CovenantRoad

Tag: Christian men

  • Why I Made This Blog

    The Journey to Covenant Brotherhood

    The short version of my story is that I identified as gay before Christ found me in 2022 and transformed my heart from the inside out. I struggled with pornography and cannabis, but those habits fell away quickly after my salvation. However, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with my sexual orientation, as my leanings did not change. Eventually, I embraced Kingdom singleness as my path, which remains my focus today.

    Despite this, there is still a strong and pure affection in my heart for men that feels distinct from other feelings that may have become intertwined. As I continued to read the Bible, I discovered the concept of covenant brotherhood, which resonated deeply with me as the missing piece I was seeking.

    I created this blog to make the idea of covenant brotherhood real for both myself and others, using fictional and historical examples along with repetition to rewire my thoughts to align with God’s intentions. Because this concept is part of God’s design for men, it is inherently real. Unfortunately, it has been largely forgotten through the ages, rendering it a foreign concept in today’s discussions about relationships and singleness.

    My goal is to change this paradigm for myself and lay the foundation for committed brotherhood in my life, if it aligns with God’s will. I also hope to do the same for others who might find this concept to be a missing piece in their journey.

    I’m not accustomed to putting myself out there like this, but it truly feels like where God is leading me, so here we are! If any of this blog’s content resonates with you, I would love to hear from you.

    Thank you for reading, and God bless!

    Brian

  • Letters of a Mentor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Covenant Brotherhood: Real Bonds, Old Roots, and Why We Need It

    Let’s sit down and talk about something real—most of us aren’t great at friendship. Sure, we’ve got buddies, teammates, maybe accountability partners who nod through a Zoom call once a month. But deep, lifelong brotherhood—the kind that sticks through thick and thin? We see it in war movies, feel the pull, then shrug it off as too big for real life. Yet Scripture’s full of it—not just casual pals, but covenant brotherhood—soul deep, faith-bound—and we’re missing out.

    What Does Covenant Brotherhood Mean?

    Picture two men—grit under their nails, hearts wide open—not just friends, but brothers by choice—tied tight by faith. It’s not casual—covenant carries weight—means you’re in, no back door. This isn’t new—it’s ancient stuff. Scripture’s thick with it—David and Jonathan, soul-to-soul—1 Samuel 18:1-4—Jonathan hands over his armor, like passing your truck keys and house deed—“We’re in this for life.” Jesus with His crew—John 15:15—not servants, friends—He gave everything for them. Paul and Timothy—father and son in spirit—faith locking them close.

    History backs it too—medieval knights swearing oaths—loyalty trumping blood—battlefield brothers, sweat and steel forging bonds no words could break. Even literature—Sam hauling Frodo up that mountain—“I can’t carry it, but I can carry you!”—that’s covenant brotherhood—real love, not fluff.

    How Did We Lose It?

    Somewhere along the way, we let it slip. Modern life pushes light friendships—keep it easy, don’t get close—low stakes, no mess. The Church, meaning well, often lifts marriage high and eyes deep male bonds sideways—like they’re odd or suspect. Leaves a lot of men lonely—squeezing into molds that don’t fit—or sitting quiet, wondering why faith feels thin. Used to sting—now it’s clear—covenant’s no second fiddle—it’s God’s road too.

    Why Does It Matter?

    Because we’re not built to go solo—God wired us for this. Proverbs 27:17—“Iron sharpens iron”—you can’t grind yourself—takes a brother. Galatians 6:2—“Bear one another’s burdens”—can’t lift what you won’t share—Jesus sent His crew out paired—Paul had Timothy, Barnabas—no lone wolf lasts when faith’s real. Buddies are fine—beer and laughs—but covenant brothers fight for you—pray when you’re wrecked—call your bluff—stand when it’s dark—soul needs that fire.

    Where Do We Go?

    This isn’t about forming some oath club—nothing stiff or formal—just recovering something real—biblical—raw. What if we stopped seeing brotherhood as optional? Lean in—build bonds—love like Jesus said—deep, no half-measures. History carved it—Scripture seals it—knights bled, David swore—God’s in it—less common doesn’t mean less holy—prayer binding, hands steady—that’s the road.

    Covenant brotherhood—soul ties—life forged—not dry—alive—grab it—walk it—maybe that’s what we’ve been missing all along.

  • Gauze and Glow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Hum

    (Dialogue)

    Man, you ever feel it creep in?”  

    “What—you mean that hum?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Unbroken Cord

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

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

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

    “You travel alone,” the craftsman observed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And for the first time, he understood.

    —

    (Loosely inspired by Ecclesiastes 4:12.)

  • Splinters and Grace

    (Testimony, fiction)

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

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

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

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

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

  • Battlefield Vow

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

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

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

    Jake clenched his jaw. “Shut up.”

    “Jake—”

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

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

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

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

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

    Something flickered in Logan’s tired eyes. Strength.

    “You won’t have to,” he rasped.

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

    Logan nodded, his grip tightening.

    They moved as one.

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

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

    Whatever happened, neither would leave the other behind.

    Not here. Not ever.

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

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

    “Pray,” he rasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    As brothers. In faith. In covenant.

    No matter what came next.

  • The Dip

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Cut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Prayer in Vulnerability

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

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

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

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

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

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

    James glanced at him. “Have you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Wound Care

    Luke winced as he pulled his shirt off, revealing a deep gash along his upper arm. The wound, a jagged cut from an accident at the work site earlier that afternoon, oozed slightly. Dirt and dried blood clung to the surrounding skin.

    “Man, you should have told me sooner,” James said, his voice a mix of concern and frustration. He grabbed the first-aid kit from the cabinet and gestured for Luke to sit at the edge of the couch.

    “It wasn’t that bad at first,” Luke muttered, his jaw tightening as he lowered himself. “Figured it’d stop bleeding on its own.”

    “Yeah, because ignoring injuries always works,” James shot back, his tone dry but not unkind. He knelt beside Luke, setting out gauze, antiseptic, and medical tape. “You’re as stubborn as ever.”

    Luke chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’d miss it if I weren’t.”

    “Keep telling yourself that,” James replied, carefully wetting a cloth. He paused for a moment, meeting Luke’s eyes. “This might sting a bit.”

    “I’ll live,” Luke muttered, bracing himself.

    James pressed the damp cloth gently to the wound, wiping away the dirt and dried blood. Luke sucked in a sharp breath, his muscles tensing under the touch. James worked with a steady hand, his movements deliberate but gentle.

    “Relax,” James murmured. “You’re not going to break.”

    Luke exhaled slowly, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. James’s presence was grounding, the warmth of his hand steadying as he cleaned the cut. Despite the discomfort, there was an unexpected calm in the moment—an intimacy in the simple act of care.

    “You’ve got to be more careful, man,” James said quietly, his brow furrowing as he examined the wound. “You push too hard sometimes. Always have.”

    Luke gave a faint smile. “Old habits die hard. You know that.”

    “Doesn’t mean I won’t call you out on them,” James replied, rinsing the cloth and dabbing the area again. His voice softened. “You don’t have to push yourself like this. Not anymore.”

    Luke didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he watched James work, noting the focus in his expression—the way his hands moved with both confidence and care. He wasn’t used to this, not really. Letting someone else take the lead. Letting someone see him vulnerable.

    “Thanks,” Luke finally said, his voice low. “For… this.”

    James paused briefly, meeting Luke’s eyes again. “You’d do the same for me.”

    “Yeah,” Luke murmured. “In a heartbeat.”

    James nodded, applying antiseptic and gauze before securing it with tape. His touch lingered briefly on Luke’s shoulder when he was done. “There. Should heal up fine as long as you don’t do anything stupid.”

    Luke laughed softly. “Can’t make any promises.”

    James shook his head but smiled. “Just try, alright?”

    Luke tested his arm, grimacing but nodding in approval. “Thanks. Seriously. I’d probably have messed it up more if you weren’t here.”

    James met his eyes, his expression softening further. “Anytime, brother. You know that.”

    They stayed there for a moment longer—James kneeling beside the couch, Luke resting his arm on his thigh. The warmth between them was unspoken but palpable, a quiet testament to the trust and bond they shared.

    Finally, James stood and began tidying the first-aid kit. “You need anything else?”

    Luke shook his head. “Nah. Just maybe sit with me for a bit?”

    James didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I can do that.”

    He settled on the couch beside Luke, the fire crackling softly in the background. Neither of them said much after that, content in the stillness, knowing that in moments like these, words weren’t necessary.

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

  • The Ascent

    The trail was half mud, half rock—steep enough that Jake’s thighs burned, but not steep enough to shut him up.

    “You ever think we weren’t built for this?” he asked, swiping sweat from his brow.

    Ben, five steps ahead, glanced back. “You saying that ‘cause of your legs or your life?”

    Jake huffed, adjusting his pack. “Both.”

    They’d started before dawn, boots crunching against damp earth, the Tennessee hills rolling out like a promise. A hike to clear the head—that’s what Ben had called it. But Jake knew better. Ben didn’t do anything without a reason.

    They’d met two years ago, both fresh out of wreckage—Ben from a ten-year lie of a relationship, Jake from a life chasing empty highs. Different roads, same pit. It was a men’s retreat that put them on the same path, same late-night talks, same heavy confessions.

    Ben was the first man Jake ever admitted it to—the pull, the not-straight but not-gay, the loneliness that no one could name. And Ben hadn’t flinched.

    That’s what scared Jake most.

    The trail curved sharply upward, and Jake planted his hands on his thighs, pushing through the incline. “You ever get tired of fighting it?”

    Ben didn’t slow. “Fighting what?”

    Jake gestured vaguely. “All of it. The tension. The feeling like you don’t belong anywhere.”

    Ben paused at the ridge, looking out over the mist-drenched valley. His voice was quiet when he answered. “Yeah.” He turned, locking eyes with Jake. “But that’s why I don’t do it alone.”

    Jake reached the top, breath ragged. Ben clapped him on the back, firm and steady.

    They stood there, the wind biting, the world stretching wide. Jake swallowed hard.

    “I don’t know how to do this.”

    Ben nodded. “Neither do I.”

    A long silence stretched, thick with things unsaid.

    Finally, Jake sat on a rock, rubbing his hands together. “So what, man? We just keep hiking? Keep holding each other up ‘til we make it to heaven?”

    Ben smirked, lowering himself onto a nearby log. “Pretty much.”

    Jake let out a short laugh—sharp, almost bitter. “I spent years looking for this, you know? Just didn’t know what ‘this’ was.” He shook his head. “The world told me I had two options—deny everything or embrace everything. No one told me there was a third way.”

    Ben pulled something from his pack—a length of cord, knotted and worn. He wrapped it once around his wrist before tossing it to Jake.

    “It’s not about getting it perfect. It’s about standing together.”

    Jake turned the cord over in his hands.

    A covenant. That’s what Ben was offering—not some vague friendship, not some half-spoken loyalty. A bond, chosen and real, built to last.

    Jake exhaled, tying the cord around his wrist.

    “Alright,” he said, voice rough. “Let’s do this.”

    Ben grinned, standing and offering his hand. Jake took it, clasping tight.

    The wind howled, the valley stretched below, and together, they started the climb down—side by side, step by step, a path not many walked.

    But they walked it anyway.

  • 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 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.