Blog
-
Garage Band
The garage smelled like motor oil and stale pizza, a haze of dust catching the light from a single dangling bulb. Tyler’s drumsticks clacked against the snare, a rhythm sharp enough to cut through the humid August air. Across from him, Gabe hunched over his beat-up Stratocaster, coaxing a riff out of strings that hadn’t been changed in months. They weren’t good—not by any stretch—but they were loud, and that was enough. “Turn it up,” Tyler called, grinning as he kicked the bass pedal. Gabe twisted a knob on the amp, and the sound swelled, rattling the toolbox on the…
-
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…
-
The Rooftop Pact
The city buzzed below, a tangle of headlights and horns that never quit. Up on the roof, it was quieter—just the hum of a vent and the occasional pigeon flapping off into the dark. Ethan leaned against the ledge, his hoodie pulled tight against the wind. Beside him, Jay sprawled on an old lawn chair they’d dragged up months ago, its plastic creaking under his weight. The building was a crumbling six-story walk-up, but this spot was theirs. “Think it’ll rain?” Ethan asked, squinting at the gray smear of clouds. “Hope so,” Jay said, tipping his head back. “Wash some…
-
Testing Boundaries (Excerpt)
Silence settled, broken only by the rain’s patter. Ted didn’t rush to fill it, which irked Ethan for no good reason. He shifted, fingers drumming the armrest, then blurted, “So you just… denied that part of yourself?” Ted’s expression didn’t change. Ethan had been holding that question since the porch—maybe longer. With no distractions—no phone, no noise—it slipped out. Ted set his glass down with a quiet thunk, letting the words hang. “I surrendered it,” he said finally. “And I never looked back.” Ethan scoffed lightly. “That easy, huh?” Ted’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Didn’t say it was…
-
The Forge
The fire spat embers into the night, a ragged glow against the Indiana pines. Caleb crouched by it, 52 years carved into his hands—calluses from swinging hammers, scars from swinging at life. Across the flames sat Eli, 48, eyes hollowed by years of hiding. Two men, strangers ‘til that retreat, now tethered by something neither could name ‘til it hit. Caleb tossed a stick into the blaze, sparks snapping like old guilt. “Grew up thinking God’d smite me for looking too long at a guy in church,” he said, voice gravel. “Dad preached hell—I believed it. Ran from it ‘til…
-
Understanding the Deep Ache for Brotherhood
Let’s talk about the ache. It’s not loud. It doesn’t usually show up in small groups or sermons. But it’s there—sitting behind the ribcage like something unfinished. The longing for a brother—not just a buddy, but someone who sees you. Someone who knows your wiring, your story, and doesn’t flinch. A man you could walk with in honesty and depth, and never feel like too much. I know that ache well. Seems like the more “connected” we become via the Internet, social media, Zoom calls, etc., the less truly connected, in the day to day sense, we can be. I’ve…
-
The Altar of Surrender
Ethan had been fighting the same war since he was nine. It started with a memory—his older cousin, shirtless and laughing, tossing a baseball with a grace Ethan could never mimic. He’d wanted to be him, to wear that strength like a second skin. But the want turned dark, curling into a heat he didn’t understand, a pull that followed him into adolescence. By sixteen, it had a name—lust, envy, a tangled mess he hid behind a church-boy smile. He’d pray it away, fists clenched, begging God to rip it out. Make me normal. Make me good. But it clung…
-
The Weight and the Wonder (chapter)
The morning light slanted through the cabin windows soft and slow, catching motes of dust in its beams. A faint breeze stirred the curtains. The fire had long since gone out, leaving only a few glowing coals beneath the ash. Clyde sat at the table, mug in hand, elbows resting heavy on the wood. His flannel shirt hung unbuttoned over a clean tee, sleeves rolled up. He wasn’t moving much—just watching steam curl from his coffee like it had something to say he didn’t know how to hear. Behind him, the floor creaked. Tyler emerged from the back room, barefoot,…
-
When the Fire Settled (edited chapter)
The fire had burned low inside the cabin, just a slow curl of flame flickering over the last logs in the stone hearth. The room smelled faintly of smoke and cedar, the warmth of the blaze soft against the walls. They hadn’t talked much since supper. A few comments about the food, a short laugh over Clyde nearly dropping the pan off the grill, and then… just stillness. Tyler sat on the braided rug, one knee pulled up to his chest, hoodie sleeves half-pushed to his forearms. Clyde was beside him on the old leather couch, one boot off, socked…
-
Something Solid (chapter)
The creek behind Ted’s property ran quiet that afternoon, low from a dry spell but steady all the same. Tyler crouched at the bank, skipping rocks like he used to as a kid, boots half-dusty, half-muddied. The air smelled of pine and old leaves, warm with a hint of coming fall. Clyde sat nearby on a flat boulder, arms resting on his knees, watching the ripples Tyler’s throws left behind. Neither had said much for a while. Ted had invited them both out—“just a fire and some quiet,” he’d said—but he’d ducked inside to check on supper and left the…
-
Amos and Jonah (Part 5)
The seasons spun on, each one layering their story deeper into the land. The oak by the porch grew gnarled, its branches heavy with years, much like the men who sat beneath it. They’d carved out a life that defied the whispers of the world—a brotherhood so fierce it stood as a testament, a living sermon etched in calloused hands and shared silences. The physical pull never left, not entirely. It’d flare in quiet moments—when Jonah’s arm slung around Amos’s shoulders as they watched a storm roll in, or when Amos’s fingers grazed Jonah’s wrist passing him a mug of…
-
Amos and Jonah (Part 4)
Years rolled on, and the farm flourished under their care, a testament to their labor and their faith. The townsfolk would talk—two bachelors living out there, thick as thieves, closer than brothers, working the land and praising the Lord with a fire few could match. They’d see Amos and Jonah at the market, bartering for seed or a new plow blade, their easy banter and shared glances a quiet marvel. Some whispered, wondering at the depth of it, but most just saw two men who’d found a rare thing—a bond forged in sweat and Scripture, unbreakable as the Kentucky hills.…
-
Amos and Jonah (Part 3)
Days turned into weeks, and the rhythm of the farm carried them forward. They plowed the back forty together, the mules’ harnesses jangling as they trudged through the clay. Amos would clap Jonah on the back when they finished a row, his hand lingering a beat longer than necessary, and Jonah would grin, shoving him playfully in return. At night, they’d sit on the porch, the crickets serenading the stars, and talk about everything—Scripture, the herd, the way the river swelled after a rain. Sometimes they’d wrestle out in the yard, a rough tumble over a stray comment or just…
-
Amos and Jonah (Part 2)
Amos’s words hung heavy in the air, raw and unguarded. “Reckon I’d die for you, Jonah.” The confession slipped out like a stone dropping into a deep well, rippling through the silence of the farmhouse. Outside, the wind rustled the bare branches of the oak tree by the porch, a soft moan that mirrored the ache in both their chests. Jonah rose from his chair, the Bible still resting on the table, its leather cover worn smooth from years of touch. He crossed the room slow, his boots scuffing the pine floor, and stopped a pace behind Amos. “Don’t say…
-
Amos and Jonah (Part 1)
The sun was dipping low over the rolling fields of eastern Kentucky, painting the sky with streaks of orange and violet. The air carried the earthy scent of freshly turned soil and the faint sweetness of clover. Two men stood at the edge of a weathered wooden fence, their boots caked with the red clay of the land they’d worked since dawn. Amos, broad-shouldered and sun-burned, leaned against a post, his calloused hands resting on the splintered wood. Beside him stood Jonah, leaner, with sharp cheekbones and eyes like the still waters of a pond at dusk. They were quiet…
-
Flesh and Bone: The Bond that Holds
The wind howled across the cliffs of Dunmoor, dragging salt and spray inland, where a village called Hearthglen clung to the land like a memory. Long before the world grew sharp and distant, the men of Hearthglen lived close—close to the earth, close to each other. They worked the fields and fished the sea, and when the day was done, they sat shoulder to shoulder by the fire, letting touch speak what words didn’t need to. Back then, no one questioned it. A hand on the back said, “I’m with you.” A grip on the arm meant, “We’re still standing.”…
-
The Risk of Brotherhood—Why It’s Worth It
Caleb could still feel it—the sharp jab of the pin as it pierced his fingertip. The bead of blood had welled up, bright red against the summer dust on his skin. Elias, all freckles and wild hair, pressed his own pricked finger against Caleb’s, their twelve-year-old hands trembling with the weight of it. The tall grass swayed around them, a green curtain behind Caleb’s peeling clapboard house, swallowing their giggles as they swore their oath. “Blood brothers,” Elias had declared, voice cracking with boyish gravity. “Forever, no matter what.” Caleb had nodded, believing every word, the sting in his finger…
-
Brotherhood as Mirror: The Unseen Strength
The parking lot was mostly empty now, just a handful of cars under the streetlights. The meeting had wrapped up a while ago, but Ethan, Nate, Ben, and Will lingered by Ben’s truck, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the cool night air. Ethan kicked a loose pebble, watching it skitter across the pavement. “I just don’t think I have it in me,” he muttered. “Not like you guys.” Ben leaned back against the truck, arms crossed. “Like us how?” Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know. The way you all just… carry yourselves. Confident. Solid. I still feel like I’m waiting…
-
Reframing the Wild Heart of a Man
John Eldredge, in Wild at Heart, famously wrote that the core desires of a man’s heart are a battle to fight, an adventure to live, and a beauty to rescue. For a lot of men, that rings true. But for others—especially those who grew up feeling like outsiders to the rough-and-tumble world of masculine ideals—it can feel like a language that doesn’t quite fit. If you didn’t grow up throwing punches or chasing danger, does that mean you’re not fully a man? If your deepest longing isn’t to rescue a damsel in distress, are you missing something? Of course not. The…
-
Iron Sharpens Iron: The Role of Men in Faith
We were never meant to walk this road alone. God designed men to sharpen one another, to reflect truth back when we can’t see it for ourselves. Brotherhood isn’t just about companionship—it’s about clarity. The men we walk with act as mirrors, revealing our strengths, exposing our weaknesses, and calling us deeper into our identity in Christ. What happens when a brother sees something in you before you do? Most of us have been there. A brother calls something out—something good, something strong—and we hesitate to believe him. Maybe we’re too used to doubting ourselves. Maybe we’ve spent years listening…
-
More Than Words
The fire burned low, throwing flickering shadows against the trees. The night air was crisp, the scent of pine mingling with cooling embers and the faint smell of fresh-cut lumber stacked neatly by the porch, waiting for morning repairs. No tension hung between them now—just the quiet weight of men who had walked hard roads. Clyde sat back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but lacking its usual edge. Tyler sat to his left, staring into the flames, silent but not restless. Ethan leaned forward, turning a stick over in his hands, the firelight catching the side of…
-
The Call
The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the clearing. Will sat on a rough-cut log, boot heel digging into the dirt, elbows on his knees. Across from him, Mason leaned back against a boulder, arms crossed, watching the embers pulse red in the dark. Neither of them spoke for a while. The night had stretched long—one of those conversations that had started light, turned deep, then sat in the weight of itself. Will exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I used to think this kind of thing just happened.” Mason raised an eyebrow. “What kind of thing?”…
-
The Sacred Call to Brotherhood Among Men
We talk a lot about the need for brotherhood. And it’s true—we weren’t meant to walk alone. God wired us for connection, for iron sharpening iron, for a kind of love between men that strengthens, refines, and restores. But what if brotherhood isn’t just something we need? What if it’s something we’re called to? In a world that tells men to be independent, self-sufficient, and emotionally detached, brotherhood often gets reduced to a preference—a nice addition if you can find it, but not essential. Even in Christian circles, friendship is encouraged, but rarely do we hear it spoken of as a sacred duty. But…
-
Healing Father Wounds Through Faith
The fire crackled low, flames licking at the edges of the stacked wood. A cool breeze carried the smoke upward, disappearing into the night sky. Jake sat hunched forward on the log, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the embers. Across from him, Sam leaned back, one boot resting on the other knee, watching but not pushing. They’d been sitting there a while. Jake finally exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t even know where to start.” Sam poked at the fire with a stick. “Start with the lie.” Jake gave him a sideways glance. “What?” “The lie,” Sam repeated.…
-
Different Types of Brotherhood Among Men
The Brotherhood of Men: Different Bonds, One Design Brotherhood runs deep in the heart of man. It’s wired into us—this pull toward other men, this need to walk alongside, to fight for something together. But not all brotherhoods are the same. Some are given, some are chosen, and some are forged in the fire of faith. Each has a purpose, but only one is eternal. 1. The Brotherhood of Shared Humanity Every man born into this world is part of a shared brotherhood. We were all created by the same God, bearing His image (Genesis 1:27). This bond ties us…
-
Brother, I See You
Brother, I need you to hear this. I see you. Not just the surface—not just the things you do or how the world labels you. I see the man you are. And I honor you. I see your body—strong, capable, shaped by the hands of God Himself. Maybe you carry muscle, maybe you don’t. Maybe you bear scars from battles, inside or out. Maybe your frame isn’t what the world calls impressive, but it carries the weight of your life, and that matters. You are made in His image, every part of you, and you are not a mistake. (Genesis 1:27, Psalm 139:14) I see your mind—sharp,…
-
Reflections of a Brother
The water is still, reflecting the sky in endless hues of blue and gold. It cradles them, warm and living, flowing around their bodies like the breath of God Himself. Sunlight dances across the rippling surface, tracing golden lines over their bare skin, highlighting strength, form, and the undeniable reality of their shared manhood. Lior stands chest-deep in the water, facing Dain. The older man regards him with quiet intensity—not as a teacher measuring a student’s progress, but as a brother standing before an equal. The air between them hums with something unspoken, something weighty yet effortless, as natural as…
-
Still Standing
Still Standing The night air hung heavy, thick with the kind of silence that wasn’t really silent. Wind stirred the trees, gravel settled under our boots, but neither of us spoke. We just stood there, arms clasped, leaning in—forehead to forehead, the weight of it all pressing between us. Not crushing—just there. I exhaled slow, steady. “You don’t have to carry it all, brother.” My voice was low, firm. A reminder, not a command. You gripped my arm tighter, not in defiance—just needing to feel something solid. “I know,” you said, but the words came like a man trying to…
CovenantRoad 