CovenantRoad

Tag: brotherhood

  • The Rooftop Pact

    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 of this noise away.”

    Ethan smirked, kicking a pebble across the tarred surface. It skittered into a puddle from last night’s drizzle. They’d been coming up here since they moved in—Ethan after dropping out of college, Jay after his barista gig became his only plan. Two years of sharing a shoebox apartment, splitting rent and ramen, had turned into something neither bothered to name.

    Jay pulled a beat-up journal from his jacket, flipping it open. “Wrote something dumb last night.”

    “Read it,” Ethan said, not looking over. He didn’t need to. Jay’s voice was enough.

    Jay cleared his throat, dramatic-like. “‘Sky’s a mess, head’s worse. But we’re here, so screw it.’” He paused, grinning. “Poetry, right?”

    “Deep,” Ethan deadpanned, but his lips twitched. “You’re a regular Shakespeare.”

    “Shut up.” Jay chucked the journal at him. Ethan caught it one-handed, flipping through pages scrawled with half-thoughts and doodles—their lives in smudged ink. He stopped at a line from weeks back: We’re enough for each other, man. Jesus said so. Jay had scratched it out, then rewritten it darker.

    “You believe that?” Ethan asked, voice low.

    Jay shrugged, staring at the skyline. “Some days.”

    Ethan nodded, handing the journal back. Some days was enough.

    They’d met at a bus stop three years ago, both soaked from a storm, arguing over whose headphones were louder. Ethan was nineteen then, all sharp edges and no direction. Jay was twenty, cocky but steady, the kind of guy who’d share his last dollar without asking why you needed it. Now, at twenty-two and twenty-three, they were still a mess—just a mess together.

    “Boss cut my hours again,” Ethan said, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Says I’m ‘unmotivated.’”

    “You are,” Jay said, grinning when Ethan glared. “Kidding. You’ll bounce back.”

    Ethan didn’t answer, just stared at the lights flickering below. He’d dropped out after one semester, burned out on lectures and loans. Now he stocked shelves at a corner store, each shift a reminder he was going nowhere. Jay, at least, had the coffee shop—low pay, but he liked the rhythm. Ethan envied that, though he’d never say it.

    “Got an interview tomorrow,” Jay said, breaking the silence. “That new place by the park. Better tips, maybe.”

    “Good for you,” Ethan muttered, then winced at how bitter it sounded. “I mean it.”

    “I know.” Jay sat up, the chair groaning. “If I get it, I’ll cover rent ‘til you’re solid.”

    Ethan shook his head. “Don’t need charity.”

    “Not charity, dumbass. It’s us.” Jay’s tone was firm, like he’d already decided. Ethan didn’t argue. He never won those fights.

    The wind picked up, tugging at their clothes. Ethan pulled his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them. “Ever feel like you’re just… stuck?”

    Jay didn’t answer right away. He stood, stretching, then walked to the ledge beside Ethan. “Yeah. But then I come up here. You’re here. It’s not so bad.”

    Ethan looked up, meeting Jay’s eyes—steady, like always. He wanted to say something smart, brush it off, but the words stuck. Instead, he nodded, and Jay clapped a hand on his shoulder, leaving it there a beat too long.

    That night, Ethan crashed on the couch, too wired to sleep. Jay’s snores drifted from the bedroom, a sound Ethan could set a clock to. He thought about the roof, the way Jay never pushed, just stayed. It wasn’t a fix for the mess in his head, but it was something.

    Two days later, it all unraveled. Ethan came home from a shift—late, because the bus broke down—to find a note taped to their door. Rent’s due. Pay up or get out. They’d been late before, but this time the landlord meant it. Ethan’s stomach sank. His hours were cut, Jay’s interview hadn’t panned out yet, and their savings were a jar of quarters on the counter.

    He didn’t tell Jay when he got home. Just grabbed a soda and headed for the roof. Jay followed, no questions, journal tucked under his arm. They settled into their spots—Ethan on the ledge, Jay in the chair—like nothing was wrong.

    “Rough day?” Jay asked, flipping pages.

    Ethan popped the can, the hiss loud in the quiet. “You could say that.”

    “Spill.”

    “Landlord’s done. We’re out if we don’t pay by Friday.” Ethan kept his eyes on the city, waiting for Jay to freak.

    Jay didn’t. He scribbled something in the journal, then tore the page out and handed it over. Ethan took it, frowning. We’ll figure it out. Always do.

    “You’re nuts,” Ethan said, but he folded the paper into his pocket.

    “Probably.” Jay leaned back, hands behind his head. “Got a shift tomorrow. I’ll hustle. You?”

    “Same.” Ethan paused, then added, “Thanks.”

    Jay waved it off, but his grin said he got it.

    They stayed up there ‘til the stars peeked through, talking about nothing—old movies, dumb customers, the pigeon that kept stealing Jay’s fries. When the cold drove them inside, Ethan felt lighter, like the weight wasn’t all his anymore.

    Friday came fast. Jay picked up an extra shift; Ethan pawned a watch he didn’t need. They scraped the rent together, barely, and slid it under the landlord’s door with thirty minutes to spare. Back on the roof that night, exhausted, they didn’t say much. Jay scribbled in his journal, Ethan traced cracks in the ledge with his finger.

    “We’re good,” Jay said finally, closing the book.

    “Yeah,” Ethan agreed, and he meant it.

    The city kept buzzing below, but up here, it was just them—two guys against the grind, holding on. Not a plan, not a fix, just a pact. And for now, it held.

  • Testing Boundaries (Excerpt)

    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 easy.”

    Ethan leaned forward, arms on his knees. “So what—you just decided one day those feelings weren’t real?”

    Ted shook his head. “Never said that either.”

    Ethan frowned.

    Ted exhaled, settling back. “What I’m sayin’ is, I had to choose. The world told me one thing. God told me somethin’ else. I trusted Him more’n I trusted myself.”

    Ethan crossed his arms. “And that worked for you?”

    Ted nodded, but something heavier flickered in his eyes. He stared into the lantern’s glow. “I almost didn’t,” he admitted.

    Ethan raised an eyebrow.

    Ted rubbed his jaw, exhaling through his nose. “For a while, I figured I’d got it wrong. Maybe I was holdin’ onto somethin’ outta fear. So I walked away—gave the world’s way a shot, thought I’d find what I was lookin’ for.”

    Ethan’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t expected this.

    Ted shook his head, gaze settling on him. “Didn’t. Lost more’n I care to admit.” He leaned forward. “You wanna know why I trust God more’n myself? I’ve seen what happens when I don’t.”

    Ted sipped his water, calm again. “Spent years thinkin’ I had to choose between bein’ loved and bein’ faithful. But I was askin’ the wrong question. It wasn’t about that—it was about choosin’ Him.”

    Ethan swallowed, throat tight. He forced a smirk. “Not many people sound as sure as you.”

    “Took a long time to get here,” Ted said, a quiet laugh in his voice.

    Ethan watched him, the lantern light carving deeper lines in his face. He should’ve argued, laughed it off. But he didn’t want to. That scared him more than anything.

    Ted stood, grabbing a blanket from a closet and draping it over the couch. “In case it gets cold tonight.”

    (Excerpt from Narrow Road Together in the Ethan & Ted series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story)

  • The Forge

    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 I couldn’t.”

    Eli nodded, boots scuffing dirt. “Same, different flavor. Mom said love was women or nothing. Tried it—married at 30, crashed by 35. Never told her the guys on the rig stirred me more’n she did.”

    The wind carried smoke between them, sharp and honest. Caleb’s gut knew that ache—loving men, not like the world said, but bone-deep, beyond flesh. He’d chased it in shadows—porn flickering on a screen, two guys bonding, not touching, but close. Never fit the gay label, never fit straight. Eli’s story echoed—different road, same ditch.

    “Found Christ at 47,” Caleb said, poking the fire. “Broke me open—grace, not wrath. Been five years, still wrestle the pull. Not sex—just that hum when a guy gets me.”

    Eli’s laugh was dry. “Yeah. Forty-five for me—Jesus hauled me out of a bottle. Two years in, same fight. Thought I was alone ‘til this.” He waved at the fire, the space between.

    Caleb leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Ain’t alone. World don’t get it—men loving men, pure, no mud. But Scripture does. Jonathan and David—souls knit, no bed. That’s us, brother.”

    Eli’s eyes caught the glow, steadying. “Thought I’d die single, shamed. This… covenant? Feels like air.”

    They’d met that week—retreat mud, shared coffee, stories spilling over late nights. Caleb saw Eli’s flinch at a guy’s grin; Eli caught Caleb’s quiet when loneliness bit. No preaching—just truth, raw as split wood. They’d prayed it out, hands clasped, fire a witness—two men, battered but standing (Ecclesiastes 4:12—cord of three strands).

    “Role’s this,” Caleb said, voice firm. “Live it—men who love men, Christ’s way. World’s blind; we ain’t. Build it, brother—hammer and soul.”

    Eli tossed dirt on the flames, embers hissing. “Yeah. Forge it—us, others. No more hiding.”

    Dawn crept up, gray and sure. They stood, shoulders brushing—not erotic, but alive. Caleb’s hammer waited; Eli’s rig called. Two men, loving unique, God-lit, stepping into a world that’d never name it. But they did—covenant, forged in fire, strong as hell.

  • Understanding the Deep Ache for Brotherhood

    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 got brothers I can talk to—guys I can reach out to when it gets hard. Some of them know the deepest parts of my story. But none of them live close by. None I can really do life with day in and day out. That kind of shoulder-to-shoulder bond—the one you can lean on without explaining it every time—it’s not here right now. And I feel that absence.

    So this post? It’s not just for you. It’s for me too.

    Because this ache, this deep desire for covenant brotherhood, isn’t some fringe longing. It’s not about being needy or codependent. It’s part of God’s design. We were made for this kind of connection. Jesus had it. David and Jonathan had it. It’s the kind of friendship that’s forged, not found. It’s rooted in Christ, sharpened by time, and held together by grace.

    But what if you don’t have it?

    That’s where a lot of us live. In the in-between. Wanting it so deeply it hurts, but not knowing how to find it—or what to do with ourselves while we wait.

    And in that waiting, a lot can stir.

    Old habits. Old fantasies. I’ve found myself drawn toward imagined scenarios—emotional, sometimes even erotic. Longings that twist just enough to offer the illusion of being seen, known, held.

    But it never lasts.

    It flares up, then fades. And afterward, the ache is sharper. The loneliness deeper. The illusion of closeness can never hold the weight of what I really need.

    Still, I understand why the pull is there. Because at its core, this longing isn’t wrong. It’s holy ground that’s been stepped on by the world, by the enemy, by the wounds of our past. The desire to be known, loved, and not alone—it mirrors the very heart of God.

    So what do we do with the ache when the brother hasn’t come?

    We bring it to Jesus.

    Not the polished version. The real one. The messy ache. The unmet need. The quiet grief of another day without that kind of companionship. We lay it down—again and again—at the only altar that can hold the weight of our longings.

    Jesus isn’t afraid of it. He’s not rolling His eyes. He knows this ache. He felt it too—misunderstood, unseen, carrying love that had nowhere to land.

    And He’s not telling us to pretend it’s fine. He’s inviting us to trust that He’s not wasting the waiting.

    See, this isn’t about giving up on brotherhood. It’s about surrendering the form we think it has to take. It’s letting Jesus be enough in the meantime. Because He’s doing something in us while we wait. Something sacred. Something strong.

    And I have to believe that the ache, when surrendered, becomes the very soil where brotherhood can take root.

    So I’m still praying. Still hoping. Still staying open. Saying yes to the small invitations—firepit gatherings, book studies, texts that open doors. Some of those don’t lead anywhere obvious. But some might. Even if they don’t, they keep my heart soft. And that matters.

    And in the waiting, I hold onto this: I’m not forgotten. You’re not forgotten. We’re not broken for wanting something Jesus Himself modeled.

    I don’t have all the answers. But I know this much: chasing fantasy won’t fill it. Neither will stuffing it down. The way forward is surrender. Not because the ache will vanish—but because in Christ, it doesn’t own you anymore.

    And if you’re feeling that ache today too—man, I’m with you.

    Let’s keep showing up. Keep trusting. Keep bringing our need to the only One who truly sees.

    He’s not going anywhere.

    And I don’t think He’ll leave us in this ache forever.

  • 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 like damp rot.

    Now, at twenty-eight, Ethan stood in his apartment, the late March light slanting through the blinds. He’d just hung up from a call with his pastor, who’d invited him to a men’s retreat. “Come as you are,” Pastor Dan had said. Ethan snorted. As he was? A man whose longing for brotherhood had fused with something erotic, something he couldn’t untangle? He’d tried everything—fasting, cold showers, dating women he didn’t want. Nothing worked. The desires still ambushed him, sparked by a coworker’s handshake or a stranger’s stride.

    He sank to his knees by the couch, the carpet rough against his shins. Jesus, I don’t know how to do this. He’d heard the phrase a thousand times—lay it at the cross—but it felt like jargon, a platitude with no map. He pictured a literal cross, splintered and bloody, and himself standing before it, hands empty. What did that even mean? Dump his shame there and walk away? He’d tried. It always came back.

    The retreat was a week away. Ethan spent the days wrestling. He opened his Bible to Galatians 2:20—“I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.” The words stung. Crucified. Dead. Was that it? Not just handing over the mess, but letting it die with Him? He closed his eyes, picturing it—his envy, his hunger, nailed up there, bleeding out. Take it, Jesus. Kill it. His voice shook. I don’t want it anymore.

    It wasn’t a feeling, not at first. No rush of peace, no choir of angels. Just a choice, raw and deliberate. He kept at it, night after night, kneeling until his knees ached. This longing—the way it twists me—it’s yours. I’m done owning it. He imagined driving the nails himself, each prayer a hammer strike. The fantasies still came—unbidden, vivid—but he’d stop, breathe, and say it again. Yours, not mine. It was clumsy, unglamorous, a surrender he had to remake daily.

    The retreat was a cabin in the woods, ten guys around a firepit. Ethan arrived late, nerves buzzing. Pastor Dan greeted him with a nod, and the others—gruff, bearded types mixed with quieter ones—offered handshakes. He braced for the old pull, the way his eyes might linger, but he whispered under his breath, Yours, Jesus. It didn’t erase the flicker, but it shifted the weight.

    The first night, they shared stories. Dan went first—his own pride, a marriage he’d nearly wrecked. Another guy, Paul, talked about porn, voice cracking. Ethan’s pulse raced. He could stay silent, safe. But the cross loomed in his mind, a place of death and release. He cleared his throat. “I’ve… wanted to be one of the guys my whole life. But it got messed up. Envy turned into… stuff I’m ashamed of. I’ve been giving it to Jesus, but it’s hard.”

    The fire snapped. He waited for the shift—disgust, distance. Instead, Dan leaned forward. “That’s real, man. Takes guts to say it.” Paul nodded. “Yeah. We’re all carrying something.”

    Ethan exhaled, shaky. They didn’t pry, didn’t flinch. They just sat with it, with him. The next day, they hiked, fished, laughed over burnt hot dogs. Paul clapped him on the back after he snagged a trout—awkwardly, but still a win. “Nice one, brother.” The word landed soft, true.

    That night, Ethan knelt by his bunk, the cabin quiet. Jesus, thank you. For taking it. For them. He pictured the cross again, his desires pinned there, not gone but powerless. The surrender wasn’t a one-time fix—it was a rhythm, a daily dying. But it worked. Not because he felt clean, but because he trusted the one who’d already carried it.

    Months later, the group stuck. They met for coffee, prayed over texts. Ethan still stumbled—the old pull flared at a gym locker room or a friend’s grin—but he’d name it, nail it down. Yours. And the brothers stayed, not as saviors, but as echoes of the cross—living proof he wasn’t alone. Christ was the root; they were the branches. Ethan wasn’t healed, not fully. But he was held.

  • The Weight and the Wonder (chapter)

    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, hair still mussed from sleep, hoodie half-zipped over his bare chest. He didn’t say anything at first. Just padded into the kitchen and poured himself a cup.

    He didn’t ask how Clyde slept.

    Clyde didn’t ask him to sit.

    But Tyler did, folding into the chair across from him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

    The silence wasn’t awkward. It was warm. Full.

    Like they’d both remembered something in the night they’d never known before.

    Clyde finally cleared his throat. “I, uh… put a fresh pot on. Thought you’d want some.”

    Tyler nodded, taking a sip. “Thanks.”

    They sat like that for a long stretch, mugs in hand, the weight of what had passed between them settling like morning dew.

    “I figured I’d go clear the brush behind the toolshed today,” Clyde said eventually, not looking up. “Been meanin’ to get to it.”

    Tyler smiled softly. “Want a hand?”

    Clyde nodded once. “If you’re offerin’.”

    “I am.”

    It wasn’t avoidance. It was agreement—unspoken but understood. They’d talk. But not yet. Not with words.

    By midday, they were back in the rhythm of work. The sun was warm, filtering down through the pines as they cleared branches and hauled broken limbs to the burn pile. Sweat ran down their backs, shirts stuck to skin. They didn’t say much, but every so often their eyes met—and held, just for a second.

    Not afraid.

    Not ashamed.

    Just… searching. Remembering.

    When they took a break, Clyde handed Tyler a bottle of water and sat down hard on a split log, wiping his brow. Tyler sat beside him, close but not touching.

    Clyde let out a breath, rough around the edges. “I don’t know what to say about last night.”

    Tyler took a drink, then leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. “Me neither. But I don’t think we have to explain it all today.”

    Clyde nodded, jaw tightening. “It felt… real. I ain’t gonna pretend it didn’t.”

    Tyler turned to look at him. “Same.”

    They were quiet again, the breeze rustling through the trees like it was listening in.

    “I spent most my life thinkin’ if I ever crossed that line, it’d ruin me,” Clyde said slowly. “But I don’t feel ruined.”

    Tyler’s voice was low. “You’re not. Neither of us are.”

    Clyde looked down at his hands.“It wasn’t right—not in the way the world measures it. But there was a kind of… reverence in it. I can’t tell you if it was holy or not. But it didn’t feel dirty. It felt… honest.”

    Tyler nodded, watching him. “It wasn’t just a thing that happened. It was a moment. And yeah, we’ll have to walk through it. But I think God’s not afraid of what’s real. I think He meets us there.”

    Clyde looked up then, eyes steady. “You believe that?”

    “I do.”

    Another long pause. Then Clyde let out a breath that seemed to shake something loose in his chest. “I ain’t sure what comes next.”

    Tyler reached over, laid a hand gently on Clyde’s arm. “Then we walk it out. One step at a time. No shame. No hiding.”

    Clyde looked at the hand, then up at Tyler. “I’m still scared.”

    “Me too,” Tyler said. “But I’d rather be scared and honest than safe and alone.”

    The words settled between them like an anchor.

    And for the rest of the afternoon, they worked side by side again—brush and sweat, sun and stillness—less like men who’d messed up and more like men learning what grace really meant.

    Something had shifted.

    Not broken.

    Not lost.

    Just changed.

    And neither of them ran from it.

    (Chapter from Still With You in the Tyler and Clyde series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)

  • When the Fire Settled (edited chapter)

    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 foot planted on the floor. They were facing the fire, but neither of them was really looking at it anymore.

    The wind outside whispered against the cabin walls. The pines creaked in reply, like they were saying something neither man had the words for.

    Clyde shifted, elbows resting on his knees, hands folded. “You ever think,” he said quietly, “that silence feels more honest than half the stuff we say?”

    Tyler glanced at him. “Sometimes. Yeah.”

    Clyde nodded once, like that was all he’d meant to say, and maybe it was. But something hung in the air—weightier than the firelight, heavier than the day’s work. Tyler felt it between them, humming under the quiet like a thread pulled too tight.

    He looked at Clyde again. The firelight danced on his profile—weathered, tired, solid. There was something open in his face now, not guarded like usual. Not strong, exactly. Just… real.

    Tyler reached over and placed a hand on Clyde’s shoulder.

    Just that.

    Clyde’s shoulder was solid under Tyler’s hand—warm through the flannel, steady in a way that made Tyler’s chest tighten. He didn’t say anything. Just stayed there a moment, palm resting firm, thumb brushing once against the seam of Clyde’s shirt.

    Then Clyde turned slightly, and their foreheads met—an accident at first, then not. They stayed there, eyes closed, breathing the same breath. Something fragile and holy hovered in that space between them.

    Clyde spoke first, voice barely above a whisper. “I ain’t never let someone close like this.”

    Tyler swallowed. “Me neither. Not like this.”

    ….

    When it was done, they stayed close, breathing in sync, sweat cooling in the quiet. The fire had burned low, throwing long shadows up the log walls. Clyde lay on his back, eyes open, fixed on the ceiling like he was trying to anchor himself.

    Tyler lay on his side beside him, hand still resting near Clyde’s chest, not quite touching now.

    Neither spoke. There was too much to say.

    And not enough language to say it.

    …to be continued in “The Weight and the Wonder” later today

    (Edited chapter from Still With You from the Tyler and Clyde series, contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)

  • Something Solid (chapter)

    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 two of them alone not long after. Maybe on purpose.

    Tyler stood, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Don’t know why, but this place always slows my brain down.”

    Clyde gave a small grunt of agreement. “Somethin’ about water and woods. Strips the noise off.”

    Tyler looked over at him. “You ever think maybe God designed it that way? Like… made these places to help us remember what matters?”

    Clyde shifted, his gaze on the water. “Reckon He did. World’s loud. We make it louder.” A pause. “Truth don’t shout much.”

    Tyler chuckled, quiet. “Nah. It doesn’t.”

    He walked over and sat down next to Clyde on the rock. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but they didn’t need to. The closeness wasn’t forced—it just was.

    “I’ve been thinkin’,” Tyler said after a minute, “about what you said last week. About prayin’ honest.”

    Clyde didn’t look over, but his brow lifted slightly.

    Tyler kept going. “I started tryin’. Not just talkin’ to God, but tellin’ Him stuff I’d never even admitted to myself.” He let out a breath. “Thought He might be mad. But it’s weird… it’s like He already knew. Like He was waitin’ on me to say it just so I could hear it too.”

    Clyde nodded slow. “He’s good like that.”

    Tyler glanced down at the water. “That book you gave me… it didn’t fix me.” He paused. “But it started somethin’.”

    Clyde nodded, voice quiet. “That’s all I hoped for.”

    They sat quiet again, a hawk crying faint somewhere overhead.

    “I don’t really know what this is,” Tyler said, glancing at Clyde. “Us. This… whatever we’re buildin’. But I know it ain’t shallow.”

    Clyde’s jaw worked a bit, like he was chewing on the words. Then he said, “Don’t gotta name it to know it’s real.”

    Tyler nodded. “I don’t feel like I gotta prove anything around you. That’s new.”

    Clyde’s voice was low, steady. “I don’t feel like I gotta hide.”

    The words landed like a stone sinking slow into deep water.

    Tyler looked away, blinked a few times. “I used to think I needed somebody to complete me. Like there was this hole that only another guy could fill. And I chased that. Thought it was love. But now…” He trailed off, shook his head. “Reckon I just needed a brother who’d stay.”

    Clyde glanced at him then—just a flicker—and the corner of his mouth tugged up slightly.

    “Sounds about right.”

    They sat there, side by side, while the sun shifted through the trees and the creek rolled on.

    Ted’s screen door creaked open behind them. “Food’s up,” he called.

    Clyde stood, offered Tyler a hand. Tyler took it without hesitation, letting Clyde pull him up. Their grip lingered a beat—firm, steady.

    “Come on,” Clyde said. “Let’s eat.”They walked toward the cabin—not side by side, but close enough.
    More than nothing.
    Solid enough to hold.

    (Chapter from Solid Enough To Hold in the Tyler and Clyde series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story.)

  • Amos and Jonah (Part 5)

    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 coffee. But they’d mastered it, turned it into a current that ran beneath their covenant, powering it rather than pulling it apart.

    One summer, a traveling preacher came through, a wiry man with a voice like thunder. He stayed a night at the farm, breaking bread with them in the flickering light of the kitchen. He watched them close, his keen eyes catching the way Amos filled Jonah’s plate without asking, the way Jonah’s hand rested easy on Amos’s arm as they laughed over some old story. After supper, the preacher sat back, pipe in hand, and said, “Y’all got somethin’ special here. Like David and Jonathan, souls knit together. Ain’t seen many live it out so true.”

    Amos and Jonah exchanged a look, a flicker of pride and something softer passing between them. “Just tryin’ to honor Him,” Amos said, and Jonah nodded.

    “Ain’t always easy, but it’s good,” Jonah added.

    The preacher left the next day, but his words stuck, a quiet blessing on what they’d built. And build they did—year after year, until the farm wasn’t just a patch of dirt but a legacy of faith and fidelity. The chapel became a gathering place for the scattered folk of the hills, drawn by the warmth of two men who lived what they preached. They’d sit on those oak benches, listening as Jonah read Scripture or Amos prayed in that low, steady voice, and they’d leave feeling the weight of something holy.

    Fall came again, decades piling up like the leaves drifting against the barn. Amos was slower now, his back stooped from years of bending to the plow, and Jonah’s hands shook when he whittled, but they still worked the land, still knelt in the chapel, still laughed like the young men they’d once been. One evening, as the sun dipped low and the sky burned crimson, they walked the fence line, checking posts like they’d done a thousand times. Amos stopped, leaning heavy on a post, breath fogging in the chill.

    Jonah paused beside him, concern creasing his brow. “You alright?” he asked, stepping close, his hand finding Amos’s shoulder.

    Amos nodded, catching his breath. “Just takin’ it in. This place. You. All of it.”

    Amos turned, his hazel eyes locking with Jonah’s, weathered and deep with years of shared struggle and triumph. The wind kicked up, rustling the crimson leaves around their boots, and for a moment, they just stood there, the weight of their bond heavier than the post Amos leaned on. Jonah’s hand stayed firm on Amos’s shoulder, a tether as real as the Kentucky clay beneath them.

    “Reckon we’ve walked this road right,” Amos said, his voice a low rumble, softened by the years. “Ain’t been easy, fightin’ what we felt, but we made it somethin’ better. Somethin’ He can look down on and call good.”

    Jonah nodded, his gray eyes steady, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Aye. Brothers, true and deep. That’s what He gave us strength for. Ain’t no shame in lovin’ you like this—pure, like David and Jonathan. We kept it holy.”

    Amos straightened, clapping Jonah on the back, the gesture rough but warm, a seal on their unspoken vow. “Let’s head in. Coffee’s callin’, and I ain’t freezin’ out here for pride.”

    They turned toward the farmhouse, shoulders brushing as they walked, the chapel’s silhouette a quiet sentinel against the fading light. Inside, they shed their coats, the fire already crackling from earlier. Jonah grabbed the pot, pouring two mugs, while Amos sank into his chair, the creak of the wood as familiar as a hymn. They sat across from each other, steam curling up between them, and raised their mugs in a silent toast—not to romance, not to what could’ve been, but to the brotherhood they’d forged, a covenant stronger than steel, rooted in their faith.

    Years later, when the townsfolk found them—Amos gone in his sleep, Jonah a day after, unwilling to linger alone—the chapel still stood, their initials carved in the bench. The land bore their mark, a testament to two men who’d wrestled the hum into something glorious, a friendship that glorified God’s design. They buried them side by side under the sycamore, the tree’s roots curling deep, just like the bond they’d lived out to the end.

  • Amos and Jonah (Part 4)

    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.

    The years etched lines into their faces, turned Amos’s hair to silver and Jonah’s to a dusty gray, but the rhythm of their days held steady. They’d rise before dawn, coffee brewing on the old stove, and head out to tend the herd or mend a fence. The physical affection stayed—a constant thread woven into their lives, natural as breathing. A hand on the back after a hard day, a rough hug when the weight of the world pressed too heavy, a playful shove that’d spark a wrestle in the yard, their laughter ringing out across the fields.

    The hum lingered too, a quiet ember they’d long learned to tend without letting it flare. It was there in the way Jonah’s eyes would trace Amos’s broad frame as he split wood, or how Amos’s breath would catch when Jonah sang hymns in that low, steady tenor. But they’d made their choice, and it was a choice they renewed every day—with every prayer, every shared meal, every step they took side by side.

    One crisp autumn evening, as the maples blazed red and gold, they sat on the porch, rocking chairs creaking under their weight. The harvest was in, the barn stuffed with hay, and the air smelled of apples ripening on the tree out back. Jonah whittled now, a habit he’d picked up from Amos, shaping a small cross from a chunk of walnut. Amos leaned back, hands folded over his belly, watching the sun sink behind the ridge.

    “Reckon we’ve done alright, Jonah,” Amos said, his voice a deep rumble softened by time. “This life, this place. Him up there’s gotta be smilin’ down on it.”

    Jonah paused, the knife still in his hand, and looked over at Amos. The fire in his eyes hadn’t dimmed, not even after all these years. “More’n alright,” he said. “We took what He gave us—this pull, this whatever-it-is—and made it somethin’ good. Somethin’ holy, even.”

    Amos grunted, a sound that might’ve been agreement or just the comfort of hearing Jonah’s voice. “Ain’t been easy,” he said after a beat. “Times I wanted to give in, let it turn to somethin’ else. But you kept me straight. Iron sharpens iron, like you’re always quotin’.”

    Jonah grinned, setting the cross on the arm of his chair. “You did the same for me. Nights I’d lie awake, wonderin’ if we was fools to fight it. But then I’d hear you snorin’ through the wall, and I’d think, ‘Naw, that’s my brother. That’s my rock.’ And I’d pray for us both.”

    Amos turned his head, meeting Jonah’s gaze. There was a weight there, a tenderness that didn’t need words, but he spoke anyway. “I’d do it all again, you know. Every wrestle, every hard day, every time I had to pull back from you. ’Cause what we got—it’s rarer than gold. Ain’t many men get a friend like this, a brother like this.”

    Jonah nodded, his throat working as he swallowed down the swell of emotion. “Same, Amos. Same.”

    They fell quiet then, the crickets picking up their song as dusk settled over the farm. The chapel still stood at the edge of the field, weathered now but sturdy, a silent witness to their covenant. Inside, they’d carved their initials into the back of one bench—A.K. and J.T., side by side, a small mark of the life they’d built. The townsfolk called it the Brotherhood Chapel, a name that stuck after old man Carver saw them praying there one Sunday and said it felt like walking into a piece of heaven.

    One winter, when the snow piled high and the wind howled through the eaves, Jonah took sick. A cough that wouldn’t quit turned into a fever that kept him abed, his lean frame shivering under a pile of quilts. Amos tended him like a mother hen, broth simmering on the stove, prayers muttered under his breath as he pressed a cool cloth to Jonah’s brow. The farm could wait—the cattle would survive a day untended—but Jonah couldn’t. Not to Amos.

    “Stop fussin’,” Jonah rasped one night, his voice weak but his eyes sharp. “I ain’t dyin’ yet. Got too much left to do with you.”

    Amos huffed, dipping the cloth back into a basin of cold water and wringing it out with hands that trembled just a touch. “Better not be dyin’. I ain’t haulin’ this farm alone, you hear? And I sure ain’t prayin’ in that chapel by myself.”

    Jonah managed a faint chuckle that turned into a cough, and Amos was quick to prop him up, a broad hand splayed across Jonah’s back, steadying him until the fit passed. Their eyes met in the dim lantern light, and for a moment, that old ember flared sharp and bright, a pang of longing they’d spent years taming. Amos’s hand lingered, warm against Jonah’s fevered skin, and Jonah’s breath hitched, not just from the sickness.

    “Lord, keep us,” Jonah whispered, a prayer as much as a plea, and Amos echoed it with a gruff “Amen.” He eased Jonah back onto the pillows, pulling the quilts up tight.

    “Rest now. We got this,” Amos said, his voice a rock in the storm.

    And they did. The fever broke by morning, leaving Jonah weak but alive, and Amos sank to his knees by the bed, head bowed in gratitude, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his weathered face.

    Spring came late that year, the frost clinging stubborn to the ground, but when it finally thawed, the land burst forth like a promise kept. Jonah was back on his feet, thinner now, his cheeks hollowed, but his spirit unbowed. They stood together in the chapel one Sunday, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and new growth seeping through the cracks. Jonah’s voice rose in a hymn—“Blessed be the tie that binds”—and Amos joined in, his rumble blending with Jonah’s tenor, rough harmony lifting to the rafters. Their shoulders brushed as they sang, and when the last note faded, they stayed there, side by side, breathing in the stillness.

    (Concluded in Part 5)

  • Amos and Jonah (Part 3)

    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 to burn off the restless energy that sparked between them. Amos would pin Jonah to the grass, both of them laughing, breathless, their faces inches apart until one of them would pull away, red-faced and muttering about needing water. The attraction simmered, undeniable, but they channeled it into something fierce and good—a bond that didn’t bend under the weight of temptation.

    One spring evening, after a long day mending fences, they sat by the creek that cut through the property. The water ran clear over smooth stones, and the willows dipped low, brushing the surface. Jonah stripped off his shirt, splashing water on his face, the droplets catching the golden light. Amos watched, his chest tightening, then looked away, picking up a flat stone to skip across the creek.

    “You’re a sight, Jonah,” he said, half-teasing, half-serious. “Oughta be careful, or I’ll forget myself.”

    Jonah laughed, shaking the water from his hair like a dog. “Ain’t my fault you’re weak, old man.” But his eyes softened, and he sat beside Amos on the bank, their shoulders brushing. “We’re doin’ right, ain’t we?” he asked quieter. “Keepin’ this in line?”

    Amos skipped another stone, watching it hop four times before sinking. “Reckon so. Ain’t easy, but it’s worth it. The Lord’s got us.”

    Jonah nodded, resting his forearms on his knees. “I’d rather have you as my brother, true and steady, than lose you to somethin’ fleeting. That’s what He wants, I figure. Men who stand together, lift each other up.”

    That summer, they built a small chapel on the edge of their land—nothing fancy, just a lean-to with a cross nailed above the door and a couple of benches hewn from oak they’d felled themselves. It became their sanctuary, a place where they could kneel together and lay their struggles bare before God. The chapel smelled of sawdust and resin, and the sunlight filtered through the gaps in the walls, painting stripes of gold across the dirt floor. They’d sit there after a day’s work, sweat-soaked and weary, and pray for the strength to keep their covenant, to honor the bond they’d forged not just with each other, but with the One who’d brought them together.

    The physical pull didn’t vanish—how could it? It was stitched into the fabric of who they were, two men carved from the same rugged earth, their lives entwined like the roots of the old sycamore that shaded the farmhouse. But they learned to dance with it, to let it fuel their brotherhood rather than fracture it. When Amos felled a tree, Jonah was there to haul the logs, their hands brushing as they hefted the weight together, a spark flickering but quickly smothered by a shared grunt of effort. When Jonah stumbled under the strain of a sick calf, Amos was there, his arm slung around Jonah’s waist to steady him, the warmth of his grip a quiet comfort they didn’t linger on too long. They’d laugh it off, clap each other on the back, and move on, their resolve a shield against the undertow of desire.

    Harvest season rolled in, the fields heavy with corn and the air thick with the drone of cicadas. They worked from dawn to dusk, scythes swinging in tandem, their rhythm so synced it was like one man mirrored in two bodies. One afternoon, the heat was unbearable, a wet blanket pressing down on the land. They stripped to their waists and waded into the creek to cool off, splashing water at each other like boys. Jonah tackled Amos into the shallows, and they wrestled, slick with mud and laughter, until Amos pinned Jonah beneath him, the current tugging at their legs.

    Their eyes locked, breaths heaving, and for a heartbeat, the world shrank to just them—the pulse of Jonah’s wrist under Amos’s hand, the bead of water sliding down Jonah’s temple. Amos’s grip tightened, then released. He rolled off, splashing back into the water with a groan.

    “Lord, give me strength,” Amos muttered, half to himself, half to the sky.

    Jonah sat up, grinning despite the flush in his cheeks. “He’s givin’ it, brother. We’re still standin’, ain’t we?”

    And they were. That was the miracle of it. The attraction was a fire, but they stoked it into something else—something that warmed rather than burned, something that lit the path they walked together. They’d sit by the fire at night, Amos whittling while Jonah read from the Psalms, his voice weaving through the crackle of the logs.

    “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another,” Jonah read one evening, glancing up with a knowing look.

    Amos nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching into a rare smile. “Reckon that’s us,” he said, shaving a curl of wood from the block in his hands. “Sharp enough to cut through anything the devil throws our way.”

    Winter came, blanketing the farm in snow, the fields glittering under a pale sun. They’d tromp through the drifts to check the cattle, their breaths puffing white in the air. One morning, Jonah slipped on a patch of ice, and Amos caught him, pulling him close to steady him. For a moment, they stood there, chest to chest, the cold biting their skin but the heat of each other cutting through it. Jonah’s hand rested on Amos’s arm, and Amos didn’t pull away—not right off. They looked at each other, the silence thick with all they wouldn’t say, and then Jonah stepped back, clapping Amos on the shoulder.

    “Thanks, big man,” he said, voice rough but light. “Ain’t goin’ down that easy.”

    Amos chuckled, shaking his head. “Better not. Who’d keep me in line?”

    Spring returned, and with it, a calf born under the first full moon. They named her Hope, a scrappy little thing with a coat like midnight. They knelt in the straw of the barn, marveling at her, their shoulders pressed together as they watched her wobble to her feet. Jonah’s hand found Amos’s, a brief squeeze, and Amos returned it—two men bound by something bigger than themselves, something eternal.

    (Continued in Part 4)

  • Amos and Jonah (Part 2)

    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 that less you mean it,” Jonah said, his voice low but steady, like the hum of a hymn. “’Cause I feel the same, and it scares me somethin’ fierce.”

    Amos turned, his hazel eyes catching the firelight, glinting with a mix of resolve and torment. “I mean it. Ain’t no lie in me when it comes to you. But feelin’ it don’t make it right, does it? We’re men of the Word. We know what’s laid out for us.”

    Jonah nodded, his throat tight. He stepped closer, close enough that Amos could smell the sweat and earth clinging to him from the day’s labor, a scent as familiar as the fields they worked. “It’s a fight, ain’t it?” Jonah said, his voice trembling just a hair. “Lovin’ you like this and knowin’ we gotta turn it into somethin’ else. Somethin’ God can smile on.”

    Amos clenched his fists at his sides, the muscles in his forearms flexing under the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt. “Ain’t never felt a pull this strong,” he admitted. “Not even when I was young and full of fool notions about the world. You’re in my bones, Jonah. But I ain’t here to defy Him. I’m here to serve Him.”

    Jonah reached out, hesitant, then rested a hand on Amos’s shoulder, firm and warm through the worn fabric. “Same,” he said. “We’re brothers in Christ first. That’s the covenant that matters. Whatever this is, we shape it to fit His will.”

    They stood there, locked in that touch, the fire popping behind them like a chorus urging them onward. The weight of their faith pressed down, but so did the strength of it, lifting them above the churn of their hearts. Amos finally stepped back, breaking the contact, and ran a hand over his stubbled jaw.

    “Let’s pray on it,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t no better way to sort this out.”

    They knelt together on the braided rug by the hearth, knees sinking into the faded colors woven by Amos’s mother years back. Jonah led, his voice steadying as he spoke. “Lord, You see us. You know every corner of our hearts, every stumble and every hope. We’re Yours, first and always. Take this bond we got, this love, and make it holy. Shape it to Your design, not ours. Give us strength to walk upright, to glorify You in all we do.”

    Amos murmured an “amen,” his head bowed, the firelight dancing across the planes of his face. When they rose, there was a quiet resolve between them, a pact forged in the heat of that moment. They wouldn’t run from what they felt, but they wouldn’t let it rule them either. It’d be a brotherhood, deep and true, tempered by faith.

  • Amos and Jonah (Part 1)

    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 for a moment, watching the last of the cattle amble toward the barn, their breaths visible in the cooling air.

    Amos broke the silence, his voice low and gravelly. “Good day’s work. Reckon the Lord’s pleased with hands that don’t idle.”

    Jonah nodded, pulling off his battered hat and running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Aye. Keeps the mind steady too. Idle hands, idle thoughts—ain’t no good comes from that.”

    They’d been working this land together for nigh on five years now, ever since Jonah had shown up at Amos’s doorstep, a drifter with a Bible tucked under his arm and a hunger for purpose. Amos had been alone then, his folks long gone, the farm too big for one man. Something about Jonah—his quiet strength, his unshakable faith—had made Amos offer him a place to stay. And stay he did. They’d built a life here, side by side, tilling the earth, raising livestock, and praying under the same roof each night.

    But there was something else too, something unspoken that lingered in the spaces between their words and glances. It had started small—a brush of hands when passing a tool, a lingering look across the supper table, the way Jonah’s laugh sent a warmth through Amos’s chest he couldn’t quite name. And for Jonah, it was Amos’s steady presence, the way he’d rest a hand on Jonah’s shoulder after a long day, firm and grounding, that stirred something deep within him. They both felt it, this pull, this ache. And they both knew it wasn’t simple.

    That night, after supper, they sat by the hearth in the small farmhouse. The fire crackled, casting shadows on the rough-hewn walls. Jonah had his Bible open on his lap, reading aloud from Proverbs, his voice steady and sure. Amos listened, whittling a piece of cedar with his pocketknife, the scent of the wood mixing with the smoke. When Jonah finished, he closed the book and set it aside, his eyes drifting to Amos.

    “You ever think about it?” Jonah asked, his tone careful, like he was stepping onto thin ice.

    Amos’s knife paused mid-stroke. He didn’t look up. “Think about what?”

    Jonah shifted in his chair, the floorboards creaking beneath him. “You know what I mean. Us. This… thing we don’t talk about.”

    The room went still, save for the pop of a log in the fire. Amos set the cedar and knife down on the table beside him, his hands resting on his knees. He met Jonah’s gaze, and there it was—the weight of it, the truth they’d both been circling like hawks over a field.

    “Yeah,” Amos said finally, his voice rough. “I think about it. More’n I should, maybe.”

    Jonah leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers lacing together. “Me too. Ain’t easy, is it? Feelin’ somethin’ strong as this and knowin’ it don’t fit the way we’re meant to walk.”

    Amos nodded slow, his jaw tight. “Scripture’s clear. God’s design—it’s man and wife, family, fruitful land. Ain’t no room in that for… whatever this is.”

    “But it’s real,” Jonah said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I feel it when you’re near me, Amos. Like my soul’s tethered to yours. Ain’t lust, not all of it. It’s deeper. Like you’re kin, but more.”

    Amos stood abruptly, pacing to the window. He stared out at the dark fields, his broad frame silhouetted against the glass. “I know it,” he said, his back to Jonah. “I feel it too. Reckon I’d die for you, Jonah.”

    (Continued in Part 2)

  • Flesh and Bone: The Bond that Holds

    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.” Touch was strength shared, not stolen. The old elder Eamon called it God’s design: “He made us flesh and bone, lads—not just to toil, but to hold.”

    Torin and Calum weren’t brothers by blood, but they might as well have been. One loud, one quiet. One broad and brawny, the other lean and sharp-eyed. They moved through life like two halves of a single soul—until the world changed.

    Traders came with polished steel and slippery words. They sold more than goods; they sold a new idea of manhood: self-made, self-reliant, untouched. And slowly, the village followed. Arms that once held now hung at men’s sides. Brothers became rivals. Words replaced presence. The fire grew cold.

    Then the storm came.

    It tore through Hearthglen, ripping roofs, shattering boats, and leaving silence in its wake. Torin and Calum stood yards apart, working through the wreckage, silent, stiff, the space between them colder than the wind. And it was Eamon, bent and half-frozen, who limped into the heart of it all and shouted what everyone knew but had forgotten: “God gave us hands to hold—not just to hoard.”

    And when a boy named Finn—thin, trembling, alone—stepped into the square asking for help, no one moved… until Eamon did. He wrapped that boy in his frail arms and broke something open.

    Torin stepped toward Calum.

    “Brother,” he said—rough, unsure—and placed a hand on his shoulder.

    Calum flinched… then reached up and gripped Torin’s arm.

    And that was the spark.

    One by one, men followed. An embrace here, a clasp of arms there. Walls crumbled. Eyes softened. Voices rose. It wasn’t polished—it was raw, clumsy, honest. It was holy.

    They rebuilt the village, yes. But more than that, they rebuilt the bond. Shoulder to shoulder. Hand to back. Forehead to forehead in prayer. Touch, reclaimed. Pure. God-honoring.

    The traders came again, puzzled at what they found: not lonely men chasing coin, but a tribe forged in shared strength. They left, muttering. Hearthglen didn’t blink.

    Years passed. Eamon died, buried beneath the cliffs. They carved his words into stone:

    “Flesh and bone—meant to hold fast.”

    And they did.

    Men lingered after the work was done—not to compete, but to stay close. They taught the boys how to fish, how to plant, how to press a hand to a brother’s back when the weight got heavy. They didn’t call it covenant. They didn’t need to. It was carved in the way they leaned into each other. It was how God made them.

    Not just to stand tall.

    But to stand tall together.

  • The Risk of Brotherhood—Why It’s Worth It

    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 a small price for something eternal.

    That was twenty years ago. Time had a cruel way of fraying promises, stretching them until they were gossamer-thin. Life piled up—college finals, cubicles, wedding vows—and the thread between them stretched too far. Elias slipped away first, his voice fading from late-night calls to clipped texts, then nothing. Caleb tried—phone calls unanswered, a birthday card returned unopened. Each silence cut deeper than that pin ever had, leaving a dull ache where trust used to be. He’d lost his brother, and the loss settled into his bones like damp cold.

    Now, whispers slithered through First Baptist’s pews, sharp as pine needles. Elias was back, hiding out in his uncle’s old cabin on the edge of town. “He’s different,” they said, voices low over coffee cups. “Angry. Broken.” Some swore he’d turned his back on God; others muttered about liquor bottles and shadows under his eyes. Caleb didn’t know what to believe—just that hearing it twisted the knife of losing Elias all over again, a fresh wound over an old scar.

    Then the letter landed in his mailbox. No envelope, just a scrap of notebook paper folded once, Elias’s jagged handwriting spilling across it: “Caleb—I need you. Come now. Cabin.” No sorry, no explanation—just a plea, raw and reckless. Caleb sat at his kitchen table, the note trembling in his hands, the clock ticking past midnight. He wanted to crumple it, let it rot with the junk mail. Why should he go? After years of silence, why risk the sting of Elias’s temper—or worse, indifference? The rumors gnawed at him: what if his friend was too far gone? But that echo—“No matter what”—rattled in his skull, a stubborn ghost of a boy’s voice. It wouldn’t let him sleep.

    So he drove. The road to the cabin snaked through a forest of pines, their branches clawing at the sky in the gray March dusk. Gravel crunched under his tires, each mile tightening the knot in his gut. What if Elias didn’t mean it? What if this was a fool’s errand? The cabin loomed ahead—sagging roof, windows dark like hollow eyes. Caleb killed the engine, his breath fogging in the chill. He knocked, the sound swallowed by the woods. The door groaned open, and there stood Elias—gaunt, a hint of gray threading his hair, his face a map of hard years. But those eyes—still green, still his—locked onto Caleb’s.

    “Caleb,” Elias croaked, voice like dry leaves. He stepped aside, a silent invitation. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

    “Didn’t think you’d care,” Caleb snapped, the words sharper than the air between them. Old hurt hung there, thick and heavy.

    Elias pointed to a couch—springs poking through faded plaid—and Caleb sank into it, arms crossed. Elias paced, boots scuffing the warped floorboards, then stopped, hands jammed in his pockets. “Writing that note scared the hell out of me,” he said. “Thought you’d hate me. I… I didn’t know how to face you after I disappeared.”

    Caleb’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t disappear, Elias. You left. I called. I wrote. You shut me out.”

    “I know.” Elias’s voice splintered, raw-edged. “Everything fell apart—lost my job, my wife walked out. I was a wreck, drowning in it. I pushed everyone away because I couldn’t stand them seeing me like that. Especially you. Thought you’d be better off without me dragging you down.”

    The confession landed like a stone in Caleb’s chest. All those years, he’d pictured Elias moving on, carefree, while he nursed the rejection. But this—shame, not apathy—had built the wall between them. “You should’ve told me,” Caleb said, quieter now, the anger softening into something tender. “We were brothers.”

    “Are,” Elias said, eyes fierce despite the weariness. “If you’ll still have me.”

    The room went still, the weight of the choice pressing down. Caleb could leave—protect himself, let the rumors bury what was left. Or he could stay, wade into the wreckage, like Jonathan standing by David against a king’s wrath, like Christ carrying a cross for the unworthy. A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity. The verse burned in his mind, unbidden.

    “Three hours on that damn road,” Caleb said, a crooked smile breaking through. “I’m not turning back now.”

    Elias let out a shaky breath, the mask of his guarded face cracking into something real—relief, maybe hope. They talked until the windows turned silver with dawn. Elias spilled it all: the layoffs, the divorce, the nights he’d raged at God and the bottle alike. Caleb admitted his own failures—pride that kept him from banging down Elias’s door, resentment that had festered too long. It wasn’t pretty. Trust was a bridge half-collapsed, rebuilt with shaky hands and honest words. But they built it, step by messy step, because brotherhood—covenant carved in blood and grace—was worth the risk.

    Weeks later, at church, Caleb caught the whispers again. “Elias seems lighter now.” He didn’t reply, just traced the faint scar on his fingertip—barely there, but indelible. The pinprick had faded, but the bond it marked had endured, tempered by fire, held by a promise neither could outrun. They were different men now, scarred and steady, and that was enough.

  • Brotherhood as Mirror: The Unseen Strength

    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 for someone to tell me I’m actually a man, you know?”

    Nate exhaled, shaking his head. “Man, you really don’t see it, do you?”

    Ethan frowned. “See what?”

    Will clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You remember two weeks ago in small group, when Alex opened up about his dad walking out?”

    Ethan nodded. “Yeah. What about it?”

    Ben tilted his head. “Who do you think he was looking at when he told that story?”

    Ethan blinked. “I don’t know… all of us?”

    Nate shook his head. “No, man. He was looking at you. You didn’t say much, but you sat there, locked in, not looking away, not filling the silence just to make it easier. You made space for him to be real, and that’s why he kept talking.”

    Ethan opened his mouth, but no words came out.

    Ben smirked. “And what about last month when James came in pissed off, ready to tear someone’s head off over work drama? You didn’t try to fix it, didn’t tell him to calm down—you just let him be mad for a minute. Then you asked one question—‘What do you think God’s saying in this?’ And boom, the whole room shifted.”

    Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. “I was just—”

    Will cut in, voice steady. “You were just being you. And that’s the point.”

    Ben tapped his knuckles against the truck bed. “You think strength has to be loud. That leadership means standing up front, making speeches, calling the shots. But brother, look at Jesus. Look at the way He saw people. The way He spoke to them in a way that made them feel known.” Ben met Ethan’s gaze. “You got that in you, man. And you don’t even see it.”

    Ethan swallowed, shifting where he stood.

    It wasn’t the first time someone had said something like this. But tonight, outside this meeting, standing with these men—men he respected, men who saw him in a way he couldn’t yet see himself—it landed different.

    Will squeezed the back of Ethan’s neck, giving it a firm shake. “You’re already walking in it, brother. Just gotta step fully into what God’s put in you.”

    Ethan let out a slow breath, nodding once.

    Ben opened the truck door, but none of them moved to leave just yet. They stood there a little longer, under the quiet hum of the streetlights, the night stretching wide around them.

  • Iron Sharpens Iron: The Role of Men in Faith

    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 to the wrong voices, the ones that told us we weren’t enough. But when a true brother sees something in us—something real—we have a choice. We can dismiss it, shrink back into old lies, or we can lean in and trust that maybe, just maybe, he sees what God sees.

    Encouragement isn’t just about making each other feel good. It’s about calling forth the truth. A man who walks alone might never realize what he carries, but a man surrounded by brothers can’t ignore it for long.

    The role of correction, encouragement, and sharpening

    Brotherhood also brings another kind of mirror—the one that shows us what needs to change. Proverbs 27:17 says, “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.” The sharpening process isn’t always comfortable. It’s friction. It’s heat. It’s a brother telling you, “Hey, man, you’re better than this,” when you’re slipping into old habits. It’s a firm word when you’re making excuses, a push forward when you’d rather stay stuck.

    This is why isolation is dangerous. Alone, we can convince ourselves of anything. We can justify sin, ignore growth, settle for less. But when a brother stands in front of us, holding up the mirror, we’re forced to reckon with what’s really there. And that’s a gift.

    Brotherhood is God’s way of keeping us awake to the truth.

    Walk with men who remind you who you are. Who won’t let you shrink. Who reflect back the image of Christ in you, even when you struggle to see it yourself.

    Because in the end, that’s what true brotherhood does—it brings us closer to Him.

  • 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 his face. Ted, as always, was steady, his presence grounding them all.

    For a long time, none of them spoke.

    Then Clyde cleared his throat, voice gruff but not biting. “So. This… covenant thing.”

    Ethan glanced up.

    Clyde’s gaze stayed on the fire. “It ain’t just some sentimental nonsense, is it?”

    Ethan’s lips quirked. “No.”

    Clyde nodded once, like that answer was good enough for now. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly. “So explain it to me.”

    Tyler looked over, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

    Ethan turned the stick in his fingers, thoughtful. Then he spoke, steady and sure. “Covenant’s not just about loyalty. It’s about belonging. It’s saying, ‘I see you. I walk with you. I fight for you.’ It’s not built on obligation—it’s built on choice.”

    Clyde was quiet, absorbing that.

    Ethan looked into the fire, voice steady. “The world tells men like us that closeness always has to mean something else. That brotherhood can’t be deep without crossing lines. That we’re always missing something.” He shook his head. “But that’s a lie. The enemy wants us to believe it, because it keeps us from stepping into the love God actually designed for us.”

    The fire crackled, sending sparks spiraling into the dark.

    Clyde exhaled slowly. “You really believe that?”

    Ethan met his gaze directly. “Yeah. I do.”

    Clyde studied him, searching for something—maybe weakness, maybe hesitation. But there was none. Clyde’s jaw worked subtly, his eyes narrowing not in judgment but something closer to respect, a quiet acknowledgment of truth landing deeper than he’d expected.

    Tyler shifted slightly. “And that’s enough?” His voice was low, uncertain, as though afraid the answer might actually matter.

    Ethan’s brow furrowed slightly. “More than enough.” He hesitated, then added softly, “It’s better.”

    Tyler looked away, his fingers flexing restlessly against his knee.

    Clyde let out another slow breath, eyes drifting back to the fire, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn’t argue. Didn’t scoff. Just sat quietly, wrestling silently with something he’d spent years pushing away.

    Ted, who’d been listening quietly, finally spoke up. “Funny thing about truth.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “You don’t have to rush it. Just gotta let it do its work.”

    The fire burned lower, glowing embers pulsing beneath the ash. One by one, the others started shifting—Ted stretched with a quiet grunt before heading toward the cabin, pausing to glance at the stack of lumber, making a silent note of tomorrow’s tasks. Ethan finished off his coffee before following, nodding toward Clyde and Tyler as he passed.

    Clyde stayed put, kicking at a loose log with the toe of his boot.

    Tyler grabbed a stick, prodding at the fire, sending sparks up into the night. Neither spoke for a long while.

    Finally, Clyde grunted. “You gonna sit there, or you gonna help me put this thing out?”

    Tyler huffed softly but stood, grabbing a bucket of water from beside the porch. He sloshed some over the coals, steam hissing up between them. Clyde nodded in quiet approval, kicking dirt over the rest.

    They stood there in the fading glow, watching the last embers die.

    Then Tyler muttered, “We’re not friends.”

    Clyde let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Didn’t say we were.”

    Silence stretched again. The wind stirred through the trees.

    Clyde exhaled, voice quieter than before. “But maybe you’re not as lost as I thought.”

    Tyler glanced over, studying him briefly, then smirked faintly. “Maybe you’re not as certain as you thought.”

    Clyde snorted, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t argue.

    They didn’t shake hands. Didn’t nod in silent truce.

    But when they turned toward the cabin, they walked back at the same pace.

    (Chapter from Beyond Ourselves in the Ethan and Ted series, contact me if you’d like to read the full story)

  • The Call

    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?”

    “This.” Will motioned between them. “Brotherhood. Having someone who actually sees you. I figured if God wanted me to have it, He’d drop it in my lap.”

    Mason smirked. “How’d that work out for you?”

    Will let out a dry chuckle. “Took me long enough to realize that’s not how it works.”

    Mason poked at the fire with a stick, watching a spark rise into the black sky. “Yeah, man. We’ve been lied to. Told we’re supposed to go at it alone, handle our own mess, keep everything tight.” He shook his head. “It’s not how we’re built. But the enemy’s done a damn good job convincing us otherwise.”

    Will nodded, staring into the flames. He could feel it—that ache of all the years he’d spent waiting instead of stepping in. The friendships that had stayed surface-level. The seasons of isolation he’d let drag on too long. The way he’d mistaken longing for calling—as if the ache itself was enough, instead of the fuel to actually do something about it.

    “This is more than just friendship,” he said finally. “It’s not just about having somebody to talk to or kill time with.” He looked up. “It’s a call, isn’t it?”

    Mason met his eyes, serious now. “Yeah, man. It is.”

    Will shook his head, thoughtful. “It’s funny, though. We don’t think of it that way. We think we’re just ‘wired for connection’ or whatever, like it’s some personality trait. But if we’re wired for it, doesn’t that mean God put that wiring there for a reason?”

    Mason nodded. “Exactly. We talk about needing food, water, air. Those aren’t just needs—they’re designed necessities. Same with brotherhood. It’s not just something we crave—it’s something that fuels us. When we don’t have it, we starve.”

    Will felt that. He’d been starving for years and hadn’t even realized it.

    “And if something is designed, it has purpose,” Mason continued. “Brotherhood isn’t just about filling a void in us. It’s about stepping into something bigger. Fighting for each other. Holding the line when one of us falls.”

    Will exhaled. “So it’s not just a longing. It’s a duty.”

    Mason’s voice was firm. “Yeah. A God-given one.”

    They sat in the quiet weight of that for a while.

    Will leaned back, stretching his legs out. “So now what?”

    Mason smirked. “Now? We walk it. Day by day. Step by step. We stop waiting for brotherhood to be easy and start building it for real.”

    Will nodded slowly, feeling something settle deep.

    Yeah.

    That sounded right.

  • The Sacred Call to Brotherhood Among Men

    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 throughout Scripture, we see a different picture.

    We see Jonathan, a warrior prince, binding his soul to David—not just out of affection, but because he saw God’s hand on his life (1 Sam. 18:1-4). We see Moses needing Aaron and Hur to hold up his arms when he grew weak (Ex. 17:12). We see Jesus Himself, the Son of God, walking not alone but with brothers—men He called friends (John 15:15).

    Brotherhood isn’t just an emotional longing—it’s part of God’s design for how men are meant to live and fight.

    And when we step into it, it’s not just for ourselves.

    Because here’s the truth: The world is starving for strong, righteous, Christ-centered men to rise up—not just as lone warriors, but as brothers. Men who will stand for each other, fight for each other, and commit to something bigger than themselves.

    The enemy knows the power of brotherhood. That’s why he isolates. That’s why he twists male connection into something impure or unnecessary. That’s why he wants men passive, detached, and drifting through life without anchors. Because he knows what happens when men walk together in strength.

    When men choose covenant over convenience.

    When they stop waiting for brotherhood to find them and start stepping into the calling to build it.

    It’s not just about us. It never was. It’s about restoring what’s been lost. It’s about saying yes to something that will outlive us.

    And that? That’s worth everything.

  • Healing Father Wounds Through Faith

    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. “The one that’s got its claws in you the deepest. Say it out loud.”

    Jake swallowed hard. The words felt dangerous, like saying them might make them more real. He hesitated, then finally muttered, “I’m not like other men.”

    Sam nodded, unshaken. “That’s a common one.”

    Jake scoffed. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

    “It’s supposed to tell you the truth,” Sam said. “You’re not alone in that feeling. But it’s still a lie.”

    Jake leaned forward again, rubbing his hands together. “Is it, though? I mean, look at me. I never fit in with guys growing up. Always felt different. Still do. I don’t think I’m wired like them.”

    Sam tossed the stick into the fire. “Different doesn’t mean deficient. You were made a man. That’s not something you feel your way into—it’s something you already are.”

    Jake clenched his jaw. “Then why do I feel like something’s missing?”

    Sam’s voice was steady. “Because you were meant to be sharpened by other men. Not as something you need to possess, but as something to grow alongside.” He let the words settle before continuing. “You think you need another man to complete you. But you don’t. Christ already made you whole.”

    Jake’s throat tightened. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

    Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. “Feelings aren’t the final word, brother. Truth is. And the truth is, you lack nothing.”

    Jake swallowed hard. “My dad never made me feel that way. He barely looked at me half the time.”

    Sam nodded, his voice softening. “I get that. When a father doesn’t affirm his son, it leaves a gap. A hunger. But your dad’s failure doesn’t get the final say on who you are.” He pointed at Jake’s chest. “Your Father in Heaven already called you His son. Already gave you what your earthly dad didn’t. And He doesn’t hold back His love.”

    Jake looked down, his fingers curling into fists. “Then why do I still crave it? Why does it hit me so hard when a guy sees me—really sees me?”

    Sam let out a slow breath. “Because deep down, you were made for brotherhood. For real, deep, non-sexual connection with other men. But the enemy took that God-given longing and twisted it, made it feel like something else.”

    Jake’s jaw clenched. “So what am I supposed to do? Just ignore it?”

    “No,” Sam said firmly. “You name it. You stop running from it. And you let God untangle what the enemy twisted. You step into real brotherhood—not in secrecy, not in shame, but in the light.”

    Jake looked at him then, really looked. “And that works?”

    Sam held his gaze, then reached over, clapping a firm hand on Jake’s shoulder before sliding his arm around his back in a solid, steady grip. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

    The warmth of that touch cut through the cold night air—solid, grounding, real. Jake didn’t pull away. He let himself feel it, the strength of another man standing with him, not against him.

    The fire popped, sending sparks into the night. Jake let the words sink in, the truth pushing against years of lies.

    He wasn’t there yet. Not fully. But for the first time, he believed it might be possible.

    And for now, that was enough.

    Themes: Christian man struggling with same-sex attraction, Healing father wounds through Christ,  What does the Bible say about masculinity? Healing from rejection as a man

  • 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 together with a sense of shared experience—the struggles, victories, and burdens that come with being men in a broken world.

    We see it in the way men naturally band together—in the workplace, in sports, in the military, in times of crisis. Something instinctual in us wants to stand side by side with other men, even if we don’t know them personally. This is a common grace brotherhood, a reflection of something deeper God designed.

    But this kind of brotherhood, on its own, can only go so far. Without Christ, it lacks the anchor that holds when storms come.

    2. The Brotherhood of Blood

    Some brotherhoods are written into our very DNA. Biological brothers share a history, a name, a bloodline. They are tied together in a way that no circumstance can fully erase.

    But even blood isn’t always enough to hold men together. We’ve all seen it—brothers who drift apart, who become strangers despite their shared upbringing. Family is a gift, but even family needs something stronger than blood to stay whole.

    3. The Brotherhood of Experience

    There’s another kind of bond men form—not from birth, but from shared trials and victories.

    • Soldiers who fight side by side form a bond that few others can understand.
    • Teammates who push each other past their limits forge a trust that runs deep.
    • Men who struggle together—through addiction, hardship, loss—find a connection that words can’t always explain.

    These brotherhoods are powerful, but they are often temporary. Once the shared experience fades, so does the connection.

    4. The Brotherhood of Christ

    Then there’s the bond that cannot be broken—the brotherhood found in Christ.

    This is deeper than shared humanity, stronger than blood, more lasting than experience. When men stand together not just as friends, but as brothers in Christ, they are bound by something eternal—the Spirit of God Himself (Romans 8:14-15).

    This is the only brotherhood that transcends time, culture, and circumstance. A man can lose everything—his family, his job, his homeland—but if he has a brother in Christ, he is never alone.

    This bond is not based on performance, usefulness, or common interests—it is built on Christ. That means it is a brotherhood of grace, where men sharpen each other, challenge each other, and remind each other of who they really are (Proverbs 27:17, Hebrews 10:24-25).

    5. The Brotherhood of Covenant

    Even within the brotherhood of Christ, some bonds run even deeper.

    Covenant brotherhood is a chosen, lifelong commitment between men who walk together with intention, loyalty, and shared purpose.

    • It is not just friendship—it is brotherhood by choice.
    • It is not just accountability—it is walking in the trenches together.
    • It is not just support—it is bearing each other’s burdens as if they were your own (Galatians 6:2, 1 Samuel 18:1-4).

    Covenant brotherhood is the answer to the loneliness epidemic, the antidote to isolation. It is the kind of bond Jonathan and David shared—not casual, not temporary, but a committed, soul-deep loyalty that reflects Christ’s love.

    Brotherhood Has a Purpose

    Every level of brotherhood has its place. But without Christ, even the strongest bonds fade.

    • The brotherhood of humanity gives us a shared connection, but it cannot save us.
    • The brotherhood of blood ties us to family, but it is no guarantee of unity.
    • The brotherhood of experience forges deep connections, but most fade with time.
    • The brotherhood of Christ is eternal, bound by something greater than ourselves.
    • The brotherhood of covenant is a rare and powerful commitment that reflects the depth of Christ’s love in a tangible way.

    Brother, you were not made to walk alone. Find your brothers. Stand with them. Fight for them. Walk with them in Christ.

    Because brotherhood was never meant to be temporary. It was meant to be forever.

  • 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, searching, always wrestling, always reaching. Maybe you think fast, or maybe you take your time. Maybe your thoughts run deep, or maybe you keep things simple. Either way, God has given you a mind meant for wisdom, for truth, for discernment. You are built to think, to lead, to make sense of this world through His Word. (Proverbs 2:6, James 1:5)

    I see your heart—stronger than you know. Maybe it’s been bruised, maybe it carries weight most men wouldn’t understand. But it still beats with purpose. Your heart was made to love, to stand, to endure. To fight for what’s right, to protect what’s sacred, to hold onto the ones God has placed in your life. It beats because He has a plan for you. (Psalm 73:26, Jeremiah 29:11)

    I see your spirit—anchored in Christ, even when you doubt. You are not a lost cause. You are not too far gone. You are not defined by your past, your temptations, your struggles. You are a son of the Most High, a man called into something greater than yourself. (Romans 8:14-15, 2 Corinthians 5:17)

    I see your strength—not just the kind that lifts weight, but the kind that lifts burdens. The kind that carries others when they can’t stand on their own. The kind that chooses truth over comfort. The kind that refuses to quit when the enemy whispers, “You are not enough.” Brother, you are enough, because Christ in you is enough. (2 Corinthians 12:9-10, Philippians 4:13)

    I see your place among men. You are not an outsider. You are not unworthy. You belong. God made you to walk alongside your brothers—to stand shoulder to shoulder, to fight and to build, to love and to lift each other up. You were never meant to go at this alone. (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10, Proverbs 27:17)

    I see your calling—whether you are married, single, or bound in covenant brotherhood, your life has purpose. You are not waiting for something else to make you whole. You are already whole in Christ. Your worth does not come from a title, a relationship, or the approval of the world. It comes from the One who calls you His own. (Isaiah 62:2, Colossians 2:10)

    Brother, I see you. And I need you to hear this—you are a man. Not because of what you do, but because God made you one. Not because you always feel it, but because He designed you that way. Not because of the world’s standards, but because you were formed by the hands of the Almighty.

    Stand in that truth. Walk in it. Live in it. And know this—you do not walk alone.

    I am here. Your brothers are here. And Christ is with you always.

    You are seen. You are known. You are honored. You are loved.

    Now go walk as the man God made you to be.

  • 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 the rise and fall of their breath.

    For a long moment, neither speaks. They simply look—taking in the shape of the other, the lines of muscle honed by labor and trial, the subtle marks of experience that tell the story of their lives. There is nothing hidden, nothing obscured. Here, in the water, in the presence of the One who formed them, they are wholly seen and wholly known.

    Lior is the first to break the silence. “I see it now,” he says, his voice soft yet certain.

    Dain tilts his head, waiting.

    Lior’s eyes do not waver. “I see myself in you. And I see you in me.”

    Dain’s expression does not change, but something deepens in his gaze—pride, understanding, something beyond words.

    “This bond,” Lior continues, voice steady, “it’s not just about learning or growing. It’s about knowing. Knowing who we are. Knowing who God made us to be.” His lips twitch with the hint of a smile. “I thought I was just becoming a man. But I’ve come to see—I was made for brotherhood just as much as for strength.”

    Dain exhales, slow and full, as if hearing words he has long known but never spoken aloud.

    “You understand,” he says. It is not a question.

    Lior nods. “I do.”

    Dain steps forward, and Lior mirrors him instinctively. They meet in the center of the water, standing close enough that their reflections blend together in the shifting surface. Dain places a firm hand on Lior’s shoulder, the touch carrying both weight and warmth.

    “You are a man,” Dain says, his voice low and full of certainty. “You are my brother.”

    Lior lifts his own hand, mirroring the gesture, his grip strong, sure. “And you are mine.”

    The water ripples outward from them, as if the world itself acknowledges what has been spoken. The sky above is vast, the land around them unshaken. But in this moment, it is the reflection in the water that holds the greatest truth—two men, two lives, bound in purpose, in strength, in the love that God Himself has woven into the heart of their covenant.

    They linger a moment longer, their hands remaining where they are—two lives mirrored, two hearts beating as one. Then, with silent agreement, they lower their arms and turn toward the shore.

    The journey is not over. But when they leave the water, they do so as men who have seen and been seen—who have beheld their own reflection in the eyes of a brother and found something sacred there.

    (Chapter from the Unfallen Earth fantasy series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story or series.)

  • 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 convince himself.

    I let that sit. Truth doesn’t always land the first time. It takes a second pass, a steady presence.

    The weight of your shoulders, the tension in your jaw—I saw it all. The kind of weight a man carries when he thinks he’s failing at something God never asked him to hold alone.

    I didn’t fix it. Didn’t push. Just stood there with you, bearing the silence together.

    After a while, your grip loosened. Not in surrender, but in relief. Like the weight wasn’t gone, but it didn’t have to suffocate you either.

    The wind stirred again. I could feel you breathing deeper now, steadier. The battle wasn’t over, but you weren’t fighting alone.

    And that was enough.

    For now, that was enough.

  • The Father’s Heart for His Sons

    Beloved sons,

    I, the Lord your God, speak to you from the heavens, where I see each of you clearly, without the veils of human judgment or the shadows of imperfection. You are all My sons, crafted in My image, each one of you a testament to My love and creativity. From the moment I breathed life into Adam, I established a brotherhood amongst all men—a sacred bond, deeper than blood, meant to strengthen and uphold each of you in your walk with Me.

    Hear Me now, for I say to you, every man, regardless of his stature, whether he stands tall or not; whether his frame is broad or slender; whether his skin is dark, light, or any shade in between; you are all equally My sons. Age does not diminish your worth in My eyes; from the youngest boy to the eldest man, you are precious to Me. The external signs of what society might call masculinity do not define you. Whether you are bold and outspoken or quiet and reflective, you are all equally men in My kingdom.

    The size of your body or the depth of your voice does not measure your manhood; these are but fleeting aspects of your earthly vessel. Nor does your physical strength or athletic prowess dictate your value, for I look at the heart, not the muscle. My love for you does not waver if you are disabled or if your body does not conform to what the world deems perfect. You are each a unique expression of My love, and I cherish you just as you are.

    In marriage, singleness, or covenant brotherhood, you are each called to serve Me in your unique way. Those who are married, those who remain single for the Kingdom, and those who forge brotherhood covenants in My name all share in the same mission—to love, to lead, and to live in righteousness. Your worth does not come from your marital status, but from your faithfulness to Me and your willingness to walk in the bond of brotherhood I have ordained.

    Regarding the inclinations of your heart, understand that My love for you is unwavering, but I call you to live according to My teachings. Your identity as My sons is not defined by where your attractions lie, but by your commitment to live a life that honors Me. I encourage you to seek purity in your thoughts and actions, to walk in My ways which lead to life and peace.

    Let not the world’s judgments or its shallow standards of manhood sway you. You are all part of a greater brotherhood, a covenant that reflects My love—a bond meant to support, uplift, and call each other to holiness. Stand firm together, for where one stumbles, another is there to lift him up. Where one is weary, another is there to strengthen him. This is My design, that no man should walk alone. (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10)

    Remember, My sons, you are not defined by what you see in the mirror or what others see in you, but by what I see in your hearts. Stand tall in this truth, for in My eyes, you are all equally men, equally loved, equally called into a brotherhood that reflects My Kingdom. Walk in this knowledge, live in this love, and let your bond as brothers be a beacon of My grace and truth in the world.

    With eternal love,
    Your Father in Heaven

    (This is not a direct prophecy or revelation, but a reflection of what God has spoken through Scripture—truths He has already declared about men, our identity, and our brotherhood.)

  • Covenant Formation

    Covenant Formation

    (Chapter Excerpt)

    Days later, Ethan stood in Ted’s living room, lamplight warming the space. Rachel sat by the fireplace, eyes bright with pride. Leo leaned against the wall, arms crossed but attentive. Dale was there—quiet, present, a nod of respect earned. An old Bible lay open on the coffee table, a silent witness.

    Ted faced Ethan, a paper in hand. “We ain’t here for a show,” he said, voice steady. “This is just puttin’ words to what’s already true.”

    He unfolded it, glancing at Ethan. “Ethan, I commit to walkin’ this road with you—not just as a friend, but as a brother. To pray with you, stand with you, hold you up when you’re strugglin’, challenge you when you need it. This world’ll pull at us, but we don’t belong to it. We belong to Christ. Long as I’m here, you won’t walk alone.”

    Ethan swallowed, the weight sinking deep. He unfolded his own paper, hands steady. “Ted, you’ve been more than a friend. You’ve been solid when I wasn’t. You showed me what it looks like to live for something bigger, and I don’t take that lightly. I commit to walking this with you—to keep learning, stay accountable, stand with you no matter what. I don’t know what’s ahead, but I don’t want to face it without this.”

    Silence stretched, thick with meaning. Ted pulled two braided leather wristbands from his pocket. Ethan frowned. “What’s this?”

    “Somethin’ to carry,” Ted said, handing one over. “A reminder.”

    Ethan slipped it on, then grasped Ted’s outstretched hand—firm, final. Rachel murmured a quiet, “Amen.” Leo whistled low. “Well, I’ll be. Didn’t think I’d see somethin’ like this.”

    Ted smirked. “That a compliment or an insult?”

    “Compliment,” Leo grinned. “I think.”

    Dale gave Ethan a long look, then nodded once. “Takes guts to commit like that.”

    Ethan nodded back—hard-won respect. Rachel stood, hugging him quick. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered.

    Ethan exhaled, lighter than he’d felt in years. This wasn’t about fitting in—it was bigger.

    As the night wound down, Rachel lingered, looking from Ted to Ethan and back. “I think you needed him as much as he needed you,” she said soft.

    Ted’s lips pressed tight, fingers brushing the wristband. She didn’t wait for a reply—just squeezed his arm with a knowing smile and left.

    Ethan caught Ted’s brief stiffness. “She’s right, isn’t she?”

    Ted chuckled weary. “Never thought I’d have this again.”

    Ethan nodded. He got it.

    (From Narrow Road Together in the Ethan & Ted series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story.)

  • Still Here

    Still Here

    The locker room wasn’t busy—just a handful of guys finishing their workouts, grabbing showers, heading out. Nothing out of the ordinary.

    Eli pulled off his shirt, grabbed his towel, and turned toward the showers. That’s when he noticed James—still in his gym clothes, sitting on the bench, tying and retying his shoe like he had nowhere to be.

    Something in Eli told him to wait.

    He sat down across from him, stretching out his legs. “You hitting the showers?”

    James glanced up, shrugged. “Might just rinse off at home.”

    Eli nodded, pretending not to notice the hesitation. He’d seen this before. A guy trying to decide if it was okay to just be a guy.

    The showers here were open—an old-school setup that hadn’t been remodeled like most places. Nothing weird about it. At least, there shouldn’t have been. But these days? It was different.

    Eli leaned back against the lockers. “You ever play sports?”

    James shook his head. “Nah. Never really into that scene.”

    Eli smirked. “Yeah, me neither. But I grew up around guys who were. And you know what I remember? They didn’t think twice about this kind of thing.” He gestured toward the showers. “Back then, no one was worried about being seen. It was just part of life.”

    James chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… guess I never really thought about it.”

    But Eli could tell—he had thought about it.

    “I get it,” Eli said. “Somewhere along the way, we lost something. Got told to be careful, got trained to keep space between us. And now? Guys don’t even know what they’re missing.”

    James looked up. “What do you mean?”

    Eli exhaled, thinking. “Man, it’s hard to explain. It’s not about the showers. It’s about how normal it used to be—being unguarded around each other, not second-guessing every move.

    There was a kind of joy in it—the ease of just being, the trust that no one was watching, judging, or measuring. You don’t even realize how much you took it for granted… until it’s gone.”

    James nodded, quiet for a moment. “Yeah… I guess I do feel that. Like, I don’t even know why it feels weird. It just does.”

    Eli gave him a half-smile. “Yeah. But you know what? It doesn’t have to.”

    He stood up, grabbed his towel, and nodded toward the showers. “Still here, man. Ain’t going anywhere.”

    James hesitated, then smirked. “Yeah… guess I could use a rinse.”

    Eli clapped his shoulder, and together, they walked toward what had always been normal—what was still normal, underneath all the noise.

    Some things get lost.

    But not everything stays lost forever.

  • Youth Mentorship

    The small café buzzed quietly with the background hum of clinking dishes and low conversation. James, Luke, and Eli sat at a corner table near the window. They had just finished a morning group meeting and had invited Eli out for lunch—a gesture that seemed to mean more to him than he could put into words.

    Eli tapped the edge of his cup, hesitating before speaking. “Can I ask you guys something?”

    “Of course,” Luke said, his tone open and relaxed.

    Eli looked around the café nervously before lowering his voice. “Are you two… a couple?”

    The question hung in the air for a moment. James and Luke exchanged a glance—not out of discomfort, but with a silent understanding.

    “No,” James said gently. “We’re not. What we have… it’s different from that, but we get why you’d ask.”

    Luke leaned forward slightly. “We’ve committed to each other, though—committed to walking through life together as brothers in Christ. Our bond is deep, but it’s not romantic or sexual.”

    Eli nodded slowly but didn’t seem entirely convinced. “I don’t know… I’ve never seen two guys be that close without it being… something else.”

    James leaned in. “Look, we understand where you’re coming from. To be honest, both of us have struggled with same-sex attraction in the past—and still do at times.” He paused, giving Eli space to absorb the admission.

    Luke nodded in agreement. “Yeah. We’ve been where you are. Early on, that struggle complicated things between us. We had to navigate through it—through temptations, awkward moments—but with God’s help, we found a way to channel those feelings into something healthier. We built trust and intimacy that wasn’t tied to sex or romance.”

    Eli’s eyes widened slightly, and he leaned back. “You’re serious?”

    “Absolutely,” James said quietly. “I spent a lot of years confused and ashamed of my feelings, thinking they defined me. But when I surrendered my life to Christ, He started to reshape how I saw myself. Meeting Luke was part of that process. I learned that I could love and be loved by another man without shame.”

    Luke added, “And I was the same. I pushed people away because I didn’t know how to trust anyone with that part of me. But God taught me that intimacy isn’t just physical. It’s about being known and seen for who you are—and still being accepted.”

    Eli exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing a bit. “That’s… not something I ever thought was possible. I’ve felt so alone for so long. It’s like I don’t know how to let anyone close without it getting twisted.”

    James nodded, empathy softening his features. “We get it, Eli. That fear is real. But you don’t have to stay trapped in it. It’s about taking small steps—finding someone you trust and letting God work through the relationship. It’s not about pretending the struggle isn’t there. It’s about transforming it.”

    “And it’s not all serious and heavy, either,” Luke added with a grin. “We joke around, wrestle, hang out—just like any brothers would. We’ve learned that intimacy doesn’t have to be hyper-spiritual or intense all the time. It’s in the everyday moments of being present with each other.”

    Eli was quiet for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “I guess I never thought there could be another option. I’ve always been caught between two extremes—either loneliness or falling into something I know isn’t God’s design.”

    “There is another option,” James said gently. “God’s design for brotherhood is real, Eli. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.”

    Luke leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “We’re not perfect, man. We still mess up. But that’s why we walk this out together. Iron sharpens iron, right? And there are more guys out there who need this kind of connection than you’d think.”

    Eli’s eyes shimmered briefly before he blinked and cleared his throat. “Thanks. I think… I really needed to hear that.”

    (Excerpt from The Covenant Fulfilled in the James & Luke series – Contact me if you’d like to read the full story or series)

  • From Searching to Found: My Salvation Story

    I was born feeling unwanted. That’s not a bitter statement—just the reality of being adopted. Before I even had words, I carried the weight of rejection deep in my bones.

    I came into the world in the late ‘60s, grew up in the ‘70s, and came of age in the ‘80s. My adoptive mother, unable to have children of her own, poured everything into me—not just love, but need. I was supposed to fill something in her, to make her whole as a woman and a mother. But when I failed to meet those impossible expectations, she lashed out—emotionally controlling, smothering, and manipulative.

    My father was a good man—loving, nurturing—but passive. He didn’t protect me from her. He looked the other way when she broke me down.

    A Boy Out of Place

    I didn’t fit in with boys. I was sensitive, softer, more comfortable around girls. When I tried to step into their world, it didn’t go well. I was teased, pushed out, called a “girl,” then later, “gay.” It stuck.

    At nine years old, I found my first adult magazine. By twelve, I was hooked on porn and daily release—fueling my fantasies with the same boys who bullied me. I had no sense that this was wrong. My family and social circles weren’t religious. While they didn’t encourage it, they didn’t condemn being gay, so I figured, this must be who I am.

    Around the same time, I discovered alcohol. By my late teens, I had a serious drinking problem, and by college, I added cannabis into the mix. Substances dulled the ache, made me feel okay for a little while.

    Spiritually, I was agnostic, but God’s presence was never completely absent. Even in my childhood, I’d talk to Him, feel Him, though I never spoke about it. But Christianity? That was never on the table. I associated Jesus with judgmental, repressed people I wanted nothing to do with.

    Years of Searching in the Wrong Places

    In college, I found Eastern spirituality—yoga, psychology, self-discovery. I figured if I could just understand myself enough, I’d be healed. But nothing actually changed.

    Post-college, I started seeking relationships with men. I had three long-term relationships, each lasting about three years, but they never held meaning beyond the first six months. What I was looking for? I never found it.

    I gave up dating altogether by my 40s. But porn escalated, cannabis use deepened, and I buried myself in New Age spirituality—channeled material, law of attraction, anything that felt like truth.

    That’s when I first encountered a channeled version of Jesus—enough to make me curious about Him as a spiritual teacher, though I still had no concept of sin, salvation, or my own need for either.

    Even with no moral objections to porn, I started noticing that it was killing me inside. I felt the damage, even if I couldn’t yet name why.

    God Starts Chipping Away

    2018 was a turning point. I started following conservative accounts on social media—something I never thought I’d do. Through them, I was exposed to Christian voices that actually made sense. For the first time, I saw integrity, peace, and strength in Christians that I admired.

    By late 2022, something was shifting. I hadn’t had a painful crush in a while. I was feeling a strange pull toward something purer—though I couldn’t name it yet.

    I’ve always had a deep love of music, and music is where it began.. I was searching for something clean, something that spoke to my soul. That led me to Elvis Presley’s gospel music, which led me to other Christian songs. I didn’t know what salvation meant, but I felt the call.

    Around the same time, I hit a wall with porn. I was done.

    That’s when I found a post about a Christian men’s porn recovery program. I had no idea why, but I felt a strong, undeniable pull to join. I wasn’t even a Christian yet, but I jumped in anyway.

    The Moment It All Made Sense

    In that program, I found brotherhood like I’d never known before. Christian men, fighting alongside each other, leaning on Christ. That’s where I first truly heard the Gospel.

    I started reading C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity—and that’s when the walls came down. It wasn’t a slow build anymore. It was like the final puzzle piece snapped into place.

    I got it.

    Everything clicked at once—my sin, my need for salvation, Christ’s finished work on the cross. It wasn’t about trying harder, meditating more, or healing myself through self-discovery.

    Jesus had already done it.

    And in that moment, my answer was YES.

    I accepted Christ with my whole heart. And I’ve never doubted it since.

    A New Creation

    Porn lost its grip on me almost immediately. Not by willpower—but by His power. My new brothers in Christ walked with me, helping me unlearn the lies I’d believed my whole life about masculinity, identity, and belonging.

    I got invited to church and was baptized on my very first Sunday.

    At that point, I had already cut down my cannabis use significantly but had no intention of quitting completely. I figured I’d keep a small dose of nightly edibles. But after baptism, the Holy Spirit moved in, and even that small amount felt foreign in me. I couldn’t explain it—only that it was like God was pushing it out.

    So I let it go.

    It’s been over 2.5 years since I’ve touched porn or pot. Not by my strength—but by His.

    Still in the Process, but Fully His

    I don’t claim to have arrived. I’m still untangling from same-sex attraction, still walking out this process. But I am a new creation in Christ.

    And when I look back at my story—at every twist, every detour, every moment I spent searching—I see something I couldn’t see then:

    God was after me the whole time.

    He let me run. He let me seek peace in everything but Him. He let me come to the end of myself.

    And then, when the time was right—He caught me.

    I don’t know exactly where this road ends. But I know who’s leading me now.

    And that’s all I need.