CovenantRoad

Tag: covenant brotherhood

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.)

  • 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)

  • The Old Oak

    The Old Oak

    I’m out here tonight, Brother, sitting under that old oak we planted. Moon’s high, air’s cool, and its branches stretch wider than I remember. Been years, six or maybe seven, since we dug that hole and dropped those roots. Your hands were muddy, my boots caked, laughing over how crooked it stood, betting it wouldn’t last the winter. Look at it now, tall and steady, leaves whispering soft in the breeze, roots deep in this Tennessee soil.

    We didn’t know it then, what it’d mean, what we were starting. Just two brothers, your creek wild, my pine steady, figuring it out. You with that fire in your eyes, pushing me to see bigger, me with my quiet, holding us when the wind blew hard. That day wasn’t just about a tree. It was us, planting something, covenant taking root, God’s hand in the dirt.

    I think about it, how it’s grown, how we’ve grown. Those early nights, your voice spilling dreams, my ears catching every one, talking until the stars faded, building this bond, soul to soul, not knowing it’d stretch like this oak. We’ve weathered storms, rain pounding, your doubts, my stumbles, held tight, covenant didn’t bend, didn’t break, roots went deeper.

    You’ve got that spark, always will, lighting fires in me I didn’t know could burn, pushing me past my still waters. I’ve got the steady, keeping us when your current runs fast, grounding us, God’s gift weaving through. That oak is us, twists and knots, not perfect, stronger for it, standing tall, weathering years, holding ground.

    I see it now, how it stretches beyond us. Kids climb it, ones we don’t know yet, shade for folks we’ll never meet, roots cracking stone, reaching wide, legacy we didn’t plan, God did. You and me, our talks, our fights, our quiet stands, planting something, covenant’s ripple, touching further than we’ll see.

    World’s cold, tries to uproot, lies whispering it don’t matter, but it does. Look at this tree, look at us. God’s growing it through us, past us, steady love, soul fire, covenant’s not small, not fleeting, it’s oak, deep, enduring, gift to us, gift through us.

    Brother, I’m thankful every day for you, for this, for what we’ve planted, roots holding, branches wide, God’s breath in it, legacy living, strong, ours, His.

    Yours, always,
    Josh

  • Sky’s Thread

    Sky’s Thread

    Late night cloaked the forward operating base—stars stabbing sharp over tents and sandbags, a cold wind slicing through cleared rain. Lanterns glowed faint inside canvas, trembling low, yard still—generator coughing near the barracks, a jackal’s howl threading the dark. Bunk five’s flap hung open—lantern flickering shadows—the FOB’s hum dulled, grunts racked or on watch, tension soft post-ridge.

    Jake and Travis sank onto crates outside—mud-streaked, weary—Travis’s bandaged arm propped stiff, aching, Jake beside, rifle leaned close. Breath fogged in the chill—shower’s steam a raw echo, shoulders bare then, jacketed now. Travis shifted, boots scuffing—eyes tracing stars, breath hitching—mud, Jake’s grip, wet shoulders flashing back. Chest tightened—voice rough. “Can’t shake it—you, me—since that first bunk.”

    Jake’s chest clenched, hazel catching lantern glow—Travis’s words slicing a wall since the ridge, warmth flaring he couldn’t dodge. “Yeah,” he said, low—pausing—“It’s there—always been.” Faith surged—bending sharp—Travis’s raw push thawing dad’s chill, a flare he needed. He pulled the canteen—swigged, passed it—fingers brushing Travis’s—a weight settling firm.

    Travis took it, swallowing hard—shower’s jolt humming low. “So what’s this—mud, blood, all of it?” His words cut—trust hot—“Faith’s yours—I’m grabbing at it, slipping some.” Blue-gray locked hazel under stars—wavering faith cracking wider, needing Jake’s steady to hold it.

    Jake’s jaw ticked, eased—“We’re brothers—real, lasts past this.” Faith spilled—firm—“Chaplain’s ‘hold fast’—mine prayed me through—He’s here, Travis, gripping us.” Grin tugged—“You’re clawing it—that’s more’n words.” Steady flared—Travis’s push a lifeline looping back—“Lost dad—thought I’d break. He holds me—you’re proof.”

    Travis leaned back—canteen sloshed, down—exhaling sharp—“Brothers…” Voice wrestled—“Never had it—grabbing it’s shaky.” Smirk flickered—blue-gray searching Jake—“I’m slipping, but damn—‘hold fast’ sticks now.” Trust surged—clawing for Jake’s rock, pull twisting into a line he gripped—“Faith’s alive with you—tethers this mess.”

    Jake’s grin held—“Fighting’s faith—keeps me straight.” Faith glowed—Travis’s raw spark a lifeline both ways—“He’s here—keeps us ‘cause we’re locked, not lone.” Voice fell warm—“Lost dad—broke me ‘til He held. You’re fighting—He’s holding us both.” He paused—eyes lifting to stars—“Let’s pray it.” His voice dropped, simple—potent—“Lord, we’re beat—mud, blood, all this. Hold us fast—Travis’s fight, my steady—keep us Yours. Bind us tight—brothers, not broke. Amen.”

    Travis’s breath hitched—smirk gone—“Amen…” Voice stretched—faith cracking, shaky but real—Jake’s prayer a rock he grabbed, their bond forging tighter under starlit chill—shoulders pressed, steady glowing.

    Eddie’s shout cut faint—“Damn jackal!”—Hensley spat near—“East line’s live”—radio low. FOB slept—Timmy’s boots scuffing, a snore—blind to their crack, lantern weaving it tight. Travis whistled—off-key—Jake’s gaze held—a thread humming as stars glared cold.

    (Chapter from Brothers in Dust. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story).

  • Emotional Dependency vs. Healthy Covenant

    Brotherhood is meant to be deep, real, and lasting—but if we’re not careful, what starts as something good can slip into something unhealthy.

    There’s a fine line between leaning on a brother and needing him to hold you up. Between walking side by side and clinging in a way that weighs you both down.

    The world doesn’t understand this tension. It assumes all deep male love must either be romantic or toxic—but God designed something better, something stronger.

    So how do we know when a brotherhood is covenant—and when it’s crossed into emotional dependency?

    1. Covenant Strengthens—Dependency Drains

    In a healthy brotherhood, both men sharpen each other (Proverbs 27:17). They push each other toward Christ, toward truth, toward growth.

    But in emotional dependency, the relationship becomes one-sided—one man always needing the other to make him feel okay.

    Covenant says, I’ve got your back, but your strength comes from God, not me.
    Dependency says, I can’t stand unless you hold me up.

    Brotherhood should fuel your strength, not replace it.

    2. Covenant Builds on Christ—Dependency Builds on a Person

    A brotherhood built on Christ is unshakable—because its foundation is outside of either man.

    But emotional dependency happens when a man starts making his brother his anchor instead of God. He relies on his presence, his attention, his approval to feel secure.

    Covenant says, You’re my brother, but Jesus is my rock.
    Dependency says, I don’t know who I am without you.

    A healthy brotherhood always points each other back to Christ, not just to each other.

    3. Covenant Respects Space—Dependency Fears Distance

    Brothers in covenant don’t have to be attached at the hip. Their bond isn’t threatened by distance, by life changes, by seasons where they don’t talk as much.

    But emotional dependency creates fear of separation—the belief that if we’re not constantly connected, I’ll lose you.

    Covenant says, I’m with you for life, no matter what.
    Dependency says, I need constant reassurance that you’re still here.

    A strong bond doesn’t demand constant contact—because it trusts the foundation is solid.

    4. Covenant Lets Go When Needed—Dependency Clings Out of Fear

    In true brotherhood, there’s freedom. If God calls one brother into marriage, ministry, a new season of life, the other doesn’t panic or feel abandoned.

    But emotional dependency can lead to resentment if one man starts pulling away—even for the right reasons. It can make a brother feel owned instead of loved.

    Covenant says, No matter where God leads you, our bond is still real.
    Dependency says, If you change, I don’t know who I am anymore.

    Real covenant releases, blesses, and trusts—it never clings out of fear.

    5. Covenant Deepens with Time—Dependency Eventually Breaks

    When a brotherhood is healthy, it grows stronger with time. It weathers storms, it adjusts to life’s changes, and it remains unshaken because it was built on something lasting.

    But emotional dependency eventually collapses under its own weight. It creates pressure, unmet expectations, and resentment when one man can’t be everything the other wants him to be.

    Covenant says, We’ll still be here for each other 20 years from now.
    Dependency says, If this doesn’t stay exactly the same, I don’t know what to do.

    Brotherhood isn’t about holding on too tight—it’s about holding on in the right way.

    The Answer: Bringing It to Christ

    If you’ve ever felt emotional dependency creeping into a friendship, don’t let shame take over. It doesn’t mean your brotherhood isn’t real—it just means it needs re-centering.

    Ask yourself:

    • Am I leaning on my brother more than I’m leaning on Christ?
    • Do I trust this bond, or do I feel like I have to control it?
    • Am I loving him in a way that strengthens both of us, or in a way that puts pressure on him?

    The goal isn’t to detach from brotherhood—it’s to make sure it’s holy, strong, and built to last.

    Because real covenant? It’s not fragile. It doesn’t suffocate. It doesn’t fade. It stands the test of time—not because of need, but because of calling.

  • More, Not Less

    The world says if two men love each other deeply, it must be romantic. That if you feel drawn to a brother, if his presence anchors you, if his friendship stirs something deep—you have to put a label on it that fits the world’s mold.

    But what if that’s a lie?

    What if what you’re feeling isn’t romantic longing, but something even deeper? Something older than time, written into your soul before the world told you what to call it?

    Because brotherhood—true brotherhood—isn’t second place. It’s not a consolation prize.

    It’s God’s design.

    And what He designed? It’s better.

    Not a Limitation—A Gift

    God isn’t holding out on us. He’s not saying, You don’t get to have deep love because you can’t have it like the world does.No—He’s saying, I have something richer for you, something that doesn’t fade, something that won’t leave you emptier than when you started.

    Romance can be good. Marriage is a gift. But brotherhood?

    It’s covenant. It’s lifelong. It’s not built on shifting emotions, but on something solid.

    • A brother isn’t here for what you can give him. He’s here because he’s called to be.
    • A brother doesn’t pull away when attraction shifts, when emotions fade, when life takes a turn. He stays.
    • A brother isn’t a passing season. He’s a constant.

    And that’s what makes brotherhood stronger.

    More Than Skin Deep

    When the world makes love only about physical connection, it shrinks it. It makes it less, not more.

    Because real love between men? It’s found in the way we fight for each other. The way we sharpen each other. The way we carry each other’s burdens—not for a season, but for a lifetime.

    Platonic brotherhood isn’t lacking anything. It’s fuller than the world could ever imagine.

    It’s David and Jonathan, swords drawn for each other.
    It’s Moses and Aaron, holding each other up when the battle raged on.
    It’s Jesus calling His disciples not just servants, but friends (John 15:15).

    That’s what we’re made for.

    Something That Lasts

    Romance can come and go. The rush of feelings, the fire of attraction—it fades like all things do. But a bond forged in covenant? That’s something the years can’t touch.

    God isn’t taking something from you—He’s giving you something better.

    A love that isn’t fragile. A bond that doesn’t waver. A brother who walks with you—not because of emotion, but because of calling.

    And when you lean into that—when you embrace the fullness of what God designed—

    You don’t lose anything.

    You gain everything.

  • What Is Covenant Brotherhood?

    Covenant brotherhood isn’t a new idea. It’s not something we’re inventing or reimagining. It’s something ancient—something God-designed—that’s been largely forgotten.

    For most of history, men understood that they weren’t meant to walk alone. They knew that deep, committed brotherhood was part of what made them strong, part of what formed them into the men they were called to be.

    But somewhere along the way, that got lost. And in its place? A culture that isolates men, weakens bonds, and turns what was once sacred into something either ridiculed, ignored, or distorted.

    It’s time to recover what was lost.

    1. The Definition: What Is Covenant Brotherhood?

    Covenant brotherhood is a lifelong, Christ-centered commitment between men—a bond of loyalty, trust, and love that goes beyond casual friendship. It’s not just about being close—it’s about being bound by something unshakable.

    It’s built on:

    • Commitment – A bond that isn’t dependent on circumstances.
    • Accountability – Brothers sharpen each other and call each other higher.
    • Self-Sacrifice – Covenant isn’t just about receiving; it’s about laying your life down for your brother (John 15:13).
    • Christ at the Center – Without Him, it’s just friendship. With Him, it’s something holy.

    2. The Biblical Foundation of Covenant Brotherhood

    Covenant has been a key theme in God’s design for relationships since the beginning. And in Scripture, we see powerful examples of covenant brotherhood—bonds that went beyond ordinary friendship into something sacred.

    Jonathan and David (1 Samuel 18:1-4)

    • “The soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.”
    • Jonathan didn’t just befriend David—he entered into covenant with him. He stripped himself of his royal robe and armor, symbolizing a bond of deep trust, loyalty, and sacrifice.

    Jesus and His Disciples (John 15:15)

    • “No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends.”
    • Jesus wasn’t talking about casual friendship. He was establishing a brotherhood, built on commitment, mission, and self-sacrificial love.

    Paul and Timothy (Philippians 2:22)

    • “But you know Timothy’s proven worth, how as a son with a father he has served with me in the gospel.”
    • Paul and Timothy weren’t just teacher and student—they were bonded in deep, spiritual brotherhood, walking side by side in the mission of Christ.

    From the Old Testament to the New, God-ordained brotherhood has always been part of His design—and men throughout history understood this.

    3. The Historical Presence of Covenant Brotherhood

    For centuries, deep male bonds weren’t just accepted—they were celebrated and expected.

    Medieval Blood Brotherhood

    • In many cultures, men formalized their bond through blood covenants, swearing lifelong loyalty to one another.
    • These weren’t secret societies or military pacts—they were chosen families, men who committed to standing by each other in all things.

    Christian Monastic Orders

    • Early monastic communities weren’t just about solitude—they were about brotherhood. Men lived, worked, and prayed together in deep, lifelong commitment.
    • They understood that walking alone wasn’t the way—that holiness was sharpened in community, not isolation.

    Rites of Passage and Male Initiation

    • For most of history, men didn’t enter adulthood alone—they were brought into it by other men through rites of passage.
    • These initiations weren’t just physical—they were relational, bonding men together in shared purpose and responsibility.

    4. The Loss of Covenant Brotherhood in Modern Culture

    So what happened?

    Why do men today struggle to form deep, lasting bonds?

    Here’s what’s changed:

    • Radical Individualism – Our culture glorifies the lone wolf, pushing men toward isolation instead of connection.
    • Hyper-Sexualization – Close male bonds are now viewed with suspicion, as if all deep love between men must be erotic.
    • Loss of Rites of Passage – Without real initiation into manhood, many men drift through life without strong male bonds.
    • Church Weakness on Brotherhood – Many churches emphasize marriage and family (which are good!) but offer no real vision for deep male brotherhood.

    The result? Men are more isolated than ever. They lack the deep, committed friendships that previous generations took for granted.

    5. Restoring What Was Lost: The Road Back to Covenant

    The good news? Covenant brotherhood isn’t gone—it’s just buried. And it’s time to dig it back up.

    How do we reclaim it?

    • Recognize the Need – Stop pretending men don’t need each other. We were designed for deep male bonds.
    • Break the Lies – Brotherhood isn’t weak. It isn’t something to grow out of. It isn’t sexual. It’s biblical.
    • Commit to Your Brothers – Brotherhood doesn’t happen by accident. It’s built through intentionality, consistency, and shared mission.
    • Keep Christ at the Center – Without Jesus, it’s just friendship. But with Him? It’s covenant. It’s family. It’s something unshakable.

  • The Gift of Us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    It felt like a gift.

  • The Night We Almost Walked Away

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

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

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

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

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

    Jason flinched. That one landed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And it hit him all at once.

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

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

    Jason swallowed hard. “You’re right.”

    Eli blinked, caught off guard.

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

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

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

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

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

    “Alright,” he muttered. “Alright.”

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

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

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

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

    And that was that.

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

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

  • Letter to My Brother

    Brother,

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

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

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

    But not with you, brother.

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

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

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

    That’s us. That’s what we are.

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

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

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

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

    Yours, always,
    Josh

  • Not Alone

    Jason had been watching Eli slip for weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

    Jason didn’t buy it. “Tired how?”

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

    Jason’s chest tightened.

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

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

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

    Jason swallowed hard.

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

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

    Eli flinched, barely noticeable.

    Jason tightened his grip. “I see it.”

    Eli’s throat bobbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Already There

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

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

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

    Logan glanced over. “What’s weird?”

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

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

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

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

    Jake frowned. “What do you mean?”

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

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

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

    Jake was quiet for a second, letting that settle.

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

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

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

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

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

    Jake chuckled, shaking his head.

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

    Some things don’t have to be built.

    They just have to be seen.

  • Walking It Out

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

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

    Tyler glanced over. “How do you mean?”

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

    Tyler nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Tyler grinned. “Damn straight.”

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Divide

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

    I should let it go.

    But he couldn’t.

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

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

    Three weeks. No texts. No calls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Mike scoffed, shaking his head. “Same.”

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

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

    Josh nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

    Another silence.

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

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

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

    And so he did.

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

    Josh listened. Really listened.

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

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

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

    Mike frowned. “What does that mean?”

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

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

    Josh smirked. “Especially after all that.”

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

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

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

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