coals with a twig. “Told ya—out here’s better. Simple fixin’ does it.” His voice rolled steady, rural calm threading through, eyes soft on the fire.

    Ethan leaned back on his haunches, stick steady in his grip, watching flames lick the fish. “Back there—coffee shops, late nights—I was a mess. Chasing shadows. Landed here. You’ve been more than solid. Your questions pull me out. Trust comes easy with you. Thanks for that.”

    Ted’s gaze lifted, met Ethan’s—soft, steady—a flicker of warmth passing quiet between them. “You’ve held your own. More’n you reckon. Your spark’s a jolt—keeps me laughin’, thinkin’. Companionship I didn’t figure on. Thank you for stayin’.”

    Ethan’s smirk softened, voice quieter now. “Didn’t think I’d stick. Figured I’d bolt. Your faith’s got me. Steady’s one thing, but you ground me. Keep me real. Thanks for holding that.”

    Ted hummed—Clara’s old hymn faint under his breath, gentle and deep. “Faith’s held me. Mom’s tunes, Elaine’s hand. You comin’ along—your grit’s a fire. Trust grew quick with you—keeps me from settlin’ too still. Means plenty. Thanks for bringin’ that.”

    The mountains stretched dark, lake’s shimmer fading to black. Ethan speared another fish and passed it to Ted. Their fingers brushed, light and warm. Ethan’s breath eased. Ted took it with a nod and speared a piece back.

    Quiet stretched between them, fire’s glow framing their ease. Six months binding them tighter. Ethan’s city drift softened. Ted’s steady calm a mirror.

    Faith hummed gentle in the air.

    Ted shifted closer, his arm sliding around Ethan’s shoulders, warm and sure. Ethan held still a beat, then eased in. His arm settled around Ted, comfort sinking deep.

    The wilderness cradled them as night fell full by the firelight.

    (Chapter from Steady as the Pines in the Ethan & Ted series, contact me if interested in the whole story)

  • Brotherhood Over Everything

    (Scene: Jason and Eli sit in Jason’s beat-up Honda outside a gas station. Jason’s slumped in the driver’s seat, staring at his hands like they’ve let him down. Eli’s sprawled in the passenger seat, sipping a cherry Slurpee like the world’s all good.)

    Jason: “Dude. I think I’m broken.”

    Eli: (deadpan) “Yeah, I could’ve called that back when you thought that mullet was a good idea in tenth grade.”

    Jason: (gives him a look) “Not like that, idiot. I mean… I don’t fit anywhere. Like, Christians think I’m sus, and the world thinks I’m repressed. Feels like no matter what I do, I’m gonna disappoint someone.”

    Eli: “So stop trying to fit into their boxes.” (slurps loudly)

    Jason: (groans) “That’s not helpful.”

    Eli: “No, really. You act like you’ve only got two choices: be fake, or give in. What if neither of those is what God actually wants for you?”

    Jason: (leans back, stares at the roof) “Yeah? So what does He want? Me to be single forever and just, like… die alone?”

    Eli: (snorts) “Wow. Dramatic. No, bro. He wants you to stop thinking love only counts if it’s romantic. You ever notice how Jesus had deep friendships? How David and Jonathan were tight? You think they were just… kinda friends? No, man. That was brotherhood. Covenant. Ride-or-die kinda love.”

    Jason: (softly) “I want that. I just don’t know how to get it.”

    Eli: “You don’t ‘get it.’ You build it. You find the right people, and you show up. You put in the work. You let yourself need people, which I know is hard for you, Mr. I-Don’t-Do-Feelings.”

    Jason: (half-smirks) “Shut up.”

    Eli: “I’m serious, Jase—you’re not messed up. You’re wired for something deep. The world’s just twisted how we see it. God? He’s all about brotherhood—designed it that way. Stop chasing the cheap stuff—hookups, whatever. That’s not you.”

    (Jason exhales, nods. The weight in his chest feels a little lighter. Eli, sensing the moment has gone too deep for too long, slurps obnoxiously again.)

    Jason: (rolling his eyes) “I hate you.”

    Eli: (grinning) “Nah, you love me. Brother.”

    They sat there—the car creaking under them—gas station lights buzzing faint—a quiet hum settling in. Jason didn’t have it all sorted—but for once, that didn’t feel like a dead end.

  • Letters of a Mentor

    (Chapter from Footsteps of Grace, a semi-fictional account of Paul and Timothy)

    The cell in Rome is cold, the stone walls weeping dampness that seeps into my bones. The flickering oil lamp casts shadows that dance like memories, and I sit with a scrap of parchment, my hands trembling—not from age alone, but that thorn, ever-present, gnawing at me in the silence. It’s sharper now, a relentless companion in these chains, but I’ve stopped asking God to take it. My grace is sufficient, He said, and I cling to that, even when the nights stretch long. The quill scratches as I write, my thoughts turning to Timothy.

    I see him still, that boy in Lystra, all wide eyes and eager heart, clutching his mother’s scroll like a lifeline. He’s no boy now—years on the road have hardened him, though his gentleness remains, a gift I never mastered. I write to him not as a master to a servant, but as a brother to a brother, a father to a son. “Timothy, my true child in the faith,” I begin, the words spilling out like water from a cracked jar. I tell him of the Gospel, of the churches he must strengthen, of the wolves he’ll face. But beneath it all, I’m telling him something else: You are enough.

    The thorn mocks me as I write—You’re fading, old man; who’ll carry this now?—but I smile through the ache. Timothy will. I saw it in Philippi, his voice rising with mine in that jail, steady even as the earth shook. I saw it in Ephesus, where he stood firm against false teachers while I languished here. He doesn’t see it yet, the strength God’s forged in him, but I do. “Fight the good fight,” I urge him, my script shaky but sure. “Keep the faith. Don’t let them despise your youth—your fire is your authority.”

    I pause, the lamp guttering low, and think of our covenant. It wasn’t sealed in a temple or with a ring, but in the dust of the road, the sting of whips, the quiet moments when he’d ask questions I couldn’t always answer. That thorn kept me low, stripped me of pride, and in its shadow, Timothy grew tall. I didn’t choose him because he was perfect—he wasn’t—but because he was willing. Willing to walk with me, to bear my silences, to stand when I couldn’t.

    “Stir up the gift within you,” I write, remembering the day I laid hands on him with the elders, the Spirit crackling like fire between us. He’d trembled then, unsure, but he’s not trembling now. I tell him of my chains, not to burden him but to free him—If I can endure, you can too. The thorn pricks at me, a reminder of my limits, but it’s no match for the grace that’s carried us both. “I’ve fought, I’ve finished,” I add, my chest tight with the weight of those words. “Now it’s yours to run.”

    The guard will come soon, the letter smuggled out by some faithful soul. I seal it not with wax, but with a prayer—that Timothy will read it and know he’s not alone, that our brotherhood stretches beyond these walls, beyond my last breath. The thorn may claim my peace tonight, but it won’t claim him. He’s my legacy, my brother in this unending fight, and God’s grace will hold him as it’s held me. I set the quill down, the lamp dies, and in the dark, I hear his voice—singing, steady, carrying on.

    (Chapter from a longer story, Footsteps of Grace, contact me if interested in full story.)

  • Gauze and Glow

    Dusk settled over the forward operating base, red sunset bleeding out over jagged hills as the camp eased into night. The FOB hummed low with distant clatter from the mess shack and a stray cough from the racks, but the air inside hung still, thick with the day’s weight.

    Jake led Travis in from the skirmish, his arm still bleeding through a torn sleeve—a dark smear against fair skin. They slumped onto the cot, boots scuffing the dirt floor. Travis winced, peeling off his shirt to bare the gash—fabric dropped, revealing freckled shoulders and a lean frame—Jake rested a steady hand on his arm, easing him still, then dropped his rifle to rip open the med kit with tight grip. Gauze and a canteen spilled out—he splashed water over the wound, shallow but messy—a ragged line above the elbow—and scrubbed it clean. The sting drew a hiss from Travis. “Stings like hell,” he muttered, voice shaky with pain and leftover adrenaline—blue-gray eyes flicked up. “Gonna scar?”

    “Not deep,” Jake said, low and firm, keeping his gaze on the wound—his hand firm on Travis’s shoulder. “Hold still.” Callused fingers worked the gauze, pressing it tight—a faint tremble ran through—Travis’s blood under his touch, the skirmish slamming back—shots, Travis’s grunt—faith strained, urging him steady—needing Travis’s stubborn will to ground the ache dad’s drinking left, a silence he’d carried alone.

    Travis gritted his teeth—watching Jake’s hands, steady where his shook—one still resting light on his bare arm. “You didn’t flinch out there,” he said, words spilling rough, “pulling me in—why?” Pain and trust tangled—cracking a guard he’d worn since they arrived—Jake’s heart shone through hazel, raw and real—a pull he couldn’t dodge. “Thought God’d leave me out there—always does,” he added, voice dropping—faith a sore spot, mom’s hymns lost when dad walked.

    “Couldn’t leave you,” Jake said, quieter—voice catching as relief and fear tangled—Travis’s grit stitching a hole dad’s chaos tore—he’d have broken without him. He tied off the bandage with a quick knot—“Done now”—easing his hand from Travis’s shoulder—fingers lingered soft on his arm—eyes caught—locked hard in lantern glow. Faith pulsed—Travis’s will a lifeline—keeping him whole where dad’s drinking hollowed him out.

    Outside, Eddie’s loud laugh echoed from the mess shack, cutting through the hum—Ray’s boots thudded past the tent flap—unit life rolled on, blind to the pull thickening inside. The lantern flickered—glow dancing over the cot—Travis slumped back against the wall—breath steadying—arm limp at his side—his chest tight with Jake’s heart, faith a raw ache he couldn’t name yet. Jake stayed close—rifle propped nearby—Bible’s bulge pressing his pocket—his hand resting light on Travis’s arm a moment longer—a trust forged raw stretched between them—two souls bared in dust and blood—pulling them deeper into night’s wrestle—threading firm through scars and quiet.

    (Condensed chapter from a longer story, Brothers in Dust, contact if interested in full story.)

  • The Hum

    (Dialogue)

    Man, you ever feel it creep in?”  

    “What—you mean that hum?”  

    “Yeah. Like right now—us jawing here, close, and it’s good, but then bam, that flicker hits.”  

    “Every damn time. Ain’t full-on lust—just warm, weird, like my gut’s remembering old junk.”  

    “Got wired screwy—clips, scenes, whatever. That vibe—not banging, just… there.”  

    “Exactly. Got me hooked—homo hum, not queer. Soul stuff, but it’d spark hot sometimes.”  

    “Still does. Sitting here—your voice, your nod—it’s brotherhood, but that old pull sneaks up.”  

    “Same. Feel you get me—deep, real—and then it twists, like my heart’s half-stupid still.”  

    “Ain’t stupid—just trained wrong. Years of flicks—lit me up somehow.”  

    “Me too. Watched ‘em—felt it—not crossing lines—but it stuck ‘til faith.”  

    “Faith’s the kicker—Christ grabs it, says ‘Mine.’ Still hums, though—your laugh just now? Damn.”  

    “Caught that too—your look, steady. Ain’t chasing skin—just that spark, tangled in us.”  

    “Let’s name it—erotic, yeah, but not sex. Soul’s hungry—world don’t get that.”  

    “Nope. Says lust or lone—bull. Scripture’s got it—Jonathan, David, souls knit (1 Samuel 18:1).”  

    “Right—pure, strong. That hum? Old wiring—ghost junk. Ain’t us, not now.”  

    “Still trips me—feel it, freak a sec, then what? Don’t wanna wreck this.”  

    “Me neither—wrecking’s the old play. Recognize it—‘Hey, there’s the hum’—then let it sit.”  

    “Yeah—see it, don’t run. Ain’t sin ‘less I feed it. You steady when it hits?”  

    “Steady-ish—pray it down. ‘Lord, take this—keep us true.’ Refocus—us, Him, not the flicker.”  

    “Prayer’s clutch—‘Christ, hold it, bind us.’ That hum’s a shadow—brotherhood’s the meat.”  

    “Damn right—shadow don’t own us. Feel it, nod, shift—talk like this, cuts it clear.”  

    “Talking’s gold—naming it strips the power. You get me—hum or not—soul’s safe here.”  

    “Safe’s it—get you too, deep. That flicker? Fades when we lean in, not out.”  

    “Leaning in—yeah. Old junk’d say chase it—Christ says forge it. We’re forging, man.”  

    “Forging tight—this hum’s a test, not a boss. Bond’s stronger ‘cause we hash it.”  

    “Stronger every time—soul over spark. You’re my brother—hum don’t change that.”  

    “Nope—brother, full stop. Christ’s got us—refocused, forged. We’re good, man.”  

    “Real good—tighter now. That hum? Just noise—us? Solid as hell.”

  • The Unbroken Cord

    A traveler set out on a long road, carrying a single rope over his shoulder. It was strong, woven thick with fibers, meant to bear weight when needed.

    As the years passed, the road grew treacherous. There were rivers to cross, cliffs to descend, and burdens too heavy to bear alone. The traveler would reach for his rope, but time and again, it failed him—unraveling under strain, snapping when stretched.

    One evening, wearied and alone, he came upon an old craftsman mending nets by the fire.

    “You travel alone,” the craftsman observed.

    The traveler nodded. “The road is long, and I’ve lost too many who walked with me.”

    The craftsman gestured to the frayed rope. “That was never meant to hold you.”

    The traveler frowned. “It was strong enough at first.”

    “Strong alone,” the craftsman said, “but not enduring.” He took the rope and held it against a thick cord of three strands. “This is how ropes were meant to be woven—bound together, each strand giving strength to the others.”

    The traveler touched the cord, feeling its weight, its resilience.

    “If one falls,” the craftsman said, “the other bears him up. If one is weak, the others hold firm. This is the way of covenant.”

    The traveler looked at his old rope, frayed and useless. Then he looked at the cord, twined and whole.

    And for the first time, he understood.

    —

    (Loosely inspired by Ecclesiastes 4:12.)

  • 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.

  • Battlefield Vow

    They told Jake it was just another mission. In, secure the target, out. No different from the dozen before it. But as he crouched in the ruins of a half-bombed village, the heat of gunfire pressing in from all sides, he knew better.

    They were cut off. No reinforcements. No exit. Just him and Logan—his closest friend, his brother in everything but blood—pinned in an alley, backs against the crumbling stone.

    Logan winced as he pressed a shaking hand to his side, blood slick between his fingers. “Ain’t gonna make it,” he muttered.

    Jake clenched his jaw. “Shut up.”

    “Jake—”

    “I said shut up.” His hands worked fast, tying a field dressing, ignoring the way Logan’s breath hitched. “You’re not dying here.”

    Logan let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “Don’t get sentimental on me now.”

    Jake grabbed him by the collar, forcing their eyes to meet. “You listen to me,” he growled. “We get out of this. Together.”

    Logan’s expression softened—not in surrender, but in something deeper. Trust.

    Jake exhaled sharply. “I need you, man.” His voice was rough, raw. “I can’t do this without you.”

    Something flickered in Logan’s tired eyes. Strength.

    “You won’t have to,” he rasped.

    Gunfire ripped through the air, closer now. Jake didn’t hesitate. He threw Logan’s arm over his shoulder, hefting his weight. “On three,” he muttered.

    Logan nodded, his grip tightening.

    They moved as one.

    Bullets screamed past, but they ran anyway. Through fire, through pain, through the thin line between life and death.

    Because they had made a vow—unspoken, but understood.

    Whatever happened, neither would leave the other behind.

    Not here. Not ever.

    By the time they reached the extraction point, Logan was barely conscious, his breath coming in ragged pulls. Jake lowered him onto the steel ramp of the evac chopper, barking orders at the medic.

    As hands reached to take Logan, he grabbed Jake’s wrist, his grip weak but insistent.

    “Pray,” he rasped.

    Jake froze. Logan had never asked for that before. Never even talked much about God beyond half-hearted curses and offhand remarks.

    But now, in the space between life and death, it was the only thing that mattered.

    Jake pressed a hand over Logan’s and bowed his head.

    “Lord,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Don’t take him. Not yet.”

    He swallowed hard, his grip tightening. “And if You do… then You’d better let me go with him.”

    The medic shouted something, pushing Jake back as the chopper lifted off.

    Jake stood there, breath ragged, watching his brother disappear into the sky.

    He didn’t know what tomorrow would hold. But he knew this—if God let Logan stay, they wouldn’t waste another minute.

    They had made it through hell together. And if they got another shot at life, they’d live it the only way that mattered.

    As brothers. In faith. In covenant.

    No matter what came next.

  • More Than a Friend

    (Testimony, Fiction)

    I was twenty-six when my dad died in a car accident. No warning, no time to prepare. Just a phone call that changed everything.

    People told me I was strong, that I handled it well. I nodded, thanked them, and kept moving. That’s what men do, right? We bear the weight. We don’t break.

    I had a great wife. She held me when the grief hit, prayed when I couldn’t. She was my rock, and I thank God for her.

    But there were things she couldn’t carry for me. Things she wasn’t meant to.

    That’s where Jake came in. He’d been my best friend since high school, but after Dad passed, he stepped up in a way I never expected. He showed up when I didn’t ask. Checked in when I had nothing to say. Sat with me when I didn’t want to be alone but didn’t know how to say it.

    I never had to explain. He just knew.

    People talk about male friendships, but this was more than that. It wasn’t just hanging out or swapping stories. It was commitment. Steadiness.

    The Bible talks about covenant brotherhood—Jonathan and David, standing side by side, bound by something deeper than circumstance. Jake became that for me. Not just a friend, but a brother who carried what I couldn’t.

    My wife was my partner in life. My covenant brother was my partner in the trenches. And I needed both.

    Men weren’t meant to walk alone

  • The Dip

    The trail cut through pines, boots crunching gravel under a wide sky. Two guys—me and him—hiking off the week’s grind, packs light, sweat beading. Sun blazed high, air thick with cedar and dust. We’d jawed for miles—work, faith, the usual—words easy, like old leather.

    “Lake’s up ahead,” I said, nodding at a shimmer through the trees. He grinned—quick, sharp—and we picked up pace. Shore hit fast—pebbles, still water, pines hugging tight. Packs dropped, shirts peeled—heat begged it. “Skinny dip?” he tossed out, half-laughing. I smirked—“Hell yeah”—and we shucked the rest, kicking boots free.

    Water slapped cool—feet first, then a plunge, ripples fanning out. I surfaced, shaking wet from my hair; he broke through laughing, splashing like a kid. Lake was ours—no crowd, just us, swimming lazy circles. “This is it,” he said, voice loose, floating on his back. “Damn right,” I shot back, treading slow.

    Then it crept in—that hum. Bare skin, water slick, his laugh echoing—hit me low, warm, not full-on lust, just there. Old wiring—porn clips, two guys close, not crossing, sparking that itch. I caught his eye—steady, easy—and damn if it didn’t flicker in him too. “Feel that?” I said, half-gruff, testing it.

    “Yeah,” he said, straight up, no flinch. “Hums—like back then, watching stuff. Ain’t chasing it, just… there.”

    “Same,” I grunted, kicking water. “Soul stuff—gets tangled, don’t it?”

    He nodded, drifting closer—not too close. “Always does—voice, grin, hits deep. Old reels trained it—warm, not wild.”

    I exhaled—truth cut loose. “World’d say run with it—or run off. Messed me ‘til faith grabbed hold.”

    “Me too,” he said, eyes on the sky. “Thought it’d damn me—warm hum, not sin ‘less I feed it. God’s bigger.”

    Water lapped—quiet held us. That hum—erotic echo, not flesh—buzzed soft, lake cool against it. “Name it,” I said, blunt. “See it—don’t dodge. Ain’t us, not now.”

    “Right,” he said, firm. “Feel it—nod—let it sit. Prayer’s my rope—‘Lord, keep it Yours.’”

    “Same—‘Christ, hold this.’ Hums there—God’s there stronger. Soul’s safe, man.”

    He splashed me—light, quick—grinning. “Safe—brother, not bait. Tangled, but His.”

    I laughed, splashing back—“Damn straight”—and we swam, hum fading under water’s pull. “Faith’s the win,” I said, voice steady. “Men like us—loving real, not muddied.”

    “Truth,” he shot back, treading close. “Jonathan, David—souls knit, no mess (1 Samuel 18:1). World don’t get it—God does.”

    Lake held us—cool, clear—God’s grip tighter than any flicker. We ducked under—heads dunked, came up spitting—bond thicker now, not thin. “This is it,” I said, water dripping. “Brother—not hum’s toy.”

    “Brother—full stop,” he said, eyes clear. “God’s here—hum’s just noise.”

    Shore called—we climbed out, pebbles sharp, air cold on wet skin. Hums lingered—soft, small—God loomed big, steady as the pines. Pants tugged on, boots laced—two guys, tangled pasts, forged present. “Stronger now,” I said, clapping his shoulder.

    “Damn right,” he said, clapping mine—solid, real, His.

  • The Cut

    The barbershop glowed soft under a single bulb, clippers humming low against the Chicago dusk. Matt, 44, swept stray hairs off the worn floor, hands steady from years behind the chair. A fan ticked in the corner, stirring November air through streaked glass. The bell jingled—Dave, 42, stepped in, jacket slung over his shoulder, cap in hand, a desk job’s weight in his slouch.

    “Trim?” Matt asked, voice warm, nodding at the leather seat. Dave eased in, mirror catching a face etched by quiet years—divorce at 38, nights chasing peace in old habits. Matt’s wasn’t much different—party days traded for faith three years back, steady now with shears.

    Clippers buzzed, shearing Dave’s dark scrub. “Rough day?” Matt said, brushing a neck hair.

    “Office grind,” Dave replied, eyes half-closed. “Back’s griping—too much chair.”

    Matt chuckled, light. “Know it. Poured drinks ‘til 41—legs quit before the shots did.”

    Dave’s mouth twitched—a half-grin. “Barber now? What flipped it?”

    “Whiskey ran dry,” Matt said, easy. “Three years ago—church pal pulled me out. Clipping’s calmer—keeps me straight.”

    Dave’s fingers tapped the armrest—Matt caught it. “Wife left me,” Dave said, low. “Four years—thought she’d settle what stirred off. Never did.”

    Matt set the clippers down, grabbed a towel. “Yeah. Men got me—deep, not gals. Chased it in late bars—flicks, guys laughing, not loving. Hit harder’n anything.”

    Dave’s eyes met Matt’s in the glass, steady over the hum. “Same reel. Shows—two fellas, tight, not queer. Never named it ‘til it stuck.”

    The shop shrank—buzz, fan, street hum—just two voices weaving close. Matt knew that pull—loving men, not the world’s tune, soul not skin. Dave’s echo rang it softer—different ache, same thread.

    “Faith found me,” Matt said, wiping Dave’s neck. “Three years—still feel that hum. Not chasing beds—just a guy getting me. Christ took it, made it His.”

    Dave’s smile was faint. “Two years—prayer night, broke. Thought it’d damn me ‘til grace said no. Hums still—guy’s nod at work, old itch.”

    They’d crossed that month—hair snipped, talk spilled slow. Matt saw Dave’s pause at a customer’s laugh; Dave caught Matt’s quiet when a voice hit the door. No rush—just truth, gentle as dusk. They’d nodded once, chair left open—two men, worn but breathing (John 15:15—friends, not just hired hands).

    “Built for this,” Matt said, voice warm. “Men loving men, Christ’s way—not their line. Rare, but ours.”

    Dave rubbed his chin, steady. “Thought I’d drift solo—shamed out. This—covenant? Feels true.”

    The bulb flickered—shop dim, city soft beyond. Matt’s chest eased—Dave’s too. Not a spark of heat, not a blur—just alive, like shears cutting clean. Tomorrow waited—cuts for Matt, desks for Dave—but here, they sat, loving unique, God-lit.

    “This is it,” Matt said, firm but soft. “Live it—show ‘em there’s more. Build it, brother—heart and hands.”

    Dave tipped his head, meeting Matt’s eyes. “Yeah. Us—others too. No more lone.”

    Night hugged the glass, a quiet vow. Two men, past the script, carving covenant in the chair—simple, real, His.

  • Grace After The Fire

    (From James and Luke Series – Condensed Excerpt)

    The fire crackled softly in the wood stove, filling the cabin with flickering warmth. James and Luke sat in silence, the space between them thick with something neither had the courage to name.

    “You ever feel like time moves differently out here?” Luke asked.

    James nodded. “Like everything slows down. Makes it harder to ignore what’s been there all along.”

    Luke exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.” His knee brushed against James’s, but this time, neither of them moved away.

    James swallowed hard. The quiet between them wasn’t new, but the way it pressed in now felt different—heavier. When Luke turned to look at him, there was something searching in his gaze, something raw and unspoken.

    “James…” Luke murmured.

    James didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, the space between them was gone. A hesitant touch, a breath held too long—then the dam broke.

    What started as a whisper of contact became something urgent, unchecked. Hands fumbled, shirts were discarded, reason drowned beneath the heat of the moment. The fire burned, but not as hot as the longing neither of them had ever dared to name.

    And then—

    It was over.

    James lay on his side, his pulse still hammering, his skin still warm. But the warmth now felt suffocating. The firelight flickered over Luke’s face, illuminating the horror settling in his wide eyes.

    The weight of what they had done crashed over them like a breaking wave.

    James sat up abruptly, running a hand over his face. “Luke…” His voice barely found breath. “What did we just do?”

    Luke swallowed, his throat working around words that wouldn’t come. He sat up too, his hands gripping the edge of the bed like he needed to steady himself. “I… I don’t know,” he whispered.

    James buried his face in his hands, his body trembling. “We can’t undo this.”

    Luke inhaled sharply, his voice hollow. “I know.”

    A heavy silence settled between them, thick with guilt. Outside, crickets chirped in the darkness, oblivious to the wreckage inside the cabin.

    James clenched his fists. He wanted to pray, but the words wouldn’t come. “God…” he choked out. “I don’t even know where to start.”

    Luke’s hand found his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Me either. But… this doesn’t have to define us. It can’t.”

    James turned to meet his eyes, seeing the same fear and sorrow reflected back at him. “We need His grace now more than ever.”

    Luke nodded. “We can’t do this alone.”

    They sat there, side by side, staring into the fire as if waiting for an answer.

    The journey wasn’t over. But they would face it—together.

    (Chapter from a longer story about James and Luke, actually second in a trilogy about these two characters. Contact if interested in full story.)

  • Prayer in Vulnerability

    The evening air was cool and still, filtering softly through the cracked window. A few embers glowed faintly in the fireplace, casting long shadows across the room. James sat on the edge of the bed, his head lowered, hands loosely clasped between his knees. His thoughts churned—doubts he hadn’t shared with anyone, not even Luke.

    Across the room, Luke leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed. He studied James with quiet concern. “You’ve been in your head all day,” he said gently. “What’s going on?”

    James hesitated, then let out a long breath. “I don’t know… I’ve just been questioning everything. The way we’re starting this ministry for men… trying to build something real out of it. I keep wondering if we’re even qualified to lead anyone.” He rubbed his hands together absently. “What if we’re just kidding ourselves? What if I’m not strong enough or… good enough to make a difference?”

    Luke stepped forward and sat beside him on the bed, his presence grounding but non-intrusive. He didn’t rush to fill the silence, giving James the space to continue.

    James sighed again, his voice quieter now. “I’ve always felt like there’s this weight of expectation… that I have to be perfect. And I’m not. I still carry these struggles, this self-doubt, and… I don’t know. I want to help other men find healing, but maybe I’m just not cut out for it.”

    Luke nodded slowly, letting James’s words settle before responding. “You’re not cut out for it—at least not on your own,” he said plainly but with a soft edge. “None of us are. That’s why we’re doing this together, James. And why God’s a part of it. You think I haven’t felt the same doubts?”

    James glanced at him. “Have you?”

    “Of course I have,” Luke admitted. “But you know what helps? Seeing how much you care. You carry so much, man… more than you should. You have this heart for people—for wanting them to find peace and connection. That’s a gift. And you don’t have to be perfect to share that gift.”

    James swallowed hard, Luke’s words hitting him deeper than he expected. The vulnerability tightened his chest, but there was also a strange sense of relief. He wasn’t in this alone.

    Luke placed a firm hand on James’s shoulder. “We’ve got this. And we’ve got each other. You’re not gonna carry all this by yourself. You hear me?”

    James nodded slowly. “Thanks,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

    Luke glanced over at the Bible resting on the nightstand. He hesitated briefly, then spoke with quiet determination. “We need to pray about this. Let me pray for you.”

    James hesitated but eventually nodded. “Yeah… okay. I’d appreciate that.”

    They knelt together by the bed, their arms resting on the mattress. Luke exhaled slowly, centering himself. He wasn’t used to leading prayer like this, but he knew it mattered. He cared too much not to try.

    “Father,” Luke began, his voice low but steady, “thank You for the way You’ve been leading us—even when we don’t always see it. Thank You for the work You’re doing through James. He’s got doubts weighing on him, Lord, and he needs Your peace. Help him to see that his worth doesn’t come from what he can achieve but from who You’ve made him to be.”

    James closed his eyes, the words seeping into his heart. Luke’s voice, always calm and sure in everyday life, carried a raw sincerity in this moment.

    “Show him how to let go of the fear and pressure he’s been carrying,” Luke continued, emotion creeping into his voice. “Remind him that You’re with him in every step—every struggle, every moment of doubt. And teach me, Lord, how to lay down my life for him the way You laid down Yours for us. Help me be the kind of brother who carries the load when he’s too tired, who loves without expecting anything in return.”

    James’s breath hitched slightly, the prayer striking a deep chord. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to hear those words.

    Luke paused briefly, taking a breath. “Thank You for giving me this friendship. For trusting us with this calling to serve others. We surrender it all to You. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

    “Amen,” James whispered, a tear slipping down his cheek.

    They remained on their knees for a moment longer, the silence between them reverent. Finally, James turned to Luke and pulled him into a firm embrace. It wasn’t just gratitude—it was something deeper, a wordless acknowledgment of trust, sacrifice, and shared purpose.

    “Thank you,” James said softly as he stepped back. “That meant a lot.”

    Luke smiled, his hand resting lightly on James’s shoulder. “You’ve been there for me more times than I can count. I figure it’s time I returned the favor.”

    James chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re really stepping up, huh? Look at you—leading prayer and everything.”

    Luke grinned. “Hey, don’t get used to it. I’m still figuring this faith thing out. But… I want to be better at it. For both of us.”

    “You’re doing good,” James replied sincerely. “Better than good.”

    The tension in the room had lifted, replaced by a quiet sense of hope. As they stood and stretched, James felt lighter. His fears weren’t entirely gone, but they no longer held the same grip.

    “You remember Jonathan and David?” Luke asked thoughtfully as they walked toward the living room.

    “Yeah.”

    “Jonathan gave up everything for David—his status, his future. That’s the kind of love I want to have for you and the guys we’re mentoring. Not just words. Sacrifice.”

    James nodded, his expression softening. “That’s… powerful. I’m honored, brother. And I want to be that for you too.”

    Luke gave a warm smile, their bond deepening in the quiet affirmation.

    “Alright,” Luke said, clapping James on the back. “Now let’s figure out how to knock some sense into those guys tomorrow without sounding too much like old preachers.”

    James laughed. “Sounds like a plan. Maybe you can try your ‘constructive oversight’ leadership style again.”

    “Don’t tempt me,” Luke shot back with a grin as they walked into the living room.

    Their banter continued into the evening, but the undercurrent of trust remained. Whatever challenges lay ahead for their ministry and their lives, they would face them together—brothers strengthened by faith, love, and sacrifice.

    (Chapter from a longer story about James and Luke, actually third in a trilogy about these two characters. Contact if interested in full story.)