CovenantRoad

Tag: healing

  • The Return (Chapter)

    The Return (Chapter)

    The morning came slow, like it didn’t want to wake the world all at once. Ezra sat on the curb outside Jake’s apartment, shoulders rounded forward, hands cupped around a chipped mug of coffee. The sun hadn’t broken fully over the rooftops, but the sky was soft with promise—blue pressed gently into the dark, like something sacred starting over.

    Jake stepped out a minute later, flannel thrown on over a t-shirt, the sleeves rolled just high enough to catch the light at his forearms. He carried his own mug, no lid, no rush, and dropped down beside Ezra without a word.

    For a while, they sat in the kind of silence that didn’t need anything added to it. Just the scrape of tires in the distance, the tick of the cooling engine behind them, and the early morning breeze cutting faintly through the heat that still lived in the pavement.

    Jake took a sip. “Feels different today.”

    Ezra didn’t answer right away. He let the warmth in his hands anchor him for a second longer, then nodded. “Yeah. I can feel it pulling. Like it’s time.”

    Jake looked ahead at nothing in particular. “Yeah. I figured.”

    “It’s not about leaving,” Ezra said. “It’s just… I don’t think I was meant to stay here.”

    Jake nodded slowly. “Nah. I know.”

    He didn’t try to argue, didn’t ask when. Just let it be.

    They finished their coffee without speaking. It wasn’t heavy. Just still.

    When they stood, Jake hooked a thumb into his pocket, gave Ezra a look that carried more than it said. “We walking?”

    Ezra gave a faint smile. “Yeah.”

    They moved side by side through streets that didn’t belong to either of them, not really. Past the corners where the crew had laughed too loud, past the bars where echoes still lingered in the floorboards. They weren’t rushing anywhere. Just walking—like you do when something real has ended.

    When they reached the lot, it looked the same. Same cracked dirt. Same broken fence. Same forgotten piece of land that somehow held more weight than it should’ve. It  felt different now—not just like a place, but a witness. Like it remembered both of them, even if neither could name all the ways they’d belonged to it.

    But Ezra could feel it stirring.

    There was a shift, deep and low, like the world had tilted a degree inward.

    He stepped closer.

    The ground didn’t move, but something in him did. The air thickened. Not hotter, just denser. Alive.

    And then it started to reappear—not all at once, but slowly, the way breath returns after we’ve forgotten to take it. Trees forming like memory. Orange blossoms catching the early light. The smell, faint and holy, rising in the warmth like incense.

    Jake stayed a few steps back, watching the shape of the grove come into view.

    “You sure?” he asked, voice lower than before.

    Ezra nodded. “I have to.”

    They stood there, nothing between them now but the knowing.

    Jake didn’t hesitate. He reached forward, one hand to the back of Ezra’s neck, the other drawing him in. Ezra stepped into the embrace, arms folding across Jake’s back. 

    “You’re closer than a brother,” Jake said—like it was the truest thing he knew.

    Their embrace was a seal. A weight pressed evenly between them—grief and grace, shared without speech.

    They stood like that for a long time.

    When they pulled apart, Ezra didn’t look away. The scar’s ache was still there, but gentler now. Like something had been acknowledged, not erased. He took a final breath and whispered, ‘Lord, thank You. 

    He stepped into the light.

    And the grove received him.

    It didn’t vanish this time. It folded slowly, like a page turning. The trees dimmed, the air eased, and then it was just a lot again.

    Jake stayed where he was, standing in dust, boots planted, hands at his sides.
    He looked out across the empty space.
    The lot was quiet again. Still familiar. But thinner, somehow.
    Like something had been breathing there beside him—and now it was gone.
    It wasn’t grief or emptiness—just the sense of a center no longer shared.

    His hand lifted, almost on its own, and rubbed the back of his neck.

    He didn’t move.
    And something in him stayed full.
    He didn’t know why, but a faint pressure sat behind his ribs—like something that had once been torn was learning how to rest.

    As he finally turned to leave, the dust on his boots caught the light—faint and gold, like citrus before the fall.

    (Chapter from The Grove. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story.)

  • Stay (Chapter)

    Stay (Chapter)

    The apartment was quiet, like the hush that lingers after something’s been broken. The fan by the window clicked softly with each rotation, pushing warm air in slow circles. Wood creaked under shifting weight. The fridge hummed behind the wall, steady and dull.

    Ezra sat on the edge of the pullout couch, spine straight, the thin mattress bowing beneath him. A glass of water rested in his hands, slick with condensation. His palms were damp, but he didn’t wipe them.

    Jake sat across from him in the old armchair, body slouched deep into the cushions like something heavy had finally caught up with him. One leg outstretched. A bottle of beer hung in his fingers, still three-quarters full. He hadn’t touched it in a while.

    It was late, long past midnight. The kind of hour that made the walls feel closer and every breath feel louder than it should.

    They’d walked home from the bar without saying much. Ezra had offered to crash early, but Jake waved him off with a “hang a minute” that had more weight than it should’ve.

    The quiet had grown legs. It sat with them, watching.

    Jake shifted in his seat like the silence had finally started pressing against his ribs. Whatever was sitting in him had run out of room.

    He finally spoke, voice rough from the hour. “You ever wish you had a brother?”

    Ezra looked up, not startled—just drawn back into the moment.

    Jake’s gaze stayed fixed on the far wall. “Not a buddy. Not a guy you mess around with. Just… someone who stays.”

    Ezra watched him for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve wished that.”

    Jake nodded, jaw working like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how.

    Ezra set the glass down carefully. “I think I spent most of my life looking for that.”

    Jake looked at him now.

    Ezra kept his voice steady. “Sometimes the longing got twisted. Became about things it wasn’t really about. Sex. Control. Being seen.”

    Jake didn’t flinch.

    Ezra’s hands stayed in his lap, folded. “I’ve never said I was gay. It never quite fit. But I’ve been with guys. Chasing something. Hoping maybe… I’d find myself there.”

    Jake stayed quiet, just listening.

    Ezra’s voice softened. “It never lasted. Because what I wanted—really wanted—wasn’t the sex. It was to be known. Held. Strength to strength.”

    The fan clicked as it rotated.

    Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “You ever find that?”

    Ezra looked down. “Only with Christ.”

    Jake nodded slowly. Then said, “You think that could be enough for me too?”

    Ezra looked up, met his eyes. “Yeah. I do.”

    They sat in that for a while.

    Then Jake stood up, walked across the room, and sat beside him on the couch—not too close, not awkward. Just there.

    He looked ahead, not at Ezra.

    I don’t know what this is,” he said. “But it’s not like anything else I’ve ever felt.”

    Ezra nodded. “Me either.”

    They sat like that, shoulder to shoulder. Breathing the same air. Two versions of the same soul, drawn together not by explanation but by presence.

    After a while, Jake leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed.
    He rubbed the back of his neck.

    Ezra’s hand rose halfway—then fell.
    He didn’t need to mirror it anymore. They both knew. He reached out instead, slow, and placed a hand on Jake’s back.

    Jake didn’t move.

    Ezra kept his hand on his back. Steady. Warm through the cotton of Jake’s shirt. The kind of touch that asked nothing but offered everything. 

    Jake stayed hunched forward for a long moment, like he was bracing for something he couldn’t name. His breath came slow, uneven. Then he shifted.

    Turned.

    And reached for Ezra with the kind of urgency that had been building for years.

    He pulled him in.

    It was all shoulders and muscle at first—tight and unpracticed, the kind of hug that didn’t know what it was doing but meant it. Ezra wrapped his arms around Jake in return, and the space between them folded. Their chests pressed together. Their weight settled into it.

    Ezra didn’t rush. Jake didn’t let go.

    The hug held—like something anchoring. A grip that said, You’re not carrying this alone anymore.

    Ezra could feel Jake’s breath at his collarbone—hot, shaking. He noticed the faint freckles at the base of Jake’s neck—same constellation as his, just worn under a different sky. He could feel the tremor in his ribs, the way his fingers clutched at the back of Ezra’s shirt like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort, only how to hold on. 

    Jake’s shirt still carried the day on it—sweat, dust, something faintly citrus. Ezra didn’t know why it felt like home. They held on. Long enough for it to matter. Long enough for it to heal something that had never been named. Ezra’s scar, once a quiet throb, felt warm now—like the body remembering it didn’t have to brace anymore.

    He noticed the faint freckles at the base of Jake’s neck—same constellation as his, just worn under a different sky. He could feel the tremor in his ribs, the way his fingers clutched at the back of Ezra’s shirt like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort, only how to hold on. 

    Jake’s shirt still carried the day on it—sweat, dust, something faintly citrus. Ezra didn’t know why it felt like home.

    They held on. Long enough for it to matter. Long enough for it to heal something that had never been named. 

    When Jake finally pulled back, he didn’t look away. He swiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, then pressed his palm to his chest like something had broken loose inside and wasn’t finished moving.

    Ezra stayed close, eyes steady, hands still resting on Jake’s arm.

    They didn’t speak. The silence didn’t demand anything. It just held.

    (Chapter from The Grove. Contact me if you’d like to read the full chapter).

  • The Crossing (Chapter)

    The Crossing (Chapter)

    Ezra hadn’t been to the lot in years.

    He stood at the edge of it now, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the wind move through a rusted length of chain-link fence. The gate hung crooked, open wide enough to let anything through. The pavement beyond it was broken and faded, split by stubborn weeds that pressed through like old roots remembering how to rise.

    This was where the house had stood.

    Not just any house—his house. The same one he’d lived in since he was two. But back then, it had been whole. L-shaped, built clean on this patch of dirt before someone split it and moved it across town. Reassembled it like nothing had happened.

    But something had.

    Ezra stepped through the gate and into the lot. His boots scraped over gravel, dry leaves, flecks of glass. The sun hung low behind him, casting the fence’s long shadow forward like a path. Somewhere beneath the scent of exhaust and dry asphalt, he thought he caught a hint of citrus—faint and distant, like a memory that didn’t belong to him but somehow lived in his chest.

    He’d heard there used to be an orange grove here. Long before the house. Before the pavement. Maybe it was true. Maybe the ground remembered.

    He walked to the center of the lot and stopped.

    The air shifted. Not temperature—tone. The light dimmed, not from clouds, but from something deeper. Like the day was holding its breath.

    He looked down.

    The cracks beneath his boots had softened. The color of the earth was changing. Brown giving way to red-gold dust, dry and fine, rising faintly around him like something waking up.

    And then the trees began to emerge.

    Faint outlines at first. Then trunks. Then leaves. A slow return. Rows of orange trees rising in the dusk light—not planted, but revealed. Ezra didn’t move. The wind in the leaves was real. The ground beneath him had texture. The scent of fruit was thicker now, older than anything he’d known, but right.

    And in the middle of it—half-formed but unmistakable—was the house.

    It stood where it had once belonged, its roof catching the light like it remembered how to be home. The ache at his old scar flickered again—not pain, exactly, but memory. The place in him that had always felt like it had been cut and stitched, same as the house.

    It was beautiful. Ezra turned slowly in place, taking it all in. This grove, this ground—this was the origin point. Before the move. Before the seam. Before the split. He stood in the center of what could have been.

    He didn’t pray out loud. But something in him whispered, Lord, let me see

    The trees swayed gently. The house held, just long enough to ache.

    Then the light shifted again.

    Slowly, the grove began to fade. The trunks lost density. The scent thinned. Leaves became outlines. The house dissolved like breath in cold air. The grove melted into wildness. Grass now. Scrub. A few gnarled trees with roots that remembered more than the branches ever could. Uneven earth. Tall weeds. A patch of broken glass. A place someone might return to without knowing why.

    He heard the crunch of a boot behind him.

    “You good?”

    Ezra turned.

    A man stood near the fender of a dusty pickup, one foot up on the bumper, cigarette resting loosely in his fingers. He wore a sweat-darkened T-shirt, dirt smudged along his forearm, like he’d been leaning into the day. His posture was easy, but aware. Like someone who belonged to the ground he stood on.

    Ezra stared.

    He knew that jawline. The way the brow settled over the eyes. The shape of the mouth when it didn’t know what to say. Even the light dusting of freckles on the arms–-mirrors of his own.

    The man straightened slightly, narrowing his eyes. “Didn’t expect anybody out here.”

    Ezra took a half-step back. “I didn’t expect to be here.”

    “Yeah?” The man took a slow drag from the cigarette, then glanced toward the center of the lot. “Funny. I felt like I should come out this way. Wasn’t planning on it.”

    They stood facing each other, and for a moment, the space between them held something heavier than air.

    Ezra couldn’t look away. This wasn’t just resemblance—it was recognition. The curve of the jaw, the set of the eyes. The same features from the visions—the man on the tailgate, the one crouched in the wild grove. Lived-in now. Breathing. Real.

    The other man shifted, slower now, like he felt it too. “You look like me.”

    Ezra nodded, heart ticking loud in his ears. “I know.”

    The man stepped forward, extending a hand. Ezra reached for it, and when their palms met, something quiet passed between them. It wasn’t electricity or revelation. Just a stillness. Like a question had been waiting, and neither of them had the language for it yet.

    “You got a name?” the man asked.

    “Ezra.”

    A pause. Then: “Jake.”

    They shook once, then let go.

    Ezra glanced at the ground—the dirt, the brittle grass, the last hint of dust still clinging to his boots. 

    They both reached for the back of their necks at the same time—then noticed. Neither said anything. Their exhale overlapped. Not quite the same breath, but close enough to feel it.

    Same stance. Same ground.
    But something had realigned.Ezra didn’t know what it meant.
    Only that it had begun.

  • The Stillness Before the Split (chapter)

    The Stillness Before the Split (chapter)

    The house breathed like it remembered something no one else did.

    Ezra moved through the hall in socked feet, the coffee in his mug still too hot to sip. The morning light hadn’t quite reached the kitchen yet, but it pressed against the edges of the blinds—soft and gold, the kind of light that made everything look older than it was. Honest light.

    He stood still for a moment, letting the quiet hold.

    There were no ticking clocks in the house anymore. The hum of the fridge was steady, but faint. Somewhere in the wall behind him, near the seam, there was a noise he didn’t quite have a word for—something between a vibration and a hush. He’d lived with it for years. Most days he forgot it was there. But some mornings—like this one—it felt louder than usual. Not in sound, but in shape. Like something pressed gently outward from the inside of the drywall.

    The seam ran along the far wall of his bedroom. You had to know where to look—beneath the old coat of paint, between the light switch and the corner where the baseboard didn’t quite line up. A thin vertical line, faintly raised. The skin of the house trying to forget it had once been torn.

    He’d heard once that the house stood among orange groves before it was split in half, moved, and reassembled here. 

    He didn’t touch the seam.

    Not yet.

    He took a long breath through his nose. The air smelled like dust and cooling pine from last night’s open windows. A trace of citrus clung faintly to the edges—imagined, probably. The kind of scent that belonged to a memory that wasn’t his.

    He sat down at the kitchen table, mug between his palms, elbows loose. The Bible lay open beside him—not for study, just out of habit. The pages were worn at the spine, a dog-ear tucked at Psalm 27. He didn’t need to read it to remember.

    The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?

    Ezra didn’t read out loud. He just let the words rest there, quiet in the air like steam from the mug.

    It had been two and a half years since he came to faith. His faith didn’t come through fire or certainty—just a slow unraveling. He didn’t preach it or have verses memorized. Just knew, in the marrow, that Someone was with him now. Had been, even when he didn’t know what to call it.

    The seam in the wall hummed again.

    He glanced up toward the hallway. Didn’t move.

    Not fear. Not even curiosity.

    Just awareness. Like his body recognized something it hadn’t named yet.

    A low ache stirred near an old scar—the one from the surgery he’d had as a boy. He hadn’t thought about it in years. But this morning, it pulsed with the same quiet rhythm as the wall.

    There was a framed photograph on the wall behind him. Him as a baby, in someone else’s arms. The kind of photo that marked an arrival, not a beginning. The day they brought him home. Not the day he was born.

    He’d lived in this house ever since. His parents were gone now—quiet deaths, years apart. The house was his, but it still held their weight in the corners.

    He remembered the dream.

    The tilted living room.

    The floor slanted—not dramatically, just enough that you had to work to stay upright. In the dream, he always felt it in his calves, his spine, his jaw from clenching. But his family—his parents, others—they just sat there. Laughing. Talking. Balanced somehow, or pretending to be. And he was always the one trying not to slide. Always the one who asked, Don’t you feel this?

    They never answered.
    Not because they couldn’t.
    Because they didn’t want to talk about it.

    They expected him to stay upright. To smile. To ignore the pull.

    He always woke with a tightness in his chest that took a few minutes to shake.

    He rubbed the back of his neck and took a sip of the coffee. Still too hot.

    Outside, the sun broke through the blinds in streaks. It caught the corner of the table and lit the page of the Psalm. A word shimmered, just for a second.

    Light.

    Ezra exhaled slowly.

    He wasn’t expecting anything today. No errands. No phone calls. No work that couldn’t wait.

    But the hum hadn’t stopped.

    And beneath it—somewhere deep in the belly of the house, or maybe just in him—something had shifted.

    Like a breath held a little too long.

    (Chapter from The Grove. Contact me if you’d like to read the whole story)

  • Not the First (chapter)

    Not the First (chapter)

    The garage was still.

    Rain tapped the metal roof in soft syncopation, the kind that made you feel like the night itself had settled in to stay. Caleb didn’t bother with the overheads—just the single lamp over the workbench, its glow golden against the steel and concrete.

    He sat alone, engine parts half-sorted on the table, a socket wrench resting beneath his hand like it had dozed off mid-sentence. He wasn’t fixing anything tonight. Just sitting with the pieces.

    Jonah hadn’t said much that morning. Just passed him a small, folded scrap and nodded once. No explanation. No weight to it—at least not in his voice. But the way his eyes lingered—that said enough.

    Now, with the quiet all around him, Caleb took the note from where he’d tucked it inside the worn pages of his Bible. The spine was cracked, the pages softened from years of oil-stained hands and Sunday dust. It looked like it had been carried through more than one man’s storm.

    He unfolded the note slow.

    Psalm 27:1
    “The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?”

    He read the next line slower.
    You don’t have to name it.

    Something in him exhaled.

    Then:
    You’re still my brother.

    He wasn’t sure what that line broke—but it broke something gently.
    He stared at the note a long time. Long enough for the rain to change tempo. Long enough for the silence to grow familiar.

    He read the note again.
    That lady at the Spoon had said you didn’t have to name it. Just show up where it lives.
    He pressed the paper to his chest and held it there, steady as the rain.

    He wasn’t the first to carry something unnamed.
    That ache you don’t have a word for.
    That bond you can’t quite explain.
    But he carried it still.

    Then he tucked the note back into the Bible’s spine, stood, and switched off the bench light.

    He rolled the garage door shut. The rain kept on, soft and steady.

    Behind him, the lamplight glowed against the walls—warm, human, and quietly whole.

    And somewhere out there, Jonah was still showing up—

    where it lived.

    (chapter from Not the First in the Caleb and Jonah series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full chapter.)

  • Where It Settles (chapter)

    Where It Settles (chapter)

    The trail curved with the land, hugging the ridge like it had always known its shape. The trees stood in quiet assembly, their branches whispering overhead as the dusk pulled long across the lake below. A heron cut slow through the air. The sky was bruised lavender and rust.
    It looked like a sky that had been through something. And was still holding.

    Caleb and Jonah walked in silence. Not the strained kind, but something steadier—like an old hymn neither of them needed to finish singing. Leaves crunched beneath their boots. Gravel shifted under the weight of what hadn’t been said.

    They came to a bench near the overlook. The lake stretched out below, still and soft. Mist clung low to the surface, catching what little light remained.

    Caleb sat first, arms resting across his thighs, jaw set. Jonah followed a beat later, close but not too close, letting the quiet settle again.

    “You think it ever gets easier?” Caleb asked finally, voice low.

    Jonah glanced over. “What part?”

    “All of it.” He rubbed his palms together like trying to start something that wouldn’t catch. Like trying to coax warmth from something gone cold. “Loss. Guilt. That damn space between what you meant to do and what you didn’t.”

    Jonah nodded slowly. “Langston used to say guilt’s like smoke—gets in your clothes, your lungs. But grief… grief just sits with you. Doesn’t ask to be fixed. Doesn’t need to be.”

    Caleb didn’t answer right away. The breeze stirred his hair.

    “The boy I told you about…” he said finally. “I saw something good in him. Fragile, maybe. But it was there. He let me see it, just once. And then it was gone.”
    He exhaled slowly. “When he went under, part of me felt like I had, too.”

    The silence held.

    Then Jonah reached out and laid a hand on Caleb’s forearm—gentle, steady. No words. No fixing.

    Caleb’s hand twitched, just slightly, like it might rise to cover Jonah’s. But it didn’t.
    He didn’t lean in. But he didn’t shut down either. It was something.

    He leaned back against the bench, not pulling away, just needing the space to breathe.

    Jonah let his hand fall away, resting it in his lap again.
    It didn’t feel like rejection. Just timing.

    They watched the water for a while, quiet and unmoving.

    Caleb rubbed the back of his neck, gaze still forward.

    “Some things you carry,” he said finally. “Some things carry you.”

    Jonah was quiet a moment, then asked, “You think God stays in those things?”

    Caleb didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked once, then stilled. The breeze touched the side of his face like it was waiting too.

    “If He didn’t,” Caleb said, “I’d be gone already.”

    Jonah didn’t smile. Just nodded once—slow, like he understood more than he could say.

    They didn’t move for a long time.

    (Chapter from Not the First in the Caleb and Jonah series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)

  • The Storm Doesn’t Knock (chapter)

    The Storm Doesn’t Knock (chapter)

    The rain hit like it didn’t care who heard.
    Not a drizzle. Not a soft soaking. Just a hard, hammering Tennessee storm that turned streets into rivers and roofs into drums.
    It was the kind of storm that didn’t ask. Just showed up loud, and stayed.

    Caleb was already half-awake when the phone buzzed.
    Not a text. A call.
    Jonah’s name lit up the screen, glowing through the dark.

    He answered on the second ring. “Yeah.”

    There was a pause. Then Jonah’s voice — tight, low.
    “It’s Langston. They moved him to ICU about an hour ago.”

    Caleb didn’t ask questions. Didn’t say sorry.
    He just said, “You need a ride?”

    Jonah didn’t answer right away.
    Then: “Yeah.”

    Fifteen minutes later, the truck lights cut through the rain like they had something to prove. Jonah climbed in, already soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, jaw clenched too tight. Water ran off his cuffs and pooled on the mat. Steam rose faint from his shoulders.

    Caleb didn’t say anything. Just turned up the defrost and eased them onto the road.

    The drive to Knoxville took longer than usual. Between the storm and the tension, neither of them reached for the radio.

    Jonah sat with his hands clasped between his knees, knuckles white.

    Caleb glanced once, caught the slight tremble in them. Said nothing.

    At one point, Jonah muttered, “He was stable yesterday.”

    Caleb nodded once. “Things change.”

    The words sounded harsher than he meant them to, but Jonah didn’t flinch.

    They pulled into the hospital garage, headlights sweeping wet concrete. Caleb parked without speaking. Jonah opened the door too fast and nearly slipped. Caleb caught his elbow without thinking.

    They didn’t speak. But neither shook it off.

    Inside, everything smelled like bleach and overwork.
    The lights were too bright.
    The waiting room too quiet.

    Jonah stood near the coffee machine, unmoving, staring at a styrofoam cup that had overflowed without him noticing.

    Caleb sat. Didn’t ask him to.

    After a while, Jonah walked over and lowered himself into the seat beside him. Not close. But not far either.

    “I prayed,” he said.

    Caleb looked at him.

    “For weeks,” Jonah added. “Laid hands on him. Psalm 41. Psalm 30. Anointed his hands, his forehead. He let me.”

    Caleb didn’t speak.

    Jonah looked down. “Now he’s hooked up to a machine, and I’m trying to remember what faith felt like when it didn’t feel like a fight.”

    Caleb shifted slightly in his seat.
    He didn’t speak. But he stayed. And sometimes, that was louder.

    “You think God cares if I’m tired of believing for people who don’t get better?” Jonah asked, quieter now.

    Caleb answered after a long silence.
    “I think he already knows.”

    Jonah’s shoulders moved, barely. Like something almost broke loose and didn’t.

    He leaned slightly — not a collapse, not a cry for help. Just enough that his shoulder pressed into Caleb’s arm, heavy with the kind of tired words couldn’t fix.

    The weight pressed into him, and something in Caleb tightened—not in fear, just memory.

    He didn’t shift away. Didn’t say a word.
    Just stayed still, like something in him understood what that weight meant.

    That was it.
    No comfort offered.
    But none withheld, either.

    When the nurse came out forty minutes later and said Langston was stable, Jonah let out a breath that sounded more like a collapse.

    He didn’t speak on the way back to the truck.

    Caleb just kept the heater running and let the silence ride with them.

    At the first red light, Jonah finally said, “Thanks for coming.”

    Caleb kept his eyes on the light. Not everything needed saying.

    “Didn’t need an invite.”The rain had slowed now. Just mist on the windshield.
    But it felt like the storm had settled somewhere else.

    (Chapter from Not the First in the Caleb and Jonah series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)

  • Hollow Places Don’t Echo (chapter)

    Hollow Places Don’t Echo (chapter)

    Caleb wasn’t expecting company.

    The morning was still gray and unsettled, not foggy but not clear either. A half-eaten biscuit sat on the tailgate beside him, its paper wrapper gone soft with grease. His coffee steamed slow in the cooler air, untouched. He wasn’t in a hurry. Never was this early.

    He wasn’t hungry. Hadn’t been all week. But holding the biscuit gave his hands something to do besides remember.

    The garage bay was cracked open, letting in the wind off the Turnpike and the smell of dew on hot metal. Tools clinked inside when the air shifted. A dog barked somewhere, far enough away not to matter.

    Then tires crunched on gravel — not fast, not hesitant. Just there.

    Caleb didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. His gut already knew. Like it always tightened a little when something good came walking toward him, unsure if it would stay.

    The door creaked open, and Jonah’s boots hit the ground.

    He walked up carrying a small tray with two gas station coffees and a brown paper sack. Didn’t speak at first — just stood a few feet away until Caleb glanced his direction.

    “You always open this early?” Jonah asked, like it was a question that could mean more than it said.

    “Most days,” Caleb said.

    Jonah gave a small nod and stepped closer. “Didn’t know if you’d be here. Figured you might be.”

    He didn’t wait for an invitation. Just sat on the tailgate, careful not to brush Caleb’s leg as he handed over a cup.

    “Black,” he said. “Didn’t want to guess.”

    Caleb took it with a small nod, but didn’t drink.

    They sat like that for a while — the kind of quiet that doesn’t ask to be filled, but still presses against your ribs a little.

    Jonah unwrapped a biscuit slowly, then asked, “You ever get used to the noise when it’s gone?”

    Caleb frowned slightly, not looking at him. “What kind of noise?”

    “The kind people make when they want something from you. Or think they know what you’re for.”

    Caleb didn’t answer.

    Jonah let it hang for a beat, then tried again. “Ministry’s strange like that. Always crowded. Still feels lonely.”

    He looked down at his cup. “Langston used to say it’s the loneliest calling God ever blesses a man with.”

    Caleb took a slow sip, winced at the heat.

    Not the first time he’d tasted something bitter just to feel the burn.

    “Not the being alone part,” Jonah added. “It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t echo. You say something real and it just… dies in the room.”

    Caleb didn’t know much about ministry, but he knew what it meant to speak into silence and get nothing back.

    He finally looked over. “Yeah. I know that kind.”

    That was all. Just that. But it was the first thing he’d said that sounded like it came from deeper than his mouth.

    Jonah didn’t smile. Just nodded, slow.

    “You ever have someone like that?” he asked. “Someone you didn’t have to explain everything to?”

    Caleb didn’t speak. Not right away. There was a question behind the question—and it felt too close to something he didn’t name.

    A streak of sunlight hit the front tire of the truck and stopped there.

    “Once,” he said. “Didn’t last.”

    Jonah shifted his weight slightly on the tailgate. “I’m sorry.”

    Caleb shrugged. “Wasn’t your fault.”

    They sat in silence again, but it wasn’t the same kind. This one had edges.

    Jonah folded his wrapper and tucked it into the sack. Caleb didn’t move.

    He could feel Jonah watching him once or twice — not intrusive, just… open. Present. And for a second, Caleb felt something tighten in his chest. Not anger. Not fear. Just that old instinct that said don’t let this get too close.

    But he didn’t leave. He didn’t shut it down.

    He just sat there. Let it ache a little. Not because he liked the feeling—but because it meant something was still alive under the quiet.

    (Chapter from Not the First in the Caleb and Jonah series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)

  • The Fire’s Bond (chapter)

    The Fire’s Bond (chapter)

    Jed stood alone behind the barn, hands deep in his coat pockets, the ridgeline fading into shadow. The cedar branch leaned against the shed wall, still damp in spots from where he’d rinsed off the silt.

    He didn’t know why he’d brought it in, not exactly. Just that it felt right to burn something that had been through floodwater and still held together.

    The wind cut low through the trees. He turned, picked up the branch, and headed toward the house.

    The frost came early that night, settling over the pasture like breath held too long. The stars hung sharp overhead, not twinkling but steady, cold and clear.

    Joel struck the match, shielding the flame from the breeze as it caught on the edge of kindling. The fire-pit had been his idea—simple stones ringed around a bare patch of earth near the edge of the ridge. Jed had helped stack them earlier that day, one-handed but stubborn, muttering the whole time about symmetry and heat flow.

    Now the flames licked upward, slow at first, then sure.

    Jed stepped out from the house with a thick cedar branch in one hand. Not fresh, but not old either—weathered just enough to crack loud when it burned. He’d found it near the creek, half-buried in silt from the last flood. Same bend where things had once gone wrong. It wasn’t clean wood—it was carried wood. But it burned.

    Joel moved aside to let him through.

    Jed laid the branch across the top of the fire, not saying a word.

    The flames took hold.

    The cedar popped and hissed, sap still trapped deep in the grain. Smoke curled white into the night air, rising toward stars that did not blink.

    They stood in silence, faces lit orange and gold.

    Joel finally spoke, voice low. “Feels like the kind of night you don’t get again.”

    Jed nodded. “It is.”

    He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the same carving knife Joel had once found on the porch rail. He didn’t open it—just held it a moment, then set it beside the fire.

    “I don’t want to carry anything unclear anymore,” Jed said. “Not with you. Not with God.”

    Joel watched the fire.

    Jed went on. “I’ve prayed a lot of prayers these past weeks. Some loud. Most not. But I keep comin’ back to the same one.”

    He looked up.

    “Create in me a clean heart, O God…”

    His voice didn’t shake. But it was rough from the inside out.

    “Give me the strength to be your brother, not your temptation. To build with you, not burn.”

    Joel’s eyes stayed on the fire, glassy in the glow.

    Then he spoke—quieter, but thick at the edges.

    “I’m done runnin’.”

    Jed looked at him.

    Joel didn’t blink. “I ran from Athens. From the church. From the ache. Even from this—whatever this is.”

    He stepped forward, closer to the heat.

    “But I ain’t runnin’ anymore. I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel what I feel. But I want to walk it different. Carry it clean.”

    Jed swallowed hard, throat tight.

    Joel extended a hand.

    Not soft. Not trembling.

    Just strong and open.

    Jed reached out and clasped it.

    Not like a greeting.

    Not like goodbye.

    But like something being bound in place.

    Their hands gripped firm, and the fire cracked louder—one loud pop like a punctuated amen.

    (Chapter from Weathered Fields in the Jed and Joel series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)

  • The Weight of Care (chapter)

    The Weight of Care (chapter)

    Late spring pressed down on the ridge, warm enough to sweat but not yet thick with summer. The land was greening fast—hedgerows filling out, fence posts shading over, weeds growing where the rows hadn’t been turned yet. It was the kind of season that didn’t wait for anyone.

    Joel ran the farm alone that week. Jed’s shoulder and ribs were still too tender for anything more than slow steps and short sentences. He spent most days on the porch, sorting tools with his good hand or whittling pieces of cedar from the scrap pile. He didn’t complain, didn’t moan—just stayed still. Which, for Jed, said plenty.

    Joel hauled feed. Turned compost. Replaced a post near the creek where the frost had split it too deep. Every day ended with him bone-tired and half-drenched in sweat.

    Some days, he thought of his uncle’s land back in Georgia—how he’d spent one summer there as a boy, swinging a hoe he was too small for, trying to earn a man’s nod. He remembered the ache in his arms, the blistered palms, the way no one told him he’d done well—just let him keep coming back. Maybe that’s when it started, the belief that staying was the only way to be seen.

    He didn’t mind the work. But it felt different without Jed beside him—no rhythm to match, no shared silence to lean into. The quiet felt more hollow when you were the only one moving.

    That afternoon, after dumping the last load of hay, Joel stepped inside and dropped the keys on the counter. Jed sat in his chair by the window, knife in hand, shaping a piece of cedar into something small and simple.

    “Fence holdin’?” Jed asked.

    Joel nodded, wiping his neck with a dish towel. “For now.”

    Jed didn’t press further.

    Joel poured water into the kettle and set it to boil.

    Jed watched him a moment, then looked back at the piece in his hand.

    “I ever tell you about the time my dad got pinned under the tractor?”

    Joel raised a brow. “No.”

    Jed nodded slowly. “I was twelve. He was clearin’ brush down near the creek. Wet ground, bad angle, wheel caught and tipped the whole rig sideways. Pinned his leg under the axle.”

    Joel leaned against the counter. “How’d he get out?”

    “He didn’t. Not by himself.” Jed paused. “I found him an hour later, yellin’ so hoarse he couldn’t get words out. Thought he was done for. But he didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. Just looked at me and said, ‘You better figure it out.’”

    Joel’s face twitched in something like a smile. “Sounds about right.”

    “I rigged a jack under the back axle and used fence boards to wedge it. Took me twenty minutes to get him loose. My hands were shaking the whole time.”

    He paused again. The knife rested still against the wood.

    “After that, he never told me I wasn’t strong enough to handle things.”

    Joel watched him, the kettle beginning to hiss behind him.

    Jed looked up. “Point is, sometimes grit ain’t loud. Sometimes it’s just not leavin’.”

    Joel turned and poured two mugs, brought one over, set it in front of Jed.

    “You’re sayin’ I’m not leavin’.”

    Jed met his eyes. “I’m sayin’ you don’t need to carry it like you’re proving something.”

    Joel sat, the mug warm in his hands. He stared down at it for a long moment.

    “I think part of me’s still scared it could all break,” he said finally. “Not just the farm. Us.”

    Jed didn’t flinch. “I know.”

    Joel’s voice dropped. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s that I don’t trust what the world does to things like this.”

    Jed nodded once. “Yeah.”

    They sat with it.

    Outside, a breeze kicked up, pushing warm air through the open screen.

    Joel stood, crossed the room, and switched on the old radio that sat on the shelf beside the stove. The dial was touchy, but he worked it slow. Static gave way to faint harmony. A familiar tune—slow, faithful.

    “I’ll fly away…”

    Jed smiled faintly. “Your mama used to sing that, didn’t she?”

    Joel nodded. “Every Saturday morning, whether we wanted her to or not.”

    Jed closed his eyes, the smile still there.

    They let the song play through. Didn’t sing. Just listened.

    When it ended, Joel turned the dial off again. The room settled back into the hush of late evening.

    Jed’s knife returned to the cedar. The rhythm of the carving resumed—soft, patient, steady.

    Joel sipped his tea, the warmth working slow into his chest.

    He was tired. But not running.

    Not tonight. 

    Something in him had shifted. Not loudly, not all at once—but like a stone set in place. He wasn’t owed a promise. But maybe he’d stay long enough to offer one.

    (Chapter from Weathered Fields in the Jed and Joel series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)

  • Storm Front (chapter)

    Storm Front (chapter)

    Late spring clung wet to the ridge, the kind of heavy that settled in your boots and worked its way up your spine. The storm had passed sometime after midnight—wind roaring down the holler like a freight train, tearing shingles from the barn, snapping fence rails like kindling. Morning came slow, bruised and gray, the ground steaming where sunlight pressed through.

    Jed stood at the edge of the yard, one boot half-buried in mud. His eyes followed the damage: fence posts leaning like drunks, the barn roof torn open in places, loose tin curled back like bark after a burn. A shingle flapped from a nail above the loft door, tapping slow in the breeze. He rolled his shoulder once. It caught near the top—stiff from sleep or age, maybe both. His jaw flexed like he meant to speak—just a word, maybe two—but it passed. Nothing came. Not yet.

    He reached for the hammer left on the porch rail. Handle worn smooth. Grip familiar. He held it a moment before stepping into the yard.

    Behind him, the screen door creaked.

    Joel stepped out, sleeves rolled high, flannel loose over a damp T-shirt. The same one they’d shared through the colder months, passed between hooks and hands without ever naming it. He carried a length of cedar under one arm.

    “Gate’s worse than the roof,” he said.

    His voice was quiet—not cautious, just tired.

    Jed nodded and took the board. Their fingers brushed—barely—but Joel pulled back quick, like the touch startled something. Jed noticed. Didn’t speak on it. Just turned and set the cedar against the busted frame. The hammer landed hard. The wood gave, splintering slightly at the edge. He didn’t bother smoothing it.

    Joel crouched by the next post, working a bent nail loose. His movements were fast, sharper than usual. He didn’t say a word. Neither did Jed.

    They worked like men who knew the steps but had forgotten the rhythm. Jed climbed the roof to secure the loose tin while Joel kept to the fence line, hammering slats back into place. They passed tools without eye contact. Spoke only when they had to.

    Sweat beaded on Jed’s neck despite the chill. The air carried the tang of wet soil and iron. Their breath mixed with the clink of nails and the groan of wood. Somewhere nearby, a bird called once and went quiet.

    He found himself whispering, more reflex than thought.

    “Create in me a clean heart, O God…”

    Psalm 51. Always that one. He’d prayed it more times than he could count—at night when Joel was asleep, or when the weight of something unseen pressed in on his chest. It surfaced easy this morning, unasked.

    He glanced down.

    Joel stood at the far end of the fence, back slightly hunched, sleeves damp at the cuffs. He was solid. Steady. But something about the curve of his shoulders said he’d been holding more than wood lately.

    He kept his eyes down, but for a split second, Jed caught something flicker there. A memory, maybe—a flash of water and want, that creekside silence neither of them had spoken of. Or maybe just a prayer Joel hadn’t dared put to words.

    The storm hadn’t just torn shingles and rails.

    It had stirred something loose beneath the surface.

    By midday, the fence stood again. Crooked in places, but upright. The roof was patched. Enough to hold.

    They walked back to the house without speaking. Mud caked their boots. Their hands were scraped, fingernails dark with grit.

    Jed poured coffee from the pot left warming on the back eye of the stove. Joel sat on the porch steps, elbows on his knees, tapping the rim of a tin mug with his thumb.

    Then he hummed—soft, unsure.

    “I’ll… fly away…”

    The line broke off. He didn’t finish it.

    Jed handed him a cup and sat beside him. The wood creaked beneath them. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but the air between them felt different now—thinner.

    Steam curled from their mugs. Neither reached for words.

    Near the porch rail, something pale stuck out beneath the mat. Jed leaned forward and pulled it free.

    Caleb Ward.

    Sharp handwriting. Church letterhead. “A Gathering for Men of Conviction.” Jed didn’t open it. He didn’t need to.

    Inside, he crossed to the mantle and slid the envelope between the pages of the Bible. Somewhere around Psalm 51. He didn’t look to see where it landed.

    The next morning, the sun showed up late and soft, streaking long light across the pasture. The wind had settled. The barn stood quiet. Jed stopped at the mailbox out of habit. Nothing inside. Just the still hum of a day returning to normal.

    Back in the kitchen, Joel stood at the stove, stirring coffee in a chipped mug. The spoon clicked gently against ceramic.

    “Mail?” he asked, not looking up.

    Jed paused. “Nothin’ worth readin’.”

    He poured himself a cup and sat across from him. The warmth spread slow through his hands.

    The Bible stayed shut on the table between them.

    The storm hadn’t broken them. Not yet.

    But the ground was still soft. And the air still held weight.

    (Chapter from Weathered Fields in the Jed and Joel series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full chapter!)

  • Forgiveness in the Dust

    Forgiveness in the Dust

    Some things don’t mend loud. They just start holdin’ again, slow and steady.

    The morning was cooler than it had been in weeks. Sky still pale, light slipping over the ridge slow, like it wasn’t in a hurry to see what the day would hold.

    They’d been fixing fence since dawn—nothing urgent, just one of those sections that’d gone soft with rain and time. A corner post leaning wrong, wire sagging like tired shoulders. Jed had said it needed shoring up. Joel hadn’t argued.

    They worked steady, boots wet with dew, breath visible in the shade.

    Not much was said. But it didn’t feel like before. The silence had changed shape.

    When the last nail was in, Joel stepped back, brushed off his hands, and walked to the truck. He rummaged a second, then came back holding something folded.

    Jed squinted. “That my old flannel?”

    Joel held it out—clean, sun-dried. “Figured you might want it back.”

    Jed took it without a word. Held it a beat longer than he needed to, thumb brushing the worn edge like he was feeling something older than fabric. Then he looked up.

    “Thanks,” he said. 

    Joel nodded once, started to turn—then paused.

    “You still want me here?”

    Jed didn’t hesitate. “You wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t.”

    Joel looked at the ground, then back at Jed. “Alright.”

    Jed moved past him toward the barn, but halfway there, he reached back and tapped Joel’s arm lightly with the folded shirt.

    “Put that in the house, will you?”

    Joel took it. Tucked it under his arm like something that still had weight.

    Later, when they were both back inside, Jed poured the coffee. Poured Joel’s too—no need to ask how he took it. He slid the mug across the table like he had a hundred times before.

    Joel caught it. Held it a second. “Thanks.”

    Jed nodded, still standing. “Good to have you back at the table.”

    That was all.

    But it was enough to start again.

    (Chapter from First Light in the Jed and Joel series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)

  • The Ache Beneath the Quiet (chapter)

    The Ache Beneath the Quiet (chapter)

    Some silences settle soft. Others land sharp, like a nail in the heel of your boot.

    The rain let up by Friday, but the gray stuck around, low and sullen over the hills. Joel was already out in the shed when Jed stepped off the porch, coffee in hand and the dogs trailing behind. He could hear the dull scrape of a shovel against concrete before he rounded the corner.

    Joel had cleared space near the workbench, a pile of old boards stacked neatly to the side. He’d stripped down to a white undershirt, flannel slung over the railing, muscles taut as he worked. There was a furrow in his brow, and his mouth twitched like he was chewing on something besides silence.

    Jed leaned in the doorway, steam curling from the mug. “You buildin’ a boat or just diggin’ a tunnel?”

    Joel didn’t look up. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d do somethin’ useful.”

    Jed nodded. He didn’t ask what had kept him up. He already had a guess.

    They worked together without much talk—hauling old planks, sorting nails, checking for rot. The quiet wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t easy either. Like a field left fallow too long, waiting for someone to turn the soil.

    Mid-morning, they took a break. Jed passed Joel a bottle of water, and they sat on the porch steps, boots muddy, elbows brushing.

    “You ever feel like somethin’ in you’s changin’, and you don’t know what it’s changin’ into?” Joel asked, eyes on the distance.

    Jed took a sip, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah. ‘Bout every ten years or so. Usually when the Lord’s tryin’ to get me to see somethin’ I’ve been avoidin’.”

    Joel nodded, jaw tight. “This ain’t about runnin’. It’s about what comes after you stop.”

    “I ran so far I forgot what I was runnin’ from,” Joel added, eyes low. “Left good folks behind. Some not so good. Left a church that couldn’t see me clear. Took a long time to figure out not all of that was on me.”

    Jed glanced over. Joel looked different lately. Not just leaner from work, but more settled in his own skin—and yet, like something was pressing from the inside out, trying to reshape him. Jed noticed the way Joel’s eyes lingered longer when they talked, the quiet way he started leaving his flannel draped on the back of a chair instead of folded neat. Little things. But they added up.

    He didn’t push. Just let the words hang there like laundry on a line, catching whatever breeze might come.

    That afternoon, they finished reinforcing the fence near the back pasture. It was slow work—mud sucked at their boots, and the cedar posts had to be set deeper than usual—but they moved like a team that had learned each other’s rhythms. By the time they reached the last post, their shirts were clinging with sweat, and their hands were scraped raw.

    Jed sank onto an overturned bucket and cracked his knuckles. “Well,” he said. “We earned supper today.”

    Joel stood beside him, wiping his neck with the hem of his shirt. “Mind if I cook?”

    Jed shrugged. “Long as it ain’t garlic again.”

    Joel laughed—a real one this time, low and easy. “No promises.”

    He sat down next to Jed, elbows on his knees, both of them facing the field they’d just cleared. The sky had that bleached look it gets in late summer—washed-out blue, tired but holding.

    “You ever think about doin’ something else?” Joel asked. “If it wasn’t farmwork?”

    Jed took a slow sip from the water jug, then leaned back. “Not much call for wonderin’, not when you grow up with a pasture for a playground.”

    Joel waited. Jed looked down at his hands.

    “I like makin’ things,” he said finally. “Used to help my uncle build furniture in the winters. Just small stuff—stools, boxes, once a bench we never did finish. Somethin’ about cuttin’ wood to fit—measurin’ twice, watchin’ it take shape. It don’t talk back, but it don’t lie neither.”

    Joel nodded. “That sounds like you.”

    Jed gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Ain’t nothin’ noble. Just… clean work. Straight lines.”

    Joel looked out over the grass. “I used to think I’d be a teacher.”

    Jed blinked. “Really?”

    “Yeah. English, maybe. I liked stories. Thought maybe if I helped folks find theirs, I’d find mine.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Didn’t get far. Started runnin’ before I could settle into anything.”

    Jed didn’t speak right away. Then: “Don’t sound like nothin’’s keepin’ you from tryin’ again.”

    Joel glanced at him. “You think I’m still that guy?”

    Jed looked straight ahead. “I think you’re closer than you’ve ever been.”

    That line hung there between them for a beat too long.

    Then Joel stood, dusted off his hands. “Still gonna cook. But I’m addin’ garlic.”

    Jed shook his head but didn’t argue.

    Later, after dishes and dusk, they found themselves back on the porch. The sky was clearing at last, stars blinking through the haze. The dogs lay curled on the steps. A jar of tea passed between them, fingers brushing, neither pulling back.

    Joel didn’t speak. Just let out a slow breath, like he was still deciding what needed to be said.

    Jed finally broke the quiet. “Some things don’t have to be figured out in one day.”

    Joel nodded, his voice quiet. “Just don’t want to waste the ones I’ve got.”

    Jed looked at him then. Not just a glance—really looked. “You got a place here, far as I’m concerned.”

    Joel gave a small nod, like maybe that meant more than he had words for. He’d spent too long drifting—borrowed couches, short leases, jobs that never needed him longer than a season. He’d learned how to act like it didn’t matter. But this—this was different.

    Here, under this roof, with these hills behind him and Jed beside him, the offer landed deep. Not just welcome. Belonging.

    Joel’s eyes flicked down, a hint of something caught between gratitude and ache.

    And that was enough for now.

    (Chapter from First Light in the Jed and Joel series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story)

  • Time, Silence, and Bonds (chapter)

    Time, Silence, and Bonds (chapter)

    Years Later. Older, quieter. But never alone.

    The cabin hadn’t changed much. But they had.
    The trail was a little more overgrown. The porch leaned in the same stubborn way. The firepit still held their stories. So did the trees.

    They’d been back to the cabin since that first trip. A few times. But this one felt different.This was the place where silence cracked them open.Where fire asked questions they hadn’t dared to say out loud.They weren’t chasing something undone.They were returning to witness what had held.

    The gravel crunched under the tires as Clyde eased the truck into the clearing. The sun was low, casting long fingers of light across the ridge. Early fall again—cool in the shade, warm where it touched the skin.

    Tyler climbed out from the passenger side. His beard was fuller now, flecked with gray. His frame had filled out a little over the years—stronger, steadier. He moved with less hurry. With more knowing.

    Clyde rounded the front of the truck, duffel in hand. “Still leans,” he said, nodding toward the porch steps.

    Tyler gave a soft smile. “So do we.”

    The door creaked open before they knocked. Ted stood in the frame, coffee mug in hand, silver hair catching the last of the light. “Well, look who dragged in.”

    Ethan stepped up beside him, arm slipping around Ted’s waist like it belonged there. “Took you long enough,” he said, grinning.

    Clyde shook his head. “Some things are worth not rushin’.”

    Inside, the cabin still smelled like pine and ash. A few upgrades—fresh paint, firmer cushions—but the bones were the same. Familiar. Honest.

    They spent the afternoon catching up. Talk meandered—work, aches, the stubbornness of aging knees. Ethan and Ted had moved east a few years back when Ethan took a position at the university. Still kept the cabin, though. Called it their retreat place. Said it was where things always made sense again.

    “We wanted this one with y’all,” Ethan said. “Felt like time.”

    Later that evening, they built the fire. Just the four of them. Clyde and Tyler dragged logs into a ring, same as they’d done all those years ago. The smoke rose in steady plumes, and the crackle of wood filled the silence like a hymn.

    Rachel came by before dinner. Hugged each of them. Handed Ted a tin of cinnamon rolls and Ethan a jar of her blackberry jam. She lingered at the edge of the clearing for a while after her goodbyes, eyes trailing to the four men circled around the flame.

    The firelight caught their faces in turn—creased with time, softened with years. Tyler and Clyde sat nearest each other, shoulders brushing now and then, not from habit but from history.

    Rachel murmured, “Whatever it is they’ve got… it held.”
    Then she turned and disappeared down the trail.

    Later that night, after the dishes were done and the air turned crisp, the four men circled the fire again. No one rushed the conversation. No one needed to.

    Ted was the first to break the stillness. “You ever think we’d end up like this?”

    Clyde gave a small grunt. “Not exactly like this.”

    Ethan leaned forward, the light catching in his eyes. “I did. Didn’t know how. But I believed we could.”

    They fell quiet again—not because there was nothing left to say, but because some truths were better shared in silence. It wasn’t awkward. It was earned.

    Eventually, Ted and Ethan rose, stretched, murmured something about sleep. Tyler and Clyde stayed behind.

    The fire was lower now. Glowing. Breathing.

    Tyler leaned in, elbows on his knees. “Remember that first time we were out here? Just us?”

    Clyde nodded. “After Ted and Ethan couldn’t come. Porch was saggin’. Silence so thick we couldn’t breathe through it at first.”

    Tyler’s mouth lifted. “Until it cracked us open.”

    Clyde didn’t respond with words. Just reached over and passed him a stick. Tyler took it, stirred the coals absently.

    After a while, Clyde said, voice quiet but sure, “I used to think silence meant somethin’ was broken. Now I think… maybe it just means it’s holdin’.”

    Tyler nodded, eyes still on the fire.

    They sat like that for a long time, the fire painting them in gold and emberlight. The woods whispered. The stars held watch.

    When they finally stood, Clyde’s knees cracked. Tyler offered a hand—not because he needed to, but because he could. Clyde took it.

    They walked toward the cabin, slow and shoulder to shoulder.

    “Still with you,” Clyde said, eyes on the porch.

    Tyler smiled. “Always.”

    The porchlight flickered on as they climbed the steps.
    Not just habit. Not just homecoming.
    A covenant that hadn’t loosened, even when words failed.

    Still with you.
    Still.

    (Final chapter from Held Fast in the Tyler and Clyde series – Contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)

  • A New Kind of Fire (chapter)

    A New Kind of Fire (chapter)

    The fire was already going when Tyler showed up—low and steady, crackling in the pit behind Ted’s place. It was dusk, the sky dimming slow, bruised purple at the edges. The air smelled like pine smoke and damp leaves, like the woods were remembering something.

    Clyde was sitting on one of the big split logs circling the fire, shoulders hunched, arms resting on his knees. He looked up when Tyler approached but didn’t say anything at first.

    Tyler gave a soft, familiar nod. “Figured you might be out here.”

    “Didn’t feel like bein’ inside,” Clyde said. His voice was low, steady. “Didn’t want to be around folks who expect me to smile and nod like I ain’t still workin’ this out.”

    Tyler sat on the log beside him—not too close, not distant. Just near enough to be known.

    For a while, they didn’t talk. Just watched the flames rise and settle. Sparks danced up into the darkening sky like prayers they didn’t have words for yet.

    After a while, Clyde cleared his throat. “You ever wish it had turned out different?” he asked. “That night in the cabin. Or the one after the storm.”

    Tyler didn’t answer right away. He looked into the fire like it was telling the story for them.

    “I used to,” he said finally. “Used to think maybe if we hadn’t pulled back, it’d feel more certain now. More defined.”

    Clyde nodded slowly, eyes on the flames. “But it wouldn’t’ve been clean.”

    “No,” Tyler said. “It wouldn’t’ve been holy either.”

    They sat with that.

    “I still feel it,” Clyde admitted, barely audible. “That ache. That pull. It don’t own me like it did, but it ain’t gone.”

    Tyler’s voice was soft. “I know.”

    A long breath passed between them. The fire cracked. The trees swayed.

    “I spent too long thinkin’ desire was the same as failure,” Clyde said. “But I don’t want to keep shovin’ it down like it’s poison. I want to name it. Lay it down. Not ‘cause I’m ashamed—but ‘cause I want somethin’ better.”

    Tyler reached down and tossed another log on the fire. “We don’t need to burn it down.”

    Clyde turned to him, eyes wet and bare in the firelight.

    “No,” he said. “We just need to bring it to the altar.”

    And there it was.

    Tyler leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice thick. “You know I’ve loved you, right? In all kinds of ways.”

    Clyde nodded. “Yeah. I’ve felt it. I’ve carried it.”

    He paused, eyes locked on the fire. Then, softer:

    “And I’ve loved you back. In ways I didn’t have words for ‘til now. But it’s been there. Still is.”

    The fire crackled, filling the quiet that settled between them. Tyler looked over—not startled, not unsure—just moved. Like something in him had finally been met.

    “But the only part I want to last,” Tyler said, “is the part that holds.”

    Clyde looked away, jaw trembling. He scrubbed a hand across his face, then reached out—awkward at first, but sure—and gripped Tyler’s hand in both of his.

    They stayed that way, hands clasped between them, firelight flickering across worn knuckles and calloused palms.

    “I want to walk this out,” Clyde said. “Fully known. Fully brother.”

    Tyler’s eyes shone. “Then let’s name it for what it is. Not what it could’ve been.”

    A breeze stirred. A log popped.

    Neither of them moved to let go.

    After a while, Clyde whispered, “Would it be alright if I prayed?”

    Tyler nodded. “Yeah. More than alright.”

    Clyde didn’t bow his head. Didn’t close his eyes. He just looked up into the dark sky and spoke like he was talking to Someone who had seen the whole thing unfold and still chose to stay.

    “Lord… You know what this is. What it’s been. What we’ve wrestled and hoped and feared. We’re layin’ it down. Not ‘cause we don’t care—but ‘cause we do. Help us guard what You’ve built. Keep it strong. Keep it pure. Help us hold each other the right way.”

    His voice caught on that last line, and he didn’t try to push through it. Just let it hang there, trembling like an offering.

    Tyler whispered, “Amen.”

    They didn’t hug. Didn’t cry loud or fall into each other’s arms.

    But when Clyde finally let go of Tyler’s hand, he leaned sideways—just enough that their shoulders touched.

    And this time, the closeness didn’t need explaining.

    The fire kept burning.

    But it was a new kind of fire now.

    (From Held Fast, from the Tyler and Clyde series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)

  • Late-Night Drive (chapter)

    Late-Night Drive (chapter)

    The road out past the county line was empty at this hour—just gravel hum and headlights stretching out into darkness. Clyde gripped the wheel loosely, arms tired but restless. The windows were down enough to let in the cool night air, and Tyler’s elbow rested on the sill, fingers drumming absently to a tune that wasn’t playing.

    They hadn’t said much since leaving the diner. Just a shared glance over the check. A quiet “Wanna drive a while?” from Clyde. And now here they were—suspended somewhere between farmland and forest, the kind of in-between that made it easier to say things you couldn’t in daylight.

    Clyde broke the silence first. “Used to think if I kept busy enough, I’d never have to sit with what was underneath.”

    Tyler didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Just turned slightly in his seat, watching Clyde’s profile in the dim glow of the dash lights.

    “I didn’t grow up with language for any of this,” Clyde went on. “Didn’t have categories. Just a gut full of fear and a church that said ‘don’t’ louder than it ever said ‘belong.’” His voice cracked faintly. “So I shoved it all down. Called it victory.”

    The truck bumped over a stretch of washboard road, but neither of them flinched.

    Clyde’s hands tightened on the wheel. “There was this preacher once—revival tent kind. Said somethin’ like, ‘Holiness is when you stop wantin’ the wrong things.’ I held onto that like it was gospel truth. Figured if I could just hate the ache hard enough, I’d be holy.”

    Tyler shifted, his voice low. “Did it work?”

    Clyde’s laugh was dry. “I got good at denyin’. Real good. Thought wantin’ made me weak. Turns out denyin’ it made me bitter.”

    They drove a few more beats in silence, the sound of tires and cicadas filling the gaps.

    “I think I ruined some good things,” Clyde said. “Pushed folks away who might’ve stayed. Punished myself for wantin’ to be known.”

    “You weren’t wrong to want it,” Tyler said gently. “Just… wrong to think you had to kill it to be worthy.”

    Clyde blinked, eyes fixed on the road. “Then what do I do with it now? That ache, that pull. It’s still in me.”

    “You bring it to the fire,” Tyler said. “Let it burn what needs burnin’. But don’t throw yourself on the flames to prove you’re faithful.”

    Clyde swallowed hard.

    “You don’t have to keep punishing yourself to prove you’re holy,” Tyler added, voice even softer. “That’s not the kind of holiness God’s after.”

    They reached a bend in the road and Clyde pulled off, gravel crunching beneath the tires as he eased the truck to a stop. They sat there, engine idling, facing a stretch of trees silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

    Clyde stared out at nothing. “I’m tired of bein’ scared of my own soul.”

    Tyler nodded slowly. “Then maybe it’s time to stop runnin’ and start lettin’ it be healed.”

    The engine ticked as it cooled. Somewhere in the distance, a barred owl called once.

    Clyde exhaled, long and slow. “I ain’t got the answers.”

    “I don’t need you to,” Tyler said. “I just need you not to walk off again.”

    A pause. Then Clyde reached for the keys and turned the engine off. The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

    They sat there for a long while in the stillness. Two men, shoulder to shoulder in the dark, finally letting the ache breathe.

    And for once, neither tried to fix it.

    (From Held Fast, from the Tyler and Clyde series. Contact me if you’d like to read the whole story!)

  • The Storm and the Shelter (chapter)

    The Storm and the Shelter (chapter)

    The thunder came low and steady at first—more a warning growl than a threat. By the time Clyde swung the church’s side door shut behind them, the sky had split full open. Sheets of rain hammered the tin roof like it had something to prove.

    The power had flickered twice during the evening men’s gathering, and Ted had called it early, shooing everyone out before the worst of it hit. Everyone except Clyde and Tyler, who’d stayed behind to gather chairs and clean up—same as always. Familiar rhythm. Shared silence. And now, the storm.

    “Guess we’re waitin’ it out,” Clyde muttered, glancing toward the windows streaked with water.

    Tyler didn’t answer at first. He was watching the lightning flash behind the stained glass—Christ the Shepherd lit up in flickers of blue and gold. “Not a bad place to get stuck,” he said softly.

    They settled into the little room off the back hallway—part storage, part prayer nook. A loveseat sat against one wall, old and sunken in places, and a shelf of dusty devotionals lined the opposite wall like forgotten psalms.

    Tyler sat first, curling one leg under him. Clyde followed, stiff at first. The air smelled of wood polish and rain.

    Neither spoke for a while.

    The thunder moved closer.

    Tyler’s voice came quiet. “Storms used to scare me. When I was a kid.”

    Clyde looked over. “Me too.”

    Tyler gave a faint smile. “Not the thunder. Just… the feeling like something was comin’ for me. Like the house couldn’t quite hold.”

    Clyde nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

    The silence returned, but it wasn’t empty.

    Then Clyde said, voice low and unsure, “There’s nights I still feel it. That ache. Not just for someone beside me… but for someone who sees it all and doesn’t flinch.”

    Tyler didn’t move. Just listened.

    Clyde went on. “I spent half my life tryin’ to shut that down. To be a man nobody had questions about. And I was good at it, mostly.” He gave a rough breath of a laugh. “Guess the trouble came when I stopped wantin’ to be unseen.”

    Lightning lit the windows again, and the thunder came close behind.

    Tyler reached over—just a hand on Clyde’s knee, quiet and steady. Not pulling. Not asking. Just… there.

    Clyde looked at it. Then at Tyler. His voice shook a little. “I still want it sometimes.”

    Tyler held his gaze, warm and unswerving.

    “But not as much,” Clyde whispered, “as I want it to be holy.”

    Something passed between them then—heavier than want, lighter than fear. Like grace threading through the air.

    They both leaned back into the worn cushions, shoulders touching now–warm and steady. Tyler let his hand fall away, but the closeness remained, no longer needing to ask for space.

    “We’re not wrong for needing,” he said gently. “But we’re free to choose what we do with it.”

    They sat there, the storm drumming above like it was testing the roof. Clyde let his eyes close for a moment.

    When he opened them, he said, “Would you pray?”

    Tyler nodded once, then bowed his head—not in performance, but in offering.

    The words were soft. Just enough to be heard above the rain.

    “Lord, be near. In the ache, in the waiting. Make this bond more Yours than ours. Keep it steady. Keep it clean. Amen.”

    They didn’t speak after that.

    Just sat together as the storm ran its course.

    Two men under one roof, shoulder to shoulder.

    Choosing peace.

    Choosing light.

    (Chapter from Held Fast, from the Tyler and Clyde series. Contact me if you want to read the whole story!)

  • Spring Thaw (chapter)

    Spring Thaw (chapter)

    The thaw came slow that year.

    Winter hadn’t bowed out so much as lingered, leaving behind half-frozen puddles and sullen banks of gray snow. But the sun was out today, and the breeze, while cool, no longer bit. It was the kind of day that hinted—just hinted—that spring wasn’t far off.

    It had been a few months since the cabin trip. Enough time for the heat of that night to fade into something quieter. Not forgotten. Just settled—like ash after flame.

    Clyde sat on the bench outside the hardware store, thermos resting on the space between them. His boots were planted wide, hands folded, eyes half-focused on the traffic crawling through town. The kind of watching that wasn’t about what passed by, but what stirred underneath.

    Tyler showed up without ceremony—coffee in one hand, other tucked into the pocket of his flannel. He dropped into the seat beside Clyde like it wasn’t a decision at all. Just where he belonged.

    For a while, they didn’t say much. Cars passed. A breeze stirred wrappers along the sidewalk. Across the street, someone stepped out of the bakery with a bag of rolls and a cigarette already lit.

    “You ever notice,” Clyde muttered, “how things look softer once the snow starts pulling back? Like the ground’s rememberin’ how to breathe.”

    Tyler nodded, eyes on the slush-glazed curb. “Yeah. It’s messy, but… honest. Like nothin’s pretendin’ anymore.”

    Clyde made a low sound of agreement and reached for the thermos, taking a long sip before passing it over. Tyler drank and didn’t offer it back right away. His shoulder bumped Clyde’s, barely.

    He let it stay.

    “It’s been quiet,” Tyler said finally. “Not in a bad way. Just… quieter since we got back.”

    Clyde nodded once. “Different kind of quiet.”

    “You good with it?” Tyler asked.

    A beat passed.

    “I am,” Clyde said. “Not sure I know what to call it yet. But I’m at peace.”

    Tyler gave a soft hum of agreement. “I don’t regret it. That night. Not even the part that maybe shouldn’t’ve happened.”

    Clyde didn’t look over. Just let out a long, slow breath. “Me neither.”

    They lapsed into silence again, but this one felt full—like the space between them had grown wide enough to hold what they weren’t saying out loud.

    “You ever think,” Tyler said, “that peace don’t always come clean? Sometimes it just shows up in the not-runnin’.”

    Clyde smiled faintly, almost to himself. “Feels like that now.”

    Tyler leaned back slightly, his shoulder easing against Clyde’s again. Not heavy. Not meant to test anything. Just… there.

    And Clyde stayed where he was.

    Overhead, water dripped from the awning, landing with a soft tap between their boots. Down the street, a bell jingled as someone stepped out of the diner. Life kept moving, slow and ordinary.

    But for the first time in weeks, it felt like they weren’t chasing clarity. Just resting in the middle of it.

    The thaw had started.

    And neither of them moved to hurry it.

    (Chapter from Held Fast, from the Tyler and Clyde series. Contact me if you want to read the whole story!)

  • The Forge

    The Forge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Altar of Surrender

    Ethan had been fighting the same war since he was nine. It started with a memory—his older cousin, shirtless and laughing, tossing a baseball with a grace Ethan could never mimic. He’d wanted to be him, to wear that strength like a second skin. But the want turned dark, curling into a heat he didn’t understand, a pull that followed him into adolescence. By sixteen, it had a name—lust, envy, a tangled mess he hid behind a church-boy smile. He’d pray it away, fists clenched, begging God to rip it out. Make me normal. Make me good. But it clung like damp rot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Weight and the Wonder (chapter)

    The Weight and the Wonder (chapter)

    The morning light slanted through the cabin windows soft and slow, catching motes of dust in its beams. A faint breeze stirred the curtains. The fire had long since gone out, leaving only a few glowing coals beneath the ash.

    Clyde sat at the table, mug in hand, elbows resting heavy on the wood. His flannel shirt hung unbuttoned over a clean tee, sleeves rolled up. He wasn’t moving much—just watching steam curl from his coffee like it had something to say he didn’t know how to hear.

    Behind him, the floor creaked. Tyler emerged from the back room, barefoot, hair still mussed from sleep, hoodie half-zipped over his bare chest. He didn’t say anything at first. Just padded into the kitchen and poured himself a cup.

    He didn’t ask how Clyde slept.

    Clyde didn’t ask him to sit.

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

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

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

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

    Tyler nodded, taking a sip. “Thanks.”

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

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

    Tyler smiled softly. “Want a hand?”

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

    “I am.”

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

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

    Not afraid.

    Not ashamed.

    Just… searching. Remembering.

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

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

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

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

    Tyler turned to look at him. “Same.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “I do.”

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

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

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

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

    The words settled between them like an anchor.

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

    Something had shifted.

    Not broken.

    Not lost.

    Just changed.

    And neither of them ran from it.

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

  • When the Fire Settled (edited chapter)

    When the Fire Settled (edited chapter)

    The fire had burned low inside the cabin, just a slow curl of flame flickering over the last logs in the stone hearth. The room smelled faintly of smoke and cedar, the warmth of the blaze soft against the walls. They hadn’t talked much since supper. A few comments about the food, a short laugh over Clyde nearly dropping the pan off the grill, and then… just stillness.

    Tyler sat on the braided rug, one knee pulled up to his chest, hoodie sleeves half-pushed to his forearms. Clyde was beside him on the old leather couch, one boot off, socked foot planted on the floor. They were facing the fire, but neither of them was really looking at it anymore.

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

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

    Tyler glanced at him. “Sometimes. Yeah.”

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

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

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

    Just that.

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

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

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

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

    ….

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

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

    Neither spoke. There was too much to say.

    And not enough language to say it.

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

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

  • Something Solid (chapter)

    Something Solid (chapter)

    The creek behind Ted’s property ran quiet that afternoon, low from a dry spell but steady all the same. Tyler crouched at the bank, skipping rocks like he used to as a kid, boots half-dusty, half-muddied. The air smelled of pine and old leaves, warm with a hint of coming fall.

    Clyde sat nearby on a flat boulder, arms resting on his knees, watching the ripples Tyler’s throws left behind.

    Neither had said much for a while.

    Ted had invited them both out—“just a fire and some quiet,” he’d said—but he’d ducked inside to check on supper and left the two of them alone not long after. Maybe on purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Sounds about right.”

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

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

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

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

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

  • Flesh and Bone: The Bond that Holds

    Flesh and Bone: The Bond that Holds

    The wind howled across the cliffs of Dunmoor, dragging salt and spray inland, where a village called Hearthglen clung to the land like a memory. Long before the world grew sharp and distant, the men of Hearthglen lived close—close to the earth, close to each other. They worked the fields and fished the sea, and when the day was done, they sat shoulder to shoulder by the fire, letting touch speak what words didn’t need to.

    Back then, no one questioned it. A hand on the back said, “I’m with you.” A grip on the arm meant, “We’re still standing.” Touch was strength shared, not stolen. The old elder Eamon called it God’s design: “He made us flesh and bone, lads—not just to toil, but to hold.”

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

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

    Then the storm came.

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

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

    Torin stepped toward Calum.

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

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

    And that was the spark.

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

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

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

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

    “Flesh and bone—meant to hold fast.”

    And they did.

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

    Not just to stand tall.

    But to stand tall together.

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

    The Risk of Brotherhood—Why It’s Worth It

    Caleb could still feel it—the sharp jab of the pin as it pierced his fingertip. The bead of blood had welled up, bright red against the summer dust on his skin. Elias, all freckles and wild hair, pressed his own pricked finger against Caleb’s, their twelve-year-old hands trembling with the weight of it. The tall grass swayed around them, a green curtain behind Caleb’s peeling clapboard house, swallowing their giggles as they swore their oath. “Blood brothers,” Elias had declared, voice cracking with boyish gravity. “Forever, no matter what.” Caleb had nodded, believing every word, the sting in his finger a small price for something eternal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Brotherhood as Mirror: The Unseen Strength

    Brotherhood as Mirror: The Unseen Strength

    The parking lot was mostly empty now, just a handful of cars under the streetlights. The meeting had wrapped up a while ago, but Ethan, Nate, Ben, and Will lingered by Ben’s truck, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the cool night air.

    Ethan kicked a loose pebble, watching it skitter across the pavement. “I just don’t think I have it in me,” he muttered. “Not like you guys.”

    Ben leaned back against the truck, arms crossed. “Like us how?”

    Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know. The way you all just… carry yourselves. Confident. Solid. I still feel like I’m waiting for someone to tell me I’m actually a man, you know?”

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

    Ethan frowned. “See what?”

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

    Ethan nodded. “Yeah. What about it?”

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

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

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

    Ethan opened his mouth, but no words came out.

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

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

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

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

    Ethan swallowed, shifting where he stood.

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

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

    Ethan let out a slow breath, nodding once.

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

  • Iron Sharpens Iron: The Role of Men in Faith

    Iron Sharpens Iron: The Role of Men in Faith

    We were never meant to walk this road alone. God designed men to sharpen one another, to reflect truth back when we can’t see it for ourselves. Brotherhood isn’t just about companionship—it’s about clarity. The men we walk with act as mirrors, revealing our strengths, exposing our weaknesses, and calling us deeper into our identity in Christ.

    What happens when a brother sees something in you before you do?

    Most of us have been there. A brother calls something out—something good, something strong—and we hesitate to believe him. Maybe we’re too used to doubting ourselves. Maybe we’ve spent years listening to the wrong voices, the ones that told us we weren’t enough. But when a true brother sees something in us—something real—we have a choice. We can dismiss it, shrink back into old lies, or we can lean in and trust that maybe, just maybe, he sees what God sees.

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

    The role of correction, encouragement, and sharpening

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

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

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

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

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

  • More Than Words

    The fire burned low, throwing flickering shadows against the trees. The night air was crisp, the scent of pine mingling with cooling embers and the faint smell of fresh-cut lumber stacked neatly by the porch, waiting for morning repairs. No tension hung between them now—just the quiet weight of men who had walked hard roads.

    Clyde sat back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but lacking its usual edge. Tyler sat to his left, staring into the flames, silent but not restless. Ethan leaned forward, turning a stick over in his hands, the firelight catching the side of his face. Ted, as always, was steady, his presence grounding them all.

    For a long time, none of them spoke.

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

    Ethan glanced up.

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

    Ethan’s lips quirked. “No.”

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

    Tyler looked over, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

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

    Clyde was quiet, absorbing that.

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

    The fire crackled, sending sparks spiraling into the dark.

    Clyde exhaled slowly. “You really believe that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Silence stretched again. The wind stirred through the trees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Call

    The Call

    The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the clearing. Will sat on a rough-cut log, boot heel digging into the dirt, elbows on his knees. Across from him, Mason leaned back against a boulder, arms crossed, watching the embers pulse red in the dark.

    Neither of them spoke for a while. The night had stretched long—one of those conversations that had started light, turned deep, then sat in the weight of itself.

    Will exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I used to think this kind of thing just happened.”

    Mason raised an eyebrow. “What kind of thing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Will nodded slowly, feeling something settle deep.

    Yeah.

    That sounded right.

  • The Sacred Call to Brotherhood Among Men

    The Sacred Call to Brotherhood Among Men

    We talk a lot about the need for brotherhood. And it’s true—we weren’t meant to walk alone. God wired us for connection, for iron sharpening iron, for a kind of love between men that strengthens, refines, and restores. But what if brotherhood isn’t just something we need?

    What if it’s something we’re called to?

    In a world that tells men to be independent, self-sufficient, and emotionally detached, brotherhood often gets reduced to a preference—a nice addition if you can find it, but not essential. Even in Christian circles, friendship is encouraged, but rarely do we hear it spoken of as a sacred duty.

    But throughout Scripture, we see a different picture.

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

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

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

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

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

    When men choose covenant over convenience.

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

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

    And that? That’s worth everything.