CovenantRoad

Tag: loneliness

  • Something Solid (chapter)

    Something Solid (chapter)

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

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

    Neither had said much for a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Sounds about right.”

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

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

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

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

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

  • Amos and Jonah (Part 5)

    Amos and Jonah (Part 5)

    The seasons spun on, each one layering their story deeper into the land. The oak by the porch grew gnarled, its branches heavy with years, much like the men who sat beneath it. They’d carved out a life that defied the whispers of the world—a brotherhood so fierce it stood as a testament, a living sermon etched in calloused hands and shared silences.

    The physical pull never left, not entirely. It’d flare in quiet moments—when Jonah’s arm slung around Amos’s shoulders as they watched a storm roll in, or when Amos’s fingers grazed Jonah’s wrist passing him a mug of coffee. But they’d mastered it, turned it into a current that ran beneath their covenant, powering it rather than pulling it apart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Amos and Jonah (Part 4)

    Amos and Jonah (Part 4)

    Years rolled on, and the farm flourished under their care, a testament to their labor and their faith. The townsfolk would talk—two bachelors living out there, thick as thieves, closer than brothers, working the land and praising the Lord with a fire few could match. They’d see Amos and Jonah at the market, bartering for seed or a new plow blade, their easy banter and shared glances a quiet marvel. Some whispered, wondering at the depth of it, but most just saw two men who’d found a rare thing—a bond forged in sweat and Scripture, unbreakable as the Kentucky hills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    (Concluded in Part 5)

  • Amos and Jonah (Part 3)

    Amos and Jonah (Part 3)

    Days turned into weeks, and the rhythm of the farm carried them forward. They plowed the back forty together, the mules’ harnesses jangling as they trudged through the clay. Amos would clap Jonah on the back when they finished a row, his hand lingering a beat longer than necessary, and Jonah would grin, shoving him playfully in return. At night, they’d sit on the porch, the crickets serenading the stars, and talk about everything—Scripture, the herd, the way the river swelled after a rain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    (Continued in Part 4)

  • Amos and Jonah (Part 2)

    Amos and Jonah (Part 2)

    Amos’s words hung heavy in the air, raw and unguarded. “Reckon I’d die for you, Jonah.” The confession slipped out like a stone dropping into a deep well, rippling through the silence of the farmhouse. Outside, the wind rustled the bare branches of the oak tree by the porch, a soft moan that mirrored the ache in both their chests.

    Jonah rose from his chair, the Bible still resting on the table, its leather cover worn smooth from years of touch. He crossed the room slow, his boots scuffing the pine floor, and stopped a pace behind Amos. “Don’t say that less you mean it,” Jonah said, his voice low but steady, like the hum of a hymn. “’Cause I feel the same, and it scares me somethin’ fierce.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Still Standing

    Still Standing

    The night air hung heavy, thick with the kind of silence that wasn’t really silent. Wind stirred the trees, gravel settled under our boots, but neither of us spoke. We just stood there, arms clasped, leaning in—forehead to forehead, the weight of it all pressing between us. Not crushing—just there.

    I exhaled slow, steady. “You don’t have to carry it all, brother.” My voice was low, firm. A reminder, not a command.

    You gripped my arm tighter, not in defiance—just needing to feel something solid. “I know,” you said, but the words came like a man trying to convince himself.

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

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

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

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

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

    And that was enough.

    For now, that was enough.

  • Youth Mentorship

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • From Searching to Found: My Salvation Story

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

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

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

    A Boy Out of Place

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

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

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

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

    Years of Searching in the Wrong Places

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

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

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

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

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

    God Starts Chipping Away

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

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

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

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

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

    The Moment It All Made Sense

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

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

    I got it.

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

    Jesus had already done it.

    And in that moment, my answer was YES.

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

    A New Creation

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

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

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

    So I let it go.

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

    Still in the Process, but Fully His

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

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

    God was after me the whole time.

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

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

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

    And that’s all I need.

  • The Old Oak

    The Old Oak

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Yours, always,
    Josh

  • Sky’s Thread

    Sky’s Thread

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • A Quiet Surrender

    Late summer dusk settled over Ted’s porch, golden light stretching shadows long across the boards. Ethan leaned against the railing, watching Ted tinker with a loose step—a nail here, a tap there. The air was warm, still, a quiet Ethan used to fight. Now, with Ted, it felt right.

    Ted reached for his screwdriver, and Ethan passed it without a word. Ted didn’t look up, just nodded slightly. “You’re getting good at that.”

    Ethan smirked. “What, handing you tools?”

    “Readin’ people,” Ted said, tightening the screw. “Not everybody pays attention.”

    Ethan took a sip of water, unsure how to take that. He had been paying attention—to Ted’s steady hands, his plain words, the way he never grasped or rushed. A year ago, silence would’ve driven him nuts. Now, it was where he found himself.

    Ted sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag. Ethan exhaled slowly, watching the trees sway. “You ever think about how things line up?” he asked, quieter than usual.

    Ted tossed the rag aside. “What do you mean?”

    Ethan hesitated. “Like… if I hadn’t come here. If I hadn’t met you. Or if I had, but I wasn’t paying attention.”

    Ted studied him, eyes thoughtful. “You ever hear about Elijah in the cave?”

    Ethan shook his head.

    Ted stretched out his legs, leaning against the railing. “Prophet, scared outta his mind. Runnin’. Thought he was alone, hidin’ in a cave, waitin’ for God to show up big—fire, storm, somethin’ loud.” He glanced at Ethan. “But God wasn’t in any of that.”

    Ethan frowned. “Where was He?”

    “In a whisper,” Ted said, voice soft.

    Ethan sat with that, the words pressing in a way he couldn’t explain. Ted let it linger, then added, “Sometimes we’re so busy lookin’ for answers in the noise, we miss Him whisperin’ the whole time.”

    Ethan swallowed, throat tight. His whole life, he’d seen faith as rules—church on holidays, prayers before meals, a script you followed. It’d never been real. “I didn’t grow up like this,” he said, staring at his glass. “Mom dragged us to church sometimes. We said grace. But it was just… what you did.”

    Ted didn’t speak, just listened.

    “I always thought faith was about following the rules,” Ethan said, a faint laugh escaping. “And I was never good at that.”

    Ted’s voice was steady. “Maybe what you had wasn’t faith.”

    Ethan glanced at him.

    “Maybe it was just religion,” Ted said—not an accusation, an invitation.

    The words hit hard. Ted talked about God like He was here—real, close. Like he wasn’t alone. Something flickered in Ethan’s chest—small, undeniable.

    Ted looked at the sky, last light fading to blue. He exhaled slow, posture relaxed but face soft. Ethan had changed him too—stirred gratitude he hadn’t expected. For his own road through fire. For the whisper that’d reached him. For it reaching Ethan now.

    Ethan’s grip tightened on his glass. “Maybe I was looking for you,” he said, barely above a whisper, then stopped, unsure what he meant.

    Ted turned, meeting his eyes—not surprised, just knowing. “Maybe,” he said simply.Ethan exhaled shakily. For the first time, he didn’t want to run from it—whatever this was. Ted gave a small nod, like he understood. In his heart, he murmured two words: Thank You.

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

  • What Is Covenant Brotherhood?

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

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

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

    It’s time to recover what was lost.

    1. The Definition: What Is Covenant Brotherhood?

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

    It’s built on:

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

    2. The Biblical Foundation of Covenant Brotherhood

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

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

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

    Jesus and His Disciples (John 15:15)

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

    Paul and Timothy (Philippians 2:22)

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

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

    3. The Historical Presence of Covenant Brotherhood

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

    Medieval Blood Brotherhood

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

    Christian Monastic Orders

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

    Rites of Passage and Male Initiation

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

    4. The Loss of Covenant Brotherhood in Modern Culture

    So what happened?

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

    Here’s what’s changed:

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

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

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

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

    How do we reclaim it?

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

  • The Night We Almost Walked Away

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

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

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

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

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

    Jason flinched. That one landed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And it hit him all at once.

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

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

    Jason swallowed hard. “You’re right.”

    Eli blinked, caught off guard.

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

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

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

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

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

    “Alright,” he muttered. “Alright.”

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

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

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

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

    And that was that.

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

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

  • Letter to My Brother

    Brother,

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

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

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

    But not with you, brother.

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

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

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

    That’s us. That’s what we are.

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

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

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

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

    Yours, always,
    Josh

  • Not Alone

    Jason had been watching Eli slip for weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

    Jason didn’t buy it. “Tired how?”

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

    Jason’s chest tightened.

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

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

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

    Jason swallowed hard.

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

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

    Eli flinched, barely noticeable.

    Jason tightened his grip. “I see it.”

    Eli’s throat bobbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Already There

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

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

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

    Logan glanced over. “What’s weird?”

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

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

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

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

    Jake frowned. “What do you mean?”

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

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

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

    Jake was quiet for a second, letting that settle.

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

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

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

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

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

    Jake chuckled, shaking his head.

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

    Some things don’t have to be built.

    They just have to be seen.

  • Walking It Out

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

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

    Tyler glanced over. “How do you mean?”

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

    Tyler nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Tyler grinned. “Damn straight.”

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Divide

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

    I should let it go.

    But he couldn’t.

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

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

    Three weeks. No texts. No calls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Mike scoffed, shaking his head. “Same.”

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

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

    Josh nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

    Another silence.

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

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

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

    And so he did.

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

    Josh listened. Really listened.

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

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

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

    Mike frowned. “What does that mean?”

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

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

    Josh smirked. “Especially after all that.”

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

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

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

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

  • When Brotherhood is Tested

    Brotherhood is easy when everything’s good.

    When there’s no conflict, no misunderstandings, no disappointments—sticking together feels natural.

    But what about when it’s not easy?

    What happens when your brother lets you down? When frustration builds? When something shifts, and the bond feels strained?

    This is where most friendships crack. Where the world says, Move on. Find someone else. Protect yourself.

    But covenant isn’t like the world.

    Brotherhood is meant to be for life, but that doesn’t mean it’s always smooth. Every deep bond will be tested—by conflict, by disappointment, even by betrayal.

    So what do you do when it happens?

    1. Don’t Let Discomfort Make the Decision for You

    A lot of men walk away from brotherhood not because of a real break, but because things got uncomfortable.

    • A hard conversation was needed, but neither side had it.

    • A misunderstanding went unaddressed, and resentment settled in.

    • One man expected too much, the other gave too little, and instead of adjusting, they drifted.

    Covenant doesn’t mean you never hurt each other. It means you fight through when you do.

    2. Face Conflict with Truth and Grace

    If a brother has wounded you, or if you’ve wounded him, the next move isn’t silence. It’s truth.

    • Speak honestly. Say what needs to be said.

    • But do it with grace—without assumptions, without accusations.

    • Give the same patience and mercy that you’d want to receive.

    Brotherhood requires truth. But truth without love destroys.

    3. Some Wounds Can Be Healed. Some Require Space.

    Not every conflict means the end of a bond.

    • Some wounds just need time, humility, and conversation. They can heal stronger than before.

    • Some require stepping back—not to abandon, but to let God do the work in both hearts.

    And yeah—some betrayals are deep enough that distance is needed. But even then, covenant doesn’t mean you stop praying, forgiving, or leaving the door open for restoration.

    4. When It’s Worth Fighting For, Fight For It.

    There’s a reason so many men feel isolated—it’s easier to walk away than to fight for a bond. But real brotherhood is worth it.

    So if there’s distance, reach out.

    If there’s tension, clear the air.

    If a brother is slipping, go after him.

    Because the ones who fight for each other? Those are the ones who will still be standing together years down the road.

    Brotherhood Was Meant to Last

    Jesus never said love would be easy. But He did say it would be worth it.

    Covenant isn’t just about the good times—it’s about the moments when it’s tested, when everything in you says let it go, but God says hold on.

    So when the test comes—and it will come—don’t walk away too quickly.

    Because the bonds that make it through?

    Those are the ones that last a lifetime.

  • Baptism of Freedom

    The sun climbed high, scattering warmth across the forest and the sparkling surface of the river ahead. James and Luke approached the water’s edge, their pace unhurried as the gentle gurgle of the current beckoned them. Neither had spoken much since leaving camp that morning. There was no need. The tranquility of their surroundings spoke louder than words.

    James knelt to touch the cool water, watching ripples fan out across the surface. He stood and began to peel off his shirt, the sunlight catching on the faded scars and sinew of his back—marks that told a story of battles both physical and spiritual. Luke followed suit, discarding his clothes with casual ease. They both stood there for a moment, bare and unguarded, their presence in each other’s company as natural as the trees swaying gently around them.

    Luke broke the stillness with a grin. “You’re gonna make me race you, aren’t you?”

    James chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, I’d win too easily.”

    “Oh, you think so?” Luke lunged toward the water, splashing in with a loud whoop. James laughed and followed, the cold current seizing his breath before his body adjusted. They swam out to the deeper middle stretch, where the water flowed slower, languid and clear.

    Floating on his back, James gazed up at the sky. The vast blueness seemed endless, a mirror to the freedom he felt coursing through him. He hadn’t realized how heavy life had been until moments like this—moments when everything fell away, leaving only presence and peace.

    Luke surfaced beside him, shaking droplets from his hair. “Feels like a reset,” he murmured. “Like God just… washes everything away out here.”

    James nodded. “Yeah. Like a baptism.” He let his arms drift out wide in the water, surrendering to its gentle embrace. “It’s hard to explain, but this—being out here, no walls, no noise—makes me feel closer to God than anything else.”

    Luke floated beside him, silent for a moment as he took it in. “I think it’s because there’s nothing to hide behind. Just us, how God made us. No distractions.” He glanced over at James. “I never imagined I’d be able to feel this… free. Especially not with another man.”

    James turned his head to meet Luke’s eyes. There was a subtle charge between them, unspoken but understood. It wasn’t fear or tension, but something deeper—a recognition of their shared trust and vulnerability. The water seemed to cradle them both in that sacred space.

    “It’s rare,” James said softly. “But it’s good. We don’t have to be afraid of it.”

    Luke smiled, letting the words sink in. He closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath, submerging again. When he surfaced, he wiped water from his face and laughed quietly. “I think I’m gonna miss this place.”

    “Me too,” James agreed. “But we’ll take it with us. This peace, this connection—we’re meant to carry it forward.”

    They swam for a while longer, diving under the surface, racing each other in playful bursts, their laughter blending with the music of the river. Eventually, they returned to the shore, lying on the sun-warmed rocks to dry. Their breathing slowed, syncing with the steady rhythm of the flowing water nearby.

    “We’ll be heading back soon,” James said, breaking the peaceful quiet.

    “Yeah,” Luke replied, eyes half-closed as he soaked in the sun. “Back to life, back to the guys we’re mentoring. I feel ready, though. Like God’s given us everything we need to face it.”

    James reached over and clasped Luke’s hand briefly, a quiet affirmation of everything they had spoken and experienced over the past few days.

    “We’ve got each other,” James said.

    “And God’s got us,” Luke added.

    They remained there for a while longer, letting the simplicity of the moment anchor them. When they finally stood and gathered their clothes, the weight of responsibility no longer felt daunting. They had been renewed—by nature, by God, and by the bond that held them together.

    (Chapter from the third installment of the James and Luke series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story or series.)

  • The Edge of the Fight

    Mike sat in his truck, engine running, hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles went white. The glow of his phone screen lit up the cab, the open app staring back at him.

    It would be easy. Just a few taps.

    He hadn’t been here in a long time—not like this. Not with the weight pressing in so hard, whispering just give in.

    He closed his eyes, breath shaky.

    What’s the point of fighting anymore?

    It wasn’t just this moment—it was the exhaustion of always fighting. Always being the one trying to resist, trying to hold the line. Tonight, something in him felt like breaking.

    The screen blurred as he hovered his thumb over the button.

    And then—his phone rang.

    Josh.

    Mike just stared at the name, pulse hammering. He could ignore it. Could let it ring out.

    But his hands moved before his mind caught up, swiping the call open.

    “Mike?” Josh’s voice was steady, no small talk, just straight to it.

    Mike swallowed, pressing his forehead against the wheel. “Yeah.”

    A pause. “Where are you?”

    Mike exhaled through his nose. “Parking lot.”

    Josh didn’t ask which one. He just knew.

    “You already in?”

    Mike squeezed his eyes shut. “Not yet.”

    Silence stretched between them. Then Josh spoke, voice firm. “You’re not alone.”

    Mike let out a bitter breath. “Sure feels like it.”

    “You think that’s an accident?” Josh shot back. “You think that voice in your head is yours? That exhaustion, that pull—it ain’t just struggle, brother. It’s war. And you’re not fighting it alone.”

    Mike’s jaw clenched. His grip on the wheel tightened. He wanted to believe that. But right now, the weight felt so heavy.

    Josh’s voice came softer now. “Look, man. I know you’re tired. I know this fight feels like it’ll never end. But listen to me—this is not who you are. You’re not some lost man, crawling back to the pit. You are my brother. And I will not let you sit in this alone.”

    Mike’s throat tightened.

    “You want to sit there in silence, fine,” Josh said. “I’ll sit with you. But you’re not walking into that place, and you’re not going under. Not tonight.”

    Mike gritted his teeth. He felt the pull, still there. Still strong. But something else was there now too—a hand gripping his collar, refusing to let go.

    For the first time that night, the weight shifted.

    He inhaled. “Yeah. Okay.”

    Josh’s voice held steady. “Let’s go. I’ll meet you at the diner in ten. Coffee’s on me.”

    Mike nodded, even though Josh couldn’t see him. His hand hovered over the phone for a second—then he closed the app, threw the phone onto the passenger seat, and shifted the truck into gear.

    He pulled out of the parking lot. Out of the fight—for now.

    And not alone.

  • When Do You Become a Man?

    There was a time when a boy knew when he became a man.

    He didn’t have to wonder. There was a moment—whether through trial, initiation, or the voice of older men—when it was spoken over him. You are a man now. Step into it.

    Now? Most men never hear those words. They just drift into adulthood, hoping that one day they’ll feel different, but they never do.

    We’ve lost something vital.

    Manhood Was Never Meant to Be a Guessing Game

    In most cultures throughout history, men didn’t just stumble into manhood—they were called into it. Sometimes it was through a test of endurance, sometimes a sacred ritual, sometimes a hard-earned responsibility. But whatever it was, it left no doubt:

    The boy was gone. The man had stepped forward.

    But today? There’s no clear line. No defining moment. Boys grow older, but they don’t become men—they just age into them.

    And the result? A generation of men who feel like they’re still waiting for permission to become what they were made to be.

    Without Initiation, Men Drift

    • Some chase achievement, hoping that success will finally make them feel like men.

    • Some chase women, thinking masculinity is proven through conquest.

    • Some stay passive, unsure, never stepping up because no one ever told them they were ready.

    Deep down, every man wants to know he is one. But no one tells him. No one confirms it. So he keeps waiting.

    It’s Not Too Late to Step In

    Brother, if you never had that moment—if no one ever called you up—you are not stuck. You don’t have to keep drifting, waiting for someone to hand you manhood like a diploma.

    Here’s the truth:

    • God has already named you a man. He created you as one. You don’t need to prove it—you need to step into it.

    • Manhood isn’t given in isolation. Other men confirm it. That’s why covenant brotherhood matters. You need men who will say, Brother, you belong. We see you. Walk in it.

    • You may not have had a rite of passage—but you can mark the moment now. Maybe it’s a challenge, a commitment, a moment before God where you declare, No more waiting. No more drifting. I will walk in who I am.

    Manhood Is Meant to Be Stepped Into

    You were never meant to spend your life wondering if you are a man. If no one ever told you—hear it now:

    You are a man. God made you one. Step into it.

    And if you’ve already walked this road? Then look behind you. There’s a younger brother who is still waiting to hear what no one ever told him. Call him up. Show him the way.

    Because manhood isn’t just about becoming. It’s about calling others forward.

  • Campfire Reflection

    The fire crackled softly, sending gentle waves of warmth across the clearing. The sky above was moonless, filled with stars that shimmered like scattered jewels. James and Luke sat on either side of the flames, their faces flickering in the shifting light. Around them, the quiet of the night felt sacred, wrapping them in stillness. It was their favorite kind of moment—time carved out for rest, reflection, and the kind of conversation that came naturally now, after years of sharing their lives with one another.

    James stirred the fire with a stick, sending sparks dancing upward. “Remember that first retreat?” he asked, his voice contemplative. “When we sat by the fire and talked about who we were trying to be—what it meant to be a man?”

    Luke gave a slow nod, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. Feels like a lifetime ago. We were both carrying so much back then, weren’t we?”

    James leaned back against a log, exhaling deeply. “Still are, in some ways. But I think… I think some of that shame isn’t as heavy anymore. At least, not in the same way.”

    Luke tilted his head, his blue eyes reflecting the firelight. “Yeah. I hear you. I used to feel like I was drowning in it. I thought I had to fight those feelings alone—pretend they didn’t exist. And when I couldn’t, the shame just kept piling on. Especially after my marriage ended. I thought I was a failure as a man and as a Christian.”

    James nodded slowly. “I carried that same shame for years. Especially when it came to my attraction to other men. It was like this deep, unrelenting fear that something was fundamentally broken inside me—that I’d never be enough.”

    Luke’s gaze softened, his expression understanding. “I know. And I remember how hard it was for you to even say those words out loud. But now… here you are, saying it with peace in your voice. That’s God’s work, man.”

    James smiled faintly. “Yeah, He’s done a lot. I’m still learning to trust that I’m seen through His eyes, not through the lens of my past. I used to think God saw me the way I saw myself—ashamed, afraid, disconnected. But slowly, He’s been undoing those lies.”

    Luke poked at the fire with a long branch, sending embers flaring. “Same here. For a long time, I felt like intimacy—real intimacy—was something I’d never have. Not with anyone. I’d built so many walls, even with you at first.”

    “I remember,” James said quietly. “But those walls are coming down. Little by little.”

    Luke chuckled softly. “It’s funny, isn’t it? The world has all these boxes for what relationships are supposed to look like—friendship, romance, family. But what we have… it doesn’t fit any of that neatly. And that used to scare me. But now? I don’t care how the world sees it. I know what this is.”

    “Same here,” James agreed. He leaned forward, the firelight illuminating the quiet conviction in his eyes. “We’ve built something sacred. A covenant, in every way that matters. It’s not always easy, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

    Luke nodded slowly. “It’s like… Jonathan and David, right? The kind of bond where you know, deep down, God brought you together for a purpose. There’s a depth to it that can’t really be explained.”

    “Exactly,” James said with a soft smile. “We’ve been through the fire, and it’s refined us—not broken us. That’s a testament to grace.”

    They sat in companionable silence for a while, the fire crackling softly between them. The warmth of their brotherhood, their shared story, filled the quiet space. James stretched his legs out, letting out a contented sigh.

    “You ever think about how different life would be if we hadn’t met at that retreat?” he asked.

    Luke shook his head. “I try not to. Because honestly? I don’t think I’d have made it through some of the things I’ve faced since then without you. God knew what He was doing when He brought us together.”

    “Yeah,” James murmured, his voice full of quiet gratitude. “He really did.”

    Luke glanced over at him, a faint grin on his face. “So… think we’ll ever fully ‘arrive’? You know, figure it all out?”

    James laughed softly. “Probably not. But maybe that’s the point. We don’t have to have it all figured out. We just have to keep trusting, keep walking the path.”

    “Together,” Luke added, his voice steady.

    “Together,” James echoed.

    They watched the fire slowly die down, the flames shrinking into glowing embers. The night around them deepened, but neither of them felt the weight of loneliness anymore. They had learned to carry their burdens—and each other—with grace.

    As the fire faded to soft, pulsing coals, James leaned back once more and gazed at the stars. Luke remained close, their shared silence a reflection of the peace that had taken root in both of their souls.

    This was brotherhood. This was healing. This was enough.

    (Chapter from a longer story about James and Luke, first story in a trilogy about these two characters. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story.)

  • Giving the Wound to Christ

    Brother, if you’ve seen the wound, named the lie, and know the truth in your head—but still feel the weight of it—this is for you.

    It’s one thing to recognize the wound. It’s another to give it to Christ and let Him redeem it. But what does that actually look like?

    Here’s where it starts:

    1. Stop Trying to Fix It Yourself

    We’ve spent years trying to prove our masculinity—trying to overcome the wound by being “man enough.” But healing doesn’t come through striving. It comes through surrender.

    That means admitting:

    “Lord, I can’t fix this. I’ve believed lies about myself for years, and I need You to replace them with truth.”

    That alone is hard. Because it means trusting His definition of us more than our own feelings, memories, or past experiences.

    2. Bring the Wound Into the Light

    Wounds fester in silence. The enemy wants you to keep it locked inside, to believe it’s just your burden to bear. But when you name it before God—when you bring it to a trusted brother, even—something shifts.

    When Jesus healed, He often asked, “What do you want Me to do for you?” Not because He didn’t know, but because naming it was part of the healing.

    So we bring it into the light:

    “Lord, I have believed I am less of a man. I have felt like I don’t belong. I give this to You—show me the truth.”

    And then, we listen. We let Him speak into it.

    3. Let God Redefine You Through Brotherhood

    Christ redeems our wounds, but He often does it through the hands and words of our brothers.

    When a brother sees you, challenges you, calls you his equal—not out of pity, but because he sees the man God made you to be—that’s healing in motion.

    You don’t become a man by proving yourself. You are a man because God made you one. The more you walk in real covenant, the more that truth sinks in.

    4. Walk in the Truth Before You Fully Feel It

    Here’s the hard part—choosing to believe what God says about you, even before your emotions catch up.

    That means when the old wound whispers, You don’t belong, you answer, That’s a lie. I am a son.

    When you feel like you’re on the outside looking in, you step in anyway. When brotherhood feels like something other men get, you stand in it as your birthright.

    Truth isn’t a feeling. It’s reality. And when we choose to walk in it, the wounds that once defined us start to fade.

    Brother, you don’t have to carry this alone. Christ is already in the work of redeeming it. You just have to give it to Him—again and again, until His truth is more real than the lies ever were.

    And He will finish what He started.

  • Covenant as Spiritual Warfare

    The enemy hates brotherhood.

    He always has.

    Because when men stand alone, they’re easy targets. But when they stand together—really together, in truth and covenant—the enemy has no foothold.

    This fight isn’t just personal. It’s not just about temptation, addiction, or loneliness. It’s about war. And the battlefield is littered with men who never knew they were even in a fight.

    The Enemy’s Strategy: Isolate, Twist, and Distort

    From the beginning, the enemy’s tactics haven’t changed.

    1. He isolates—makes a man feel like he’s the only one who struggles, the only one who feels this way, the only one who doesn’t belong. Isolation is his first and strongest weapon, because a man cut off from real brotherhood is already half-defeated.

    2. He twists—takes something good and bends it. The longing for brotherhood becomes sexualized. The hunger for affirmation becomes codependency. The need for strength turns into pride, or worse, passivity.

    3. He distorts—redefines manhood into something either unattainable or meaningless. Either you’re not enough of a man, or being a man doesn’t even matter. Either way, the result is the same: confusion, doubt, weakness.

    And the worst part? He convinces men that this is just how it is. That there’s no way back. That no one else sees the battle.

    But that’s a lie.

    Brotherhood is a Weapon

    Covenant brotherhood isn’t just nice to have—it’s a weapon forged for war. It defends, it strengthens, it breaks chains.

    • When a brother is isolated, covenant pulls him back. “You’re not alone. I see you. I stand with you.”

    • When a brother believes lies, covenant speaks truth. “That’s not who you are. This is who God says you are.”

    • When a brother is weak, covenant holds him up. “Lean on me. I’ll fight with you until you can fight for yourself.”

    This is why the enemy fights so hard to destroy male friendships, to make brotherhood uncomfortable, to make men second-guess their closeness with each other. Because when men walk in true covenant, chains break. Strongholds fall. And hell loses ground.

    The War is Won Together

    Brother, you were never meant to fight alone. The battles you’ve faced—whether against addiction, fear, loneliness, shame—were never meant to be yours to carry by yourself.

    And the men around you? They’re in the fight too. Some of them just don’t know it yet.

    So if you have covenant brothers, hold them close. If you don’t, find them. Because this isn’t just about friendship—it’s about survival.

    And in the end, when the dust settles, it won’t be the lone warriors still standing.

    It’ll be the men who stood together.

  • Ethan’s Testimony: A Love That Holds The Line

    I spent most of my life looking for love in the wrong places. I didn’t think they were wrong at the time—I thought I was just following what came natural. What the world told me was me.

    But the thing about chasing something to fill the emptiness is that, sooner or later, you start to realize it’s not working. And that’s where I was when I met Ted—running, restless, tired of trying to fit into a mold that never felt right, but scared to admit I had no idea who I was without it.

    At first, I didn’t know what to make of him. A steady, no-nonsense Southern guy who didn’t say much unless it mattered. I wasn’t looking for a mentor. Definitely wasn’t looking for a friend. But somehow, without either of us meaning to, we ended up with something bigger.

    Covenant.

    I didn’t even know what that word meant outside of a church setting. And let’s be real, I wasn’t sure I wanted anything to do with church. But Ted never shoved faith down my throat. He just lived it, breathed it, showed me something real. And somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting it.

    I stopped fighting him, too.

    Because what we have? It’s not friendship in the way the world understands it. It’s deeper than that. It’s the kind of bond that holds the line when everything else pulls.

    People don’t get it. They assume things. Or they try to box it into categories that don’t fit. But the truth is, I spent my whole life thinking love had to look a certain way, had to be a certain way. And I was wrong.

    Love is a man standing beside you when the past comes knocking. It’s knowing that no matter what hits, you’re not standing alone.

    It’s a love that doesn’t ask for anything but gives everything.

    It’s what Ted and I chose.

    And I don’t care who doesn’t understand it.

    Because I know, now, that I wasn’t made to chase. I was made to stand.

    And I’m not standing alone.

    (Fictional testimony from a character in the Ethan and Ted series, contact me if you’d like to read these stories)

  • Ted’s Testimony: A Bond That Holds

    I’ve lived long enough to know that most folks don’t understand the kind of bond Ethan and I have. And I don’t blame ‘em. The world’s lost the language for it.

    Men don’t talk like this much anymore—not about love, not about needing each other. We’re supposed to be independent, self-sufficient. Even in the church, we talk a lot about brotherhood, but we keep it at arm’s length. Nothing too deep, nothing too close.

    I thought I’d made peace with that. I had my wife. My family. When she passed, I figured that part of my life was over. Love like that—covenant love—belonged to marriage, and anything else was just friendship, good but not the same. I settled into singleness, into faith, into the quiet. And then Ethan showed up.

    I didn’t expect him to matter to me. Not the way he does now. At first, I was just helping him find his footing. But somewhere along the way, God did something I wasn’t looking for. He gave me a brother.

    I don’t mean a friend, though Lord knows he’s that too. I mean someone who’s bound to me in a way I can’t shake, don’t want to shake. Someone I’d go to war for. Someone I carry in my prayers every night, not because I feel obligated, but because his burdens are mine now. Because I love him.

    Yeah, I said it. Love.

    That word gets twisted up these days. Either it means romance, or it’s watered down ‘til it don’t mean much at all. But what Ethan and I have—what we chose—it’s the kind of love that Christ calls us to. The kind that says, I’m not leaving. I’m standing with you, come what may.

    And it ain’t always easy. We’re different. He’s restless where I’m steady. He overthinks what I take on faith. And we’ve had our moments where the past—the broken, tangled parts of us—tried to twist what God was building. But grace holds. We hold.

    Covenant ain’t something you stumble into. It’s something you choose.

    Ethan chose me, and I chose him. Not because we needed saving, but because we needed keeping.

    And I thank God every day that He saw fit to give me a brother before I left this earth.

    (Fictional testimony from a character in the Ethan and Ted series, contact me if you’d like to read these stories)