CovenantRoad

Tag: faith

  • Letter to a Brother

    My Brother,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Yours, steady as the pines,
    Josh

  • Iron Sharpens Iron

    Why do men need each other?

    I think it comes down to three things: how we strengthen, how we understand, and how we walk together.

    1. Strength Through Struggle

    Men forge each other through resistance. Women nurture, and that’s a gift, but men? We test, challenge, push. We’re built to sharpen one another, not by coddling but by contending. You see it in the way brothers wrestle as kids, in the way soldiers bond in battle, in the way accountability between men works best when it’s direct—no sugarcoating, no sidestepping.

    A good brother in Christ won’t just encourage you—he’ll call you out, push you past your limits, and refuse to let you settle. He’ll see your potential and demand more, because he knows that strength isn’t just given, it’s forged.

    2. The Unspoken Understanding

    Men don’t have to explain everything to each other. We get it. The weight of responsibility, the pressure to lead, the fight against sin and self-doubt—it’s built into us, and another man knows that struggle without needing a thousand words.

    That’s why men bond through doing—through work, through hardship, through side-by-side silence. We don’t always need to process verbally; sometimes we just need another man who understands the fight and stands next to us in it.

    3. Walking the Narrow Road Together

    A good wife can be a partner, but she can’t be a brother. A woman can love, support, and respect a man, but she can’t be him—can’t reflect back to him the exact nature of his struggle. That’s why brotherhood is necessary, even for men who are happily married. Because some battles require men beside you, not just a woman behind you.

    Jesus surrounded Himself with brothers. David found strength in Jonathan. Paul didn’t walk alone. If these men of God needed brotherhood, what makes us think we don’t?

    Brotherhood isn’t just a good idea—it’s part of God’s design. And in a world that wants men to go at it alone, covenant is the answer.

  • Wild Quiet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Faith hummed gentle in the air.

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

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

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

  • Alone in a Crowded World

    Brother, let’s be real. You feel it. The weight. The quiet. That hollow space inside you that nothing seems to fill.

    Maybe you don’t call it loneliness. Maybe you just say you’re tired, busy, not in the mood to talk. But deep down, you know. You scroll, you distract, you keep moving—but when the noise dies down, it’s just you. And it’s not enough.

    God didn’t design you to walk this life alone.

    He made you for connection. Not just casual friendships, not just Sunday morning acquaintances, but real, deep, unshakable brotherhood. The kind where a man sees you, really sees you, and doesn’t flinch. Where you can be honest—about your struggles, your doubts, your sins—and instead of turning away, your brother stands firm.

    That’s what Christian brotherhood does. It brings God’s love to life.

    We know God is with us. We know He never leaves us. But sometimes, in the thick of it, we need that truth to be flesh and blood. We need a brother who says, “You’re not carrying this alone. I’m with you. God is with you.” A brother who reminds us of grace when we forget, who speaks truth when the enemy’s lies are loud, who lifts us up when we stumble.

    Jesus didn’t walk alone. He surrounded Himself with men He called brothers. He built a bond so strong that when Peter fell, Jesus restored him. So why do we act like we’re supposed to do this on our own?

    The world offers cheap substitutes for belonging. More apps, more distractions, more ways to stay “connected” without ever actually being known. But covenant brotherhood? It’s God’s answer to that ache inside you.

    So what do you do?

    You lean in. You ask God for the kind of brothers who will fight for you in prayer, who will call you to holiness, who will walk with you no matter what. And you be that brother for someone else. Because, brother, you are not meant to be alone.

    And in Christ, you never are.

  • Brotherhood Over Everything

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Jason: (half-smirks) “Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

  • When a Curse Becomes a Gift

    Brother, I know what it feels like to see your same-sex attraction as a burden. A struggle. A thing you have to wrestle down and keep in check. Maybe you’ve spent nights asking God why. Why this? Why me? If He loves me, why would He let me feel something I can’t act on?

    I get it. But what if I told you that the very thing you’ve spent years seeing as a curse might actually be a gift?

    Not a gift in the way the world wants to spin it—not a license to chase what feels natural. But a gift in the way God so often works, taking what the enemy meant for evil and using it for His glory.

    Think about it: in a culture where men have been conditioned to keep each other at arm’s length, to fear closeness, to settle for surface-level friendships, what if God has placed in you a unique capacity to love your brothers deeply? To show them what covenant brotherhood actually looks like?

    The world has largely forgotten the kind of love that David and Jonathan had, the kind that Jesus Himself had with His disciples. We have replaced it with isolation, shallow camaraderie, or counterfeit intimacy. But perhaps, in His wisdom, God has allowed some of us to feel this longing more acutely—not to torment us, but to call us to something greater.

    Same-sex attraction, when surrendered to Christ, can be the very thing that teaches us how to love as He does. To cherish our brothers without needing to possess them. To walk alongside them without seeking anything in return. To form bonds that aren’t tainted by lust but strengthened by sacrifice.

    The temptation, of course, is real. But so is the opportunity. The world tells us we have only two choices: repression or indulgence. But Jesus offers us something else entirely—transformation. Not a stripping away of our ability to love, but a refining of it. A reordering. A way to channel it into something holy.

    So, brother, don’t despise what God can redeem. If you feel the weight of this longing, let it drive you toward the kind of love the world desperately needs. A love that builds up, that commits, that gives rather than takes.

    The enemy wants you to believe you are cursed. Christ wants to show you that you are called.

    And that, my friend, is a gift.

  • Why I Made This Blog

    The Journey to Covenant Brotherhood

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

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

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

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

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

    Thank you for reading, and God bless!

    Brian

  • Letters of a Mentor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    What Does Covenant Brotherhood Mean?

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

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

    How Did We Lose It?

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

    Why Does It Matter?

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

    Where Do We Go?

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

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

  • Gauze and Glow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Hum

    (Dialogue)

    Man, you ever feel it creep in?”  

    “What—you mean that hum?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Unbroken Cord

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

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

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

    “You travel alone,” the craftsman observed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And for the first time, he understood.

    —

    (Loosely inspired by Ecclesiastes 4:12.)

  • Splinters and Grace

    (Testimony, fiction)

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

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

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

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

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

  • Battlefield Vow

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

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

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

    Jake clenched his jaw. “Shut up.”

    “Jake—”

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

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

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

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

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

    Something flickered in Logan’s tired eyes. Strength.

    “You won’t have to,” he rasped.

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

    Logan nodded, his grip tightening.

    They moved as one.

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

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

    Whatever happened, neither would leave the other behind.

    Not here. Not ever.

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

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

    “Pray,” he rasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    As brothers. In faith. In covenant.

    No matter what came next.

  • More Than a Friend

    (Testimony, Fiction)

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

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

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

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

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

    I never had to explain. He just knew.

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

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

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

    Men weren’t meant to walk alone

  • The Dip

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Cut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Grace After The Fire

    (From James and Luke Series – Condensed Excerpt)

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

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

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

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

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

    “James…” Luke murmured.

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

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

    And then—

    It was over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Prayer in Vulnerability

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

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

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

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

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

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

    James glanced at him. “Have you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Ascent

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

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

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

    Jake huffed, adjusting his pack. “Both.”

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

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

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

    That’s what scared Jake most.

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

    Ben didn’t slow. “Fighting what?”

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

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

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

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

    “I don’t know how to do this.”

    Ben nodded. “Neither do I.”

    A long silence stretched, thick with things unsaid.

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

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

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

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

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

    Jake turned the cord over in his hands.

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

    Jake exhaled, tying the cord around his wrist.

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

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

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

    But they walked it anyway.

  • Testing Boundaries (Excerpt)

    Silence settled, broken only by the rain’s patter. Ted didn’t rush to fill it, which irked Ethan for no good reason. He shifted, fingers drumming the armrest, then blurted, “So you just… denied that part of yourself?”

    Ted’s expression didn’t change. Ethan had been holding that question since the porch—maybe longer. With no distractions—no phone, no noise—it slipped out.

    Ted set his glass down with a quiet thunk, letting the words hang. “I surrendered it,” he said finally. “And I never looked back.”

    Ethan scoffed lightly. “That easy, huh?”

    Ted’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Didn’t say it was easy.”

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

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

    Ethan frowned.

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

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

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

    Ethan raised an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Forge

    The fire spat embers into the night, a ragged glow against the Indiana pines. Caleb crouched by it, 52 years carved into his hands—calluses from swinging hammers, scars from swinging at life. Across the flames sat Eli, 48, eyes hollowed by years of hiding. Two men, strangers ‘til that retreat, now tethered by something neither could name ‘til it hit.

    Caleb tossed a stick into the blaze, sparks snapping like old guilt. “Grew up thinking God’d smite me for looking too long at a guy in church,” he said, voice gravel. “Dad preached hell—I believed it. Ran from it ‘til I couldn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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