CovenantRoad

Tag: same-sex struggles

  • Stay (Chapter)

    Stay (Chapter)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Jake looked at him now.

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

    Jake didn’t flinch.

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

    Jake stayed quiet, just listening.

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

    The fan clicked as it rotated.

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

    Ezra looked down. “Only with Christ.”

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

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

    They sat in that for a while.

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

    He looked ahead, not at Ezra.

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

    Ezra nodded. “Me either.”

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

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

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

    Jake didn’t move.

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

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

    Turned.

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

    He pulled him in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Room (Edited chapter)

    The Room (Edited chapter)

    The apartment pulsed with heat and smoke, heavy with the scent of beer, dust, and something harder to name. Tara moved with calm confidence. The others—Mike, Sam, Jake—shared space with her the way they always had, their bodies loud with ease, their rhythm practiced, familiar. There was no shame between them, no questions.

    Ezra watched from the edge. He saw the way they moved, the way the energy passed from one to the next like a silent agreement. It wasn’t performance—it was presence. It was the kind of male belonging he had spent a lifetime watching from the outside.

    And now the moment had come.

    Jake looked at him—not pushing, just steady. Tara’s eyes met his, inviting but unpressured. Sam didn’t flinch. He just nodded, the smallest gesture that said, You’re allowed to be here.

    Ezra stepped forward.

    He didn’t know what he was doing—not really. But his body moved like it had remembered something he hadn’t known was lost. He joined them, not for conquest, but for proximity. For permission. For wholeness.

    What happened next wasn’t about the act itself—not for him.

    It was about being witnessed.

    It was about moving through shame without being pushed out. About being held in a space he never thought would welcome him. A space that, for one moment, didn’t ask him to be anything but present.

    When it was over, there was no applause. No jokes. Just breathing.

    Ezra sank onto the edge of the couch, heart thudding, skin warm. Across from him, Jake met his gaze. No smirk. No distance. Just a look that said, You stayed.

    And beside him, Sam nodded once—like he saw the deeper thing that had just happened and had no need to name it.

    Ezra stayed in the quiet, part of the circle now.

    Not erased. Not exposed.

    Just seen.

    (Edited version of a chapter from The Grove. Contact me if you’d like to read the full version or story.)

  • The Stillness Before the Split (chapter)

    The Stillness Before the Split (chapter)

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

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

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

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

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

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

    He didn’t touch the seam.

    Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

    The seam in the wall hummed again.

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

    Not fear. Not even curiosity.

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

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

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

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

    He remembered the dream.

    The tilted living room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Light.

    Ezra exhaled slowly.

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

    But the hum hadn’t stopped.

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

    Like a breath held a little too long.

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

  • The Ridge Run

    The Ridge Run

    The fog was a living thing, curling through the pines like it had a mind of its own, swallowing the dawn and the trail with it. Tucker, 28, ran hard, sneakers pounding the damp earth, his breath sharp in the East Tennessee chill. He’d signed up for the town’s fitness challenge to outrun the dead-end grind of his delivery job, not to play buddy with some ranger. Ben, 32, kept pace, his strides steady, eyes scanning the trees like they whispered secrets. The church had paired them, and Tucker wasn’t thrilled—Ben’s calm, Psalm-quoting vibe felt like a chain on his speed.

    “Keep up, ranger,” Tucker grunted, brushing past a cedar, its bark rough under his palm. The trail, a scar through the ridge, was meant to be a quick 5K, but the fog turned it into a maze. Ben just nodded, his cross necklace catching the faint light, unbothered.

    They were barely two miles in when the mist thickened, blotting out the markers. Tucker cursed, his ankle twisting on a root. Pain shot up his leg, and he stumbled, catching himself on a moss-slick rock. “Great,” he muttered, sinking down, the fog coiling around him. Ben crouched, checking the ankle, his hands gentle but sure, face calm as a still creek.

    “Ain’t broken,” Ben said, voice low, like soothing a spooked colt. “Can you walk?”

    Tucker glared, pride stinging worse than the pain. “I’m fine.” But standing brought a wince, and he slumped back, the fog’s chill creeping in. “This was dumb. Town’s dumb. I’m stuck, delivering to nowhere.”

    Ben sat cross-legged, pulling granola from his pack. “Eat. Then we move.” He handed Tucker a bar, eyes steady. “You’re not stuck. You’re running. That’s something.”

    Tucker snorted but took it, the wrapper crinkling. Silence fell, heavy with mist, and Ben spoke—about the ridge, how he’d found peace patrolling it after losing his brother to addiction. “Wished I’d done more,” Ben said, voice catching, “but I was running my own race.” He touched his cross, a Psalm 23 whisper slipping out.

    Something cracked in Tucker. “I’m running from nothing,” he admitted, staring into the fog. “Job’s a cage, town’s a dead end. Ain’t got no one to run with.” His voice softened, raw, and he looked away, embarrassed.

    Ben didn’t push, just nodded. “You got me now,” he said, simple. “We’ll get out together.”

    Tucker’s throat tightened, but he muttered, “Whatever, ranger.” Ben helped him up, Tucker leaning on his shoulder, the fog a gray wall. Ben mentioned a cave Old Man Holt, the trail hermit, had told him about—a shelter nearby. “Holt says it’s sure,” Ben said, half-smiling. “Crazy coot, but he knows these hills.”

    They hobbled on, Ben’s arm steady, his calm cutting Tucker’s panic. The cave loomed, a dark mouth in the ridge. Inside, the air was damp but warm, and Tucker sank against the wall, ankle throbbing. Ben’s flashlight danced on the rock, and they shared the last granola, the crunch loud. Tucker talked—about his dad bailing at ten, driving empty roads, chasing freedom he couldn’t name.

    Ben listened, his cross glinting. “Freedom’s not out there,” he said, tapping his chest. “It’s here. With Him. With folks who stay.”

    Tucker didn’t answer, but the words sank deep. A rustle at the cave mouth—Old Man Holt, lantern swinging, beard wild. “Y’all lost?” he cackled, eyes kind. “Trail’s this way. Stick together.” He led them out, fog thinning, the church steeple poking through like a promise.

    At the finish line, hours late, crowd gone, Tucker limped, grinning, Ben propping him up. The gas station’s neon buzzed, and Tucker clapped Ben’s shoulder, a silent thanks. “Next run, you’re chasing me,” he said, half-laughing.

    Ben smirked. “Deal.” Sunday, they shared a pew, a nod sealing their pact—not just to run, but to keep showing up, fog or no fog.

  • Not the First (chapter)

    Not the First (chapter)

    The garage was still.

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

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

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

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

    He unfolded the note slow.

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

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

    Something in him exhaled.

    Then:
    You’re still my brother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And somewhere out there, Jonah was still showing up—

    where it lived.

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

  • Where It Settles (chapter)

    Where It Settles (chapter)

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

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

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

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

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

    Jonah glanced over. “What part?”

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

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

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

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

    The silence held.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    They didn’t move for a long time.

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

  • Hollow Places Don’t Echo (chapter)

    Hollow Places Don’t Echo (chapter)

    Caleb wasn’t expecting company.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Most days,” Caleb said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Caleb didn’t answer.

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

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

    Caleb took a slow sip, winced at the heat.

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

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

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

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

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

    Jonah didn’t smile. Just nodded, slow.

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

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

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

    “Once,” he said. “Didn’t last.”

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

    Caleb shrugged. “Wasn’t your fault.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Fire’s Bond (chapter)

    The Fire’s Bond (chapter)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Joel moved aside to let him through.

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

    The flames took hold.

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

    They stood in silence, faces lit orange and gold.

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

    Jed nodded. “It is.”

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

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

    Joel watched the fire.

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

    He looked up.

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

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

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

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

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

    “I’m done runnin’.”

    Jed looked at him.

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

    He stepped forward, closer to the heat.

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

    Jed swallowed hard, throat tight.

    Joel extended a hand.

    Not soft. Not trembling.

    Just strong and open.

    Jed reached out and clasped it.

    Not like a greeting.

    Not like goodbye.

    But like something being bound in place.

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

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

  • The Weight of Care (chapter)

    The Weight of Care (chapter)

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Fence holdin’?” Jed asked.

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

    Jed didn’t press further.

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

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

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

    Joel raised a brow. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “You’re sayin’ I’m not leavin’.”

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

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

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

    Jed didn’t flinch. “I know.”

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

    Jed nodded once. “Yeah.”

    They sat with it.

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

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

    “I’ll fly away…”

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

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

    Jed closed his eyes, the smile still there.

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

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

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

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

    He was tired. But not running.

    Not tonight. 

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

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

  • Weight Carried Quiet (chapter)

    Weight Carried Quiet (chapter)

    The air had turned warm again, the kind that coaxed sweat out slow and steady. By midmorning, the sky sat wide and open, cloudless, a little too bright. Jed was on the roof, hammering shingles where the storm had peeled a strip back near the ridge line. His shirt clung to his back, and the sun pressed on the back of his neck like a warning.

    Down in the pasture, Joel moved along the fence line with a spool of wire and a pair of pliers, checking tension, testing nails. He worked methodically, but the rhythm was off. Not enough to notice if you didn’t know him. Jed did.

    They’d said little over breakfast. Joel had refilled the coffee, Jed had washed the plates. A nod. A passing of the butter. But nothing more.

    Now the hammer struck sharp. Jed winced as he shifted on the sloped boards—his knee catching wrong, then holding. He muttered a prayer under his breath, the kind that didn’t ask for much—just another few hours before the aches got worse.

    He paused, squinting out toward the field. Joel had stopped walking. He stood still, one hand resting on a fence post, the other hanging loose. From this distance, Jed couldn’t see his face. But he could tell something had pressed pause in him.

    Then Joel moved on, shoulders squared like they were carrying more than tools.

    By late afternoon, the air had grown heavy again. The sun felt closer than it ought to be. Jed climbed down from the roof and stretched his back until it cracked. His shirt was soaked through. He wiped his face on the inside of his collar, then turned toward the shed.

    Joel was there, setting the fencing tools back on their hooks. He didn’t look over when Jed approached, but he didn’t leave either.

    “How’s the line?” Jed asked.

    Joel nodded. “Holds.”

    Jed waited, but nothing more came. Just the soft clang of metal settling on wood.

    Then Joel said, quiet, “That last corner near the creek… one of the posts is starting to rot.”

    Jed rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ll pull it tomorrow.”

    Joel nodded again. “Yeah.”

    He turned, walked back toward the house.

    Jed stood there a moment longer, the silence trailing behind him like smoke.

    At supper, the quiet stayed. Not cold. Just weighty.

    They ate side by side at the table—chicken, rice, greens. Joel passed the salt without being asked. Jed refilled his water when Joel wasn’t looking.

    Afterward, Joel cleared the plates and washed them while Jed wiped down the counters. 

    Jed caught himself watching the way Joel dried his hands—slow, like every movement meant something. Like his thoughts were someplace else.

    Later, with the porch light off and the night settled around them, Jed stepped outside for a final check on the animals. A faint breeze stirred through the grass. He rounded the barn and saw the gate open—just wide enough for a person.

    He moved closer.

    The gate was fine. Still latched. Nothing loose. But there, set square on the porch rail, was Joel’s knife.

    Clean. Closed. Resting easy on the weathered wood.

    Jed picked it up, turning it once in his hand. The same blade Joel had carried since he arrived. Kept in his back pocket. Used for hay bales, twine, and once for slicing a loaf of bread when they forgot the kitchen knife at lunch.

    It wasn’t left by accident. Joel didn’t misplace things.

    Jed held it a moment longer. Then turned, stepped into the house, and down the hall. The weight of it felt familiar—but what Joel had laid down wasn’t just a tool. It was trust. A kind of surrender. Jed thought of the cedar plank in the shed. Maybe it was time to start carving something that could hold what they were beginning to give each other.

    Joel’s room was quiet. Door open a few inches.

    Jed pushed it gently, crossed to the desk by the window, and set the knife down where the morning light would hit it.

    He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

    Back in his own room, Jed pulled off his shirt and sank onto the edge of the bed. The window was cracked, letting in the hush of crickets and the low rustle of wind through high grass. He sat with his elbows on his knees, head down.

    Psalm 51 came again.

    Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean.

    The same verse, still asking to be meant deeper.

    He reached for the Bible. Didn’t open it. Just rested his hand on the cover and sat there, letting the quiet speak for both of them.

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

  • Storm Front (chapter)

    Storm Front (chapter)

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

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

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

    Behind him, the screen door creaked.

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

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

    His voice was quiet—not cautious, just tired.

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

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

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

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

    He found himself whispering, more reflex than thought.

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

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

    He glanced down.

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

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

    The storm hadn’t just torn shingles and rails.

    It had stirred something loose beneath the surface.

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

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

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

    Then he hummed—soft, unsure.

    “I’ll… fly away…”

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

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

    Steam curled from their mugs. Neither reached for words.

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

    Caleb Ward.

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

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

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

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

    “Mail?” he asked, not looking up.

    Jed paused. “Nothin’ worth readin’.”

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

    The Bible stayed shut on the table between them.

    The storm hadn’t broken them. Not yet.

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

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

  • Forgiveness in the Dust

    Forgiveness in the Dust

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Jed squinted. “That my old flannel?”

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

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

    “Thanks,” he said. 

    Joel nodded once, started to turn—then paused.

    “You still want me here?”

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

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

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

    “Put that in the house, will you?”

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

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

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

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

    That was all.

    But it was enough to start again.

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

  • More Than Regret

    More Than Regret

    Some mornings don’t begin. They just unfold, slow and unspoken.

    The sun was barely up when Jed swung the barn door open. Dew clung thick on the grass, softening the crunch of his boots. He didn’t slam the gate shut, didn’t whistle like he sometimes did when the air was light. Just moved—methodical, muted.

    The feed bags were heavier than usual. Or maybe he was just tired.

    Back at the house, the kitchen stayed dark. Joel’s boots sat by the door, his mug still in the dish rack, clean and dry. Jed didn’t look at the hallway. Didn’t listen for footsteps.

    He cracked the screen door just enough to let in breeze and sat at the table with his coffee, staring out at the yard like it might offer something he could hold onto.

    Upstairs, Joel was awake.

    Had been for a while.

    He lay still in the narrow bed, one arm draped across his forehead, eyes open but not seeing. The air in the room was warm, heavy with the scent of soap and sweat and something else they didn’t have a name for yet.

    He hadn’t dreamed. Just floated all night, half-anchored to the memory of the creek, of skin and breath and the way Jed’s hand had pressed to his back like it was asking a question and giving an answer all at once.

    He finally rose slow, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, fingers lingering on the hem like maybe it could settle something.

    When he stepped into the kitchen, Jed didn’t turn.

    Joel poured his coffee in silence.

    They sat across from each other, the table wide enough to feel like a fence. The clock ticked. A tractor droned somewhere off in the distance.

    “I fed the chickens already,” Jed said, voice even.

    Joel nodded. “Appreciate it.”

    Joel almost said more—You alright? or Do we need to talk?—but the words stayed lodged behind his teeth, too heavy to push loose. He sipped his coffee instead, like maybe that could quiet the questions.

    More silence. But it wasn’t angry.
    Just… unsure.

    Jed stared at his mug like it had something written inside it. Then: “I didn’t sleep.”

    Joel’s throat tightened. “Me neither.”

    Another long pause.

    “I don’t regret you,” Jed said, finally. “Just—don’t know what to do with what happened.”

    Joel looked up. His voice was soft but steady. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t matter. But I also don’t want it to define us.”

    Jed’s jaw worked. “It already does.”

    “Then maybe we choose how.”

    A bird hit the feeder outside, scattering seed. The sound startled them both a little—two grown men, shaken by a sparrow.

    Jed stood and rinsed his cup. Joel did the same. They didn’t talk about what came next.

    They just went back to work.

    The day wore on like a coat that didn’t quite fit—too heavy, too tight in the wrong places.

    But it was still theirs to wear.

    (Chapter from First Light in the Jed and Joel series)

  • The Ache Beneath the Quiet (chapter)

    The Ache Beneath the Quiet (chapter)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Joel waited. Jed looked down at his hands.

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

    Joel nodded. “That sounds like you.”

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

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

    Jed blinked. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Jed shook his head but didn’t argue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And that was enough for now.

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

  • A New Kind of Fire (chapter)

    A New Kind of Fire (chapter)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    They sat with that.

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

    Tyler’s voice was soft. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

    And there it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    A breeze stirred. A log popped.

    Neither of them moved to let go.

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

    Tyler nodded. “Yeah. More than alright.”

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

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

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

    Tyler whispered, “Amen.”

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

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

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

    The fire kept burning.

    But it was a new kind of fire now.

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

  • Late-Night Drive (chapter)

    Late-Night Drive (chapter)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Clyde swallowed hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And for once, neither tried to fix it.

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

  • The Storm and the Shelter (chapter)

    The Storm and the Shelter (chapter)

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Neither spoke for a while.

    The thunder moved closer.

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

    Clyde looked over. “Me too.”

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

    Clyde nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

    The silence returned, but it wasn’t empty.

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

    Tyler didn’t move. Just listened.

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

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

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

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

    Tyler held his gaze, warm and unswerving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    They didn’t speak after that.

    Just sat together as the storm ran its course.

    Two men under one roof, shoulder to shoulder.

    Choosing peace.

    Choosing light.

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

  • Spring Thaw (chapter)

    Spring Thaw (chapter)

    The thaw came slow that year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    He let it stay.

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

    Clyde nodded once. “Different kind of quiet.”

    “You good with it?” Tyler asked.

    A beat passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And Clyde stayed where he was.

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

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

    The thaw had started.

    And neither of them moved to hurry it.

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

  • The Lantern’s Keeper

    The Lantern’s Keeper

    The lighthouse leaned into the wind, its white paint flaking like old skin. Sam climbed the spiral stairs, a jug of oil sloshing in his grip, the echo of his boots sharp against the damp walls. Lucas trailed behind, a kerosene lamp swinging from his hand, its light dancing across the rust-streaked iron. The air smelled of salt and decay, a stubborn scent baked into this outpost on the edge of nowhere.

    “Running low,” Sam said, tipping the jug into the lantern’s reservoir at the top. Oil glugged out, dark and slow.

    Lucas set his lamp on the ledge, peering at the gauge. “Enough for tonight.”

    They’d been tending the place for months, ever since Sam’s dad died and left him the keys. Lucas had shown up the next morning, duffel slung over his shoulder, no explanation—just a nod and a decision to stay. Now, at twenty-six and twenty-seven, they were keepers of a light nobody else cared to claim.

    Sam struck a match, the hiss loud in the tight space. He lit the wick, and the lantern flared, throwing a beam into the fog beyond the glass. Lucas leaned against the railing, watching it carve through the dark. Words were spare up here. They didn’t need many.

    “Storm’s coming,” Lucas said, squinting at the horizon. “Feel it in the air.”

    “Always does,” Sam replied, wiping his hands on his jeans. He dropped onto the stool by the controls—his dad’s old perch—while Lucas stayed upright, arms crossed, a quiet shadow.

    They’d been friends since they were kids, fishing off the pier with Sam’s dad, splitting sandwiches from Lucas’s mom. Life had yanked them apart for a stretch—Sam to a warehouse, Lucas to odd jobs up the coast—but the lighthouse stitched them back together. Sam couldn’t face it alone, and Lucas wouldn’t let him try.

    “Ever think of bailing?” Sam asked, voice barely above the lantern’s hum.

    Lucas snorted. “To where?”

    “Somewhere that doesn’t smell like wet metal.” Sam rubbed his neck, staring at the flame. “This gig’s a grind.”

    “You’re here,” Lucas said, shrugging. “So I am.”

    Sam’s lips twitched—not a full smile, but close. He let it drop. Lucas didn’t waste breath on grand speeches, but he’d stuck around—hauled oil, patched leaks, weathered storms. That was enough.

    The fog thickened, swallowing the beam until it was a faint thread. Sam dug a thermos from his bag, pouring coffee into two chipped mugs. He slid one to Lucas, who took it with a grunt. They drank in silence, the warmth cutting through the chill, until Lucas reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, weathered book—dog-eared, spine cracked.

    “Got something,” he said, flipping it open.

    Sam raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

    Lucas cleared his throat, voice rough but steady. “‘Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor. If either falls down, one can help the other up.’” He paused, glancing at Sam. “Ecclesiastes. Figured it fits.”

    Sam leaned back, mug cradled in his hands. “You’re getting soft.”

    “Says you.” Lucas smirked, but he kept reading, voice low against the wind. “‘Pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.’” He closed the book, tucking it away. “Dad used to read that one. Stuck with me.”

    Sam nodded, slow. “Mine said the light was a promise—keep it going, someone makes it home.”

    “Same deal, maybe,” Lucas said, sipping his coffee.

    “Maybe.” Sam stared at the lantern, its glow steady despite the gusts rattling the glass. “Feels like shouting into nothing some nights.”

    Lucas set his mug down, stepping to the lantern to tweak the wick. The flame surged, pushing back the dark a fraction more. “Someone’s out there. They’ll see it.”

    Sam watched him work—sure, unhurried. Lucas had been there since day one, no hesitation, like the lighthouse was his burden too. Sam hadn’t asked him to stay past that first night. He just did.

    The storm hit an hour later, wind howling through the cracks. The lantern flickered, and they moved in tandem—Sam wiping the lens with a rag, Lucas checking the fuel line. When it steadied, they sank back, Sam unrolling a sleeping bag by the wall, Lucas grabbing his from the corner.

    “Read me something else,” Sam said, settling in. “Keeps the noise out.”

    Lucas arched a brow but fished the book out again, flipping pages by the lantern’s light. “‘Carry each other’s burdens,’” he started, voice softening, “‘and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.’ Galatians. Short one.”

    Sam closed his eyes, the words settling over him like the warmth of the coffee. “Fits too.”

    “Thought so.” Lucas shut the book, stretching out on his own bag. “Wake me if it quits.”

    “Always do,” Sam murmured.

    The lantern hummed, a faint pulse in the dark. Sam drifted, the storm’s roar dulled by Lucas’s voice still echoing in his head. He thought of his dad, the light, the way Lucas had woven himself into both without a fuss. Not brothers by blood, but by something tougher—something that held.

    “Worth it?” Lucas asked, half-asleep across the room.

    “Yeah,” Sam said, not opening his eyes. “You?”

    “Yep.” Lucas shifted, the rustle of his bag fading. “Night.”

    “Night.”

    The wind screamed, but the light burned on. They slept, two keepers bound by a tower and a quiet pact, reading each other through the dark.

  • The Cut

    The Cut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Rooftop Pact

    The Rooftop Pact

    The city buzzed below, a tangle of headlights and horns that never quit. Up on the roof, it was quieter—just the hum of a vent and the occasional pigeon flapping off into the dark. Ethan leaned against the ledge, his hoodie pulled tight against the wind. Beside him, Jay sprawled on an old lawn chair they’d dragged up months ago, its plastic creaking under his weight. The building was a crumbling six-story walk-up, but this spot was theirs.

    “Think it’ll rain?” Ethan asked, squinting at the gray smear of clouds.

    “Hope so,” Jay said, tipping his head back. “Wash some of this noise away.”

    Ethan smirked, kicking a pebble across the tarred surface. It skittered into a puddle from last night’s drizzle. They’d been coming up here since they moved in—Ethan after dropping out of college, Jay after his barista gig became his only plan. Two years of sharing a shoebox apartment, splitting rent and ramen, had turned into something neither bothered to name.

    Jay pulled a beat-up journal from his jacket, flipping it open. “Wrote something dumb last night.”

    “Read it,” Ethan said, not looking over. He didn’t need to. Jay’s voice was enough.

    Jay cleared his throat, dramatic-like. “‘Sky’s a mess, head’s worse. But we’re here, so screw it.’” He paused, grinning. “Poetry, right?”

    “Deep,” Ethan deadpanned, but his lips twitched. “You’re a regular Shakespeare.”

    “Shut up.” Jay chucked the journal at him. Ethan caught it one-handed, flipping through pages scrawled with half-thoughts and doodles—their lives in smudged ink. He stopped at a line from weeks back: We’re enough for each other, man. Jesus said so. Jay had scratched it out, then rewritten it darker.

    “You believe that?” Ethan asked, voice low.

    Jay shrugged, staring at the skyline. “Some days.”

    Ethan nodded, handing the journal back. Some days was enough.

    They’d met at a bus stop three years ago, both soaked from a storm, arguing over whose headphones were louder. Ethan was nineteen then, all sharp edges and no direction. Jay was twenty, cocky but steady, the kind of guy who’d share his last dollar without asking why you needed it. Now, at twenty-two and twenty-three, they were still a mess—just a mess together.

    “Boss cut my hours again,” Ethan said, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Says I’m ‘unmotivated.’”

    “You are,” Jay said, grinning when Ethan glared. “Kidding. You’ll bounce back.”

    Ethan didn’t answer, just stared at the lights flickering below. He’d dropped out after one semester, burned out on lectures and loans. Now he stocked shelves at a corner store, each shift a reminder he was going nowhere. Jay, at least, had the coffee shop—low pay, but he liked the rhythm. Ethan envied that, though he’d never say it.

    “Got an interview tomorrow,” Jay said, breaking the silence. “That new place by the park. Better tips, maybe.”

    “Good for you,” Ethan muttered, then winced at how bitter it sounded. “I mean it.”

    “I know.” Jay sat up, the chair groaning. “If I get it, I’ll cover rent ‘til you’re solid.”

    Ethan shook his head. “Don’t need charity.”

    “Not charity, dumbass. It’s us.” Jay’s tone was firm, like he’d already decided. Ethan didn’t argue. He never won those fights.

    The wind picked up, tugging at their clothes. Ethan pulled his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them. “Ever feel like you’re just… stuck?”

    Jay didn’t answer right away. He stood, stretching, then walked to the ledge beside Ethan. “Yeah. But then I come up here. You’re here. It’s not so bad.”

    Ethan looked up, meeting Jay’s eyes—steady, like always. He wanted to say something smart, brush it off, but the words stuck. Instead, he nodded, and Jay clapped a hand on his shoulder, leaving it there a beat too long.

    That night, Ethan crashed on the couch, too wired to sleep. Jay’s snores drifted from the bedroom, a sound Ethan could set a clock to. He thought about the roof, the way Jay never pushed, just stayed. It wasn’t a fix for the mess in his head, but it was something.

    Two days later, it all unraveled. Ethan came home from a shift—late, because the bus broke down—to find a note taped to their door. Rent’s due. Pay up or get out. They’d been late before, but this time the landlord meant it. Ethan’s stomach sank. His hours were cut, Jay’s interview hadn’t panned out yet, and their savings were a jar of quarters on the counter.

    He didn’t tell Jay when he got home. Just grabbed a soda and headed for the roof. Jay followed, no questions, journal tucked under his arm. They settled into their spots—Ethan on the ledge, Jay in the chair—like nothing was wrong.

    “Rough day?” Jay asked, flipping pages.

    Ethan popped the can, the hiss loud in the quiet. “You could say that.”

    “Spill.”

    “Landlord’s done. We’re out if we don’t pay by Friday.” Ethan kept his eyes on the city, waiting for Jay to freak.

    Jay didn’t. He scribbled something in the journal, then tore the page out and handed it over. Ethan took it, frowning. We’ll figure it out. Always do.

    “You’re nuts,” Ethan said, but he folded the paper into his pocket.

    “Probably.” Jay leaned back, hands behind his head. “Got a shift tomorrow. I’ll hustle. You?”

    “Same.” Ethan paused, then added, “Thanks.”

    Jay waved it off, but his grin said he got it.

    They stayed up there ‘til the stars peeked through, talking about nothing—old movies, dumb customers, the pigeon that kept stealing Jay’s fries. When the cold drove them inside, Ethan felt lighter, like the weight wasn’t all his anymore.

    Friday came fast. Jay picked up an extra shift; Ethan pawned a watch he didn’t need. They scraped the rent together, barely, and slid it under the landlord’s door with thirty minutes to spare. Back on the roof that night, exhausted, they didn’t say much. Jay scribbled in his journal, Ethan traced cracks in the ledge with his finger.

    “We’re good,” Jay said finally, closing the book.

    “Yeah,” Ethan agreed, and he meant it.

    The city kept buzzing below, but up here, it was just them—two guys against the grind, holding on. Not a plan, not a fix, just a pact. And for now, it held.

  • Testing Boundaries (Excerpt)

    Testing Boundaries (Excerpt)

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

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

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

    Ethan scoffed lightly. “That easy, huh?”

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

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

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

    Ethan frowned.

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

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

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

    Ethan raised an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Forge

    The Forge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Understanding the Deep Ache for Brotherhood

    Understanding the Deep Ache for Brotherhood

    Let’s talk about the ache.

    It’s not loud. It doesn’t usually show up in small groups or sermons. But it’s there—sitting behind the ribcage like something unfinished. The longing for a brother—not just a buddy, but someone who sees you. Someone who knows your wiring, your story, and doesn’t flinch. A man you could walk with in honesty and depth, and never feel like too much.

    I know that ache well. Seems like the more “connected” we become via the Internet, social media, Zoom calls, etc., the less truly connected, in the day to day sense, we can be.

    I’ve got brothers I can talk to—guys I can reach out to when it gets hard. Some of them know the deepest parts of my story. But none of them live close by. None I can really do life with day in and day out. That kind of shoulder-to-shoulder bond—the one you can lean on without explaining it every time—it’s not here right now. And I feel that absence.

    So this post? It’s not just for you. It’s for me too.

    Because this ache, this deep desire for covenant brotherhood, isn’t some fringe longing. It’s not about being needy or codependent. It’s part of God’s design. We were made for this kind of connection. Jesus had it. David and Jonathan had it. It’s the kind of friendship that’s forged, not found. It’s rooted in Christ, sharpened by time, and held together by grace.

    But what if you don’t have it?

    That’s where a lot of us live. In the in-between. Wanting it so deeply it hurts, but not knowing how to find it—or what to do with ourselves while we wait.

    And in that waiting, a lot can stir.

    Old habits. Old fantasies. I’ve found myself drawn toward imagined scenarios—emotional, sometimes even erotic. Longings that twist just enough to offer the illusion of being seen, known, held.

    But it never lasts.

    It flares up, then fades. And afterward, the ache is sharper. The loneliness deeper. The illusion of closeness can never hold the weight of what I really need.

    Still, I understand why the pull is there. Because at its core, this longing isn’t wrong. It’s holy ground that’s been stepped on by the world, by the enemy, by the wounds of our past. The desire to be known, loved, and not alone—it mirrors the very heart of God.

    So what do we do with the ache when the brother hasn’t come?

    We bring it to Jesus.

    Not the polished version. The real one. The messy ache. The unmet need. The quiet grief of another day without that kind of companionship. We lay it down—again and again—at the only altar that can hold the weight of our longings.

    Jesus isn’t afraid of it. He’s not rolling His eyes. He knows this ache. He felt it too—misunderstood, unseen, carrying love that had nowhere to land.

    And He’s not telling us to pretend it’s fine. He’s inviting us to trust that He’s not wasting the waiting.

    See, this isn’t about giving up on brotherhood. It’s about surrendering the form we think it has to take. It’s letting Jesus be enough in the meantime. Because He’s doing something in us while we wait. Something sacred. Something strong.

    And I have to believe that the ache, when surrendered, becomes the very soil where brotherhood can take root.

    So I’m still praying. Still hoping. Still staying open. Saying yes to the small invitations—firepit gatherings, book studies, texts that open doors. Some of those don’t lead anywhere obvious. But some might. Even if they don’t, they keep my heart soft. And that matters.

    And in the waiting, I hold onto this: I’m not forgotten. You’re not forgotten. We’re not broken for wanting something Jesus Himself modeled.

    I don’t have all the answers. But I know this much: chasing fantasy won’t fill it. Neither will stuffing it down. The way forward is surrender. Not because the ache will vanish—but because in Christ, it doesn’t own you anymore.

    And if you’re feeling that ache today too—man, I’m with you.

    Let’s keep showing up. Keep trusting. Keep bringing our need to the only One who truly sees.

    He’s not going anywhere.

    And I don’t think He’ll leave us in this ache forever.

  • The Altar of Surrender

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Weight and the Wonder (chapter)

    The Weight and the Wonder (chapter)

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

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

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

    He didn’t ask how Clyde slept.

    Clyde didn’t ask him to sit.

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

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

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

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

    Tyler nodded, taking a sip. “Thanks.”

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

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

    Tyler smiled softly. “Want a hand?”

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

    “I am.”

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

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

    Not afraid.

    Not ashamed.

    Just… searching. Remembering.

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

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

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

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

    Tyler turned to look at him. “Same.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “I do.”

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

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

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

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

    The words settled between them like an anchor.

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

    Something had shifted.

    Not broken.

    Not lost.

    Just changed.

    And neither of them ran from it.

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

  • When the Fire Settled (edited chapter)

    When the Fire Settled (edited chapter)

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

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

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

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

    Tyler glanced at him. “Sometimes. Yeah.”

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

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

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

    Just that.

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

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

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

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

    ….

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

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

    Neither spoke. There was too much to say.

    And not enough language to say it.

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

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

  • Something Solid (chapter)

    Something Solid (chapter)

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

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

    Neither had said much for a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Sounds about right.”

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

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

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

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

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

  • 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)