CovenantRoad

Tag: same-sex struggles

  • Amos and Jonah (Part 3)

    Amos and Jonah (Part 3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    (Continued in Part 4)

  • Amos and Jonah (Part 2)

    Amos and Jonah (Part 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Amos and Jonah (Part 1)

    Amos and Jonah (Part 1)

    The sun was dipping low over the rolling fields of eastern Kentucky, painting the sky with streaks of orange and violet. The air carried the earthy scent of freshly turned soil and the faint sweetness of clover. Two men stood at the edge of a weathered wooden fence, their boots caked with the red clay of the land they’d worked since dawn. Amos, broad-shouldered and sun-burned, leaned against a post, his calloused hands resting on the splintered wood. Beside him stood Jonah, leaner, with sharp cheekbones and eyes like the still waters of a pond at dusk. They were quiet for a moment, watching the last of the cattle amble toward the barn, their breaths visible in the cooling air.

    Amos broke the silence, his voice low and gravelly. “Good day’s work. Reckon the Lord’s pleased with hands that don’t idle.”

    Jonah nodded, pulling off his battered hat and running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Aye. Keeps the mind steady too. Idle hands, idle thoughts—ain’t no good comes from that.”

    They’d been working this land together for nigh on five years now, ever since Jonah had shown up at Amos’s doorstep, a drifter with a Bible tucked under his arm and a hunger for purpose. Amos had been alone then, his folks long gone, the farm too big for one man. Something about Jonah—his quiet strength, his unshakable faith—had made Amos offer him a place to stay. And stay he did. They’d built a life here, side by side, tilling the earth, raising livestock, and praying under the same roof each night.

    But there was something else too, something unspoken that lingered in the spaces between their words and glances. It had started small—a brush of hands when passing a tool, a lingering look across the supper table, the way Jonah’s laugh sent a warmth through Amos’s chest he couldn’t quite name. And for Jonah, it was Amos’s steady presence, the way he’d rest a hand on Jonah’s shoulder after a long day, firm and grounding, that stirred something deep within him. They both felt it, this pull, this ache. And they both knew it wasn’t simple.

    That night, after supper, they sat by the hearth in the small farmhouse. The fire crackled, casting shadows on the rough-hewn walls. Jonah had his Bible open on his lap, reading aloud from Proverbs, his voice steady and sure. Amos listened, whittling a piece of cedar with his pocketknife, the scent of the wood mixing with the smoke. When Jonah finished, he closed the book and set it aside, his eyes drifting to Amos.

    “You ever think about it?” Jonah asked, his tone careful, like he was stepping onto thin ice.

    Amos’s knife paused mid-stroke. He didn’t look up. “Think about what?”

    Jonah shifted in his chair, the floorboards creaking beneath him. “You know what I mean. Us. This… thing we don’t talk about.”

    The room went still, save for the pop of a log in the fire. Amos set the cedar and knife down on the table beside him, his hands resting on his knees. He met Jonah’s gaze, and there it was—the weight of it, the truth they’d both been circling like hawks over a field.

    “Yeah,” Amos said finally, his voice rough. “I think about it. More’n I should, maybe.”

    Jonah leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers lacing together. “Me too. Ain’t easy, is it? Feelin’ somethin’ strong as this and knowin’ it don’t fit the way we’re meant to walk.”

    Amos nodded slow, his jaw tight. “Scripture’s clear. God’s design—it’s man and wife, family, fruitful land. Ain’t no room in that for… whatever this is.”

    “But it’s real,” Jonah said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I feel it when you’re near me, Amos. Like my soul’s tethered to yours. Ain’t lust, not all of it. It’s deeper. Like you’re kin, but more.”

    Amos stood abruptly, pacing to the window. He stared out at the dark fields, his broad frame silhouetted against the glass. “I know it,” he said, his back to Jonah. “I feel it too. Reckon I’d die for you, Jonah.”

    (Continued in Part 2)

  • Reframing the Wild Heart of a Man

    Reframing the Wild Heart of a Man

    John Eldredge, in Wild at Heart, famously wrote that the core desires of a man’s heart are a battle to fight, an adventure to live, and a beauty to rescue. For a lot of men, that rings true. But for others—especially those who grew up feeling like outsiders to the rough-and-tumble world of masculine ideals—it can feel like a language that doesn’t quite fit.

    If you didn’t grow up throwing punches or chasing danger, does that mean you’re not fully a man? If your deepest longing isn’t to rescue a damsel in distress, are you missing something? Of course not. The heart of what Eldredge is saying is real—but it’s bigger than the way it’s often framed.

    Because at the core, every man is wired for something deeper.

    A Purpose to Stand For

    Not every man is built for battle in the traditional sense. But every man is called to stand—to protect, to uphold, to fight for what is right. Some men do this with their hands, others with their words, others by simply refusing to back down when life gets hard.

    Your battle might not be against flesh and blood, but against fear, addiction, or the lies that have tried to steal your identity. Maybe it’s the battle to stay faithful when the world tells you to compromise. Maybe it’s the fight to love well when past wounds tell you to close off.

    The fight is real, and it’s already at your doorstep.

    A Journey to Walk

    Some men crave risk and adrenaline. Others crave depth and meaning. But every man is on a journey, whether he realizes it or not.

    God calls us forward. He doesn’t let us stay stagnant. The life of faith is an unfolding road, and sometimes the biggest adventure isn’t in climbing mountains—it’s in stepping into who He made us to be, even when it’s terrifying.

    For some, the adventure is in action. For others, it’s in obedience. For all of us, it takes courage to keep walking when we don’t know what’s ahead.

    A Soul to Love

    This one can feel complicated, especially for men who don’t relate to the image of a knight rescuing a princess. But what if it’s not just about that?

    Every man is called to love. To sacrifice. To give of himself in a way that brings life. That might be for a wife and children, but it might also be for his brothers, his church, his people.

    Love is woven into us—not just romantic love, but the deep, fierce love that says I will stand by you. I will fight for you. I will protect what God has entrusted to me.

    This is the kind of love Christ modeled—the love that lays itself down, not to possess, but to serve. And that is a call no man is exempt from.

    The Question Isn’t “Do I Fit?”—The Question Is “What Has God Placed in Me?”

    The framework Eldredge laid out isn’t wrong—it’s just incomplete.

    The deepest calling of a man’s heart isn’t just about battle, adventure, or romance. It’s about purpose, journey, and love—the unique ways God has written strength into every man’s soul.

    Some men live that out by charging ahead. Others live it out by standing steady. Some fight with their fists, others with their prayers, others by never giving up on the ones they love.

    Whatever it looks like, it’s in you. It’s always been in you.

    The world doesn’t get to define your masculinity. God already has.

    And when you step into that—fully, freely, without comparison or fear—you’ll find you’re already living the life you were made for.

  • More Than Words

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

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

    For a long time, none of them spoke.

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

    Ethan glanced up.

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

    Ethan’s lips quirked. “No.”

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

    Tyler looked over, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

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

    Clyde was quiet, absorbing that.

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

    The fire crackled, sending sparks spiraling into the dark.

    Clyde exhaled slowly. “You really believe that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Silence stretched again. The wind stirred through the trees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Healing Father Wounds Through Faith

    Healing Father Wounds Through Faith

    The fire crackled low, flames licking at the edges of the stacked wood. A cool breeze carried the smoke upward, disappearing into the night sky. Jake sat hunched forward on the log, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the embers. Across from him, Sam leaned back, one boot resting on the other knee, watching but not pushing.

    They’d been sitting there a while.

    Jake finally exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t even know where to start.”

    Sam poked at the fire with a stick. “Start with the lie.”

    Jake gave him a sideways glance. “What?”

    “The lie,” Sam repeated. “The one that’s got its claws in you the deepest. Say it out loud.”

    Jake swallowed hard. The words felt dangerous, like saying them might make them more real. He hesitated, then finally muttered, “I’m not like other men.”

    Sam nodded, unshaken. “That’s a common one.”

    Jake scoffed. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

    “It’s supposed to tell you the truth,” Sam said. “You’re not alone in that feeling. But it’s still a lie.”

    Jake leaned forward again, rubbing his hands together. “Is it, though? I mean, look at me. I never fit in with guys growing up. Always felt different. Still do. I don’t think I’m wired like them.”

    Sam tossed the stick into the fire. “Different doesn’t mean deficient. You were made a man. That’s not something you feel your way into—it’s something you already are.”

    Jake clenched his jaw. “Then why do I feel like something’s missing?”

    Sam’s voice was steady. “Because you were meant to be sharpened by other men. Not as something you need to possess, but as something to grow alongside.” He let the words settle before continuing. “You think you need another man to complete you. But you don’t. Christ already made you whole.”

    Jake’s throat tightened. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

    Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. “Feelings aren’t the final word, brother. Truth is. And the truth is, you lack nothing.”

    Jake swallowed hard. “My dad never made me feel that way. He barely looked at me half the time.”

    Sam nodded, his voice softening. “I get that. When a father doesn’t affirm his son, it leaves a gap. A hunger. But your dad’s failure doesn’t get the final say on who you are.” He pointed at Jake’s chest. “Your Father in Heaven already called you His son. Already gave you what your earthly dad didn’t. And He doesn’t hold back His love.”

    Jake looked down, his fingers curling into fists. “Then why do I still crave it? Why does it hit me so hard when a guy sees me—really sees me?”

    Sam let out a slow breath. “Because deep down, you were made for brotherhood. For real, deep, non-sexual connection with other men. But the enemy took that God-given longing and twisted it, made it feel like something else.”

    Jake’s jaw clenched. “So what am I supposed to do? Just ignore it?”

    “No,” Sam said firmly. “You name it. You stop running from it. And you let God untangle what the enemy twisted. You step into real brotherhood—not in secrecy, not in shame, but in the light.”

    Jake looked at him then, really looked. “And that works?”

    Sam held his gaze, then reached over, clapping a firm hand on Jake’s shoulder before sliding his arm around his back in a solid, steady grip. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

    The warmth of that touch cut through the cold night air—solid, grounding, real. Jake didn’t pull away. He let himself feel it, the strength of another man standing with him, not against him.

    The fire popped, sending sparks into the night. Jake let the words sink in, the truth pushing against years of lies.

    He wasn’t there yet. Not fully. But for the first time, he believed it might be possible.

    And for now, that was enough.

    Themes: Christian man struggling with same-sex attraction, Healing father wounds through Christ,  What does the Bible say about masculinity? Healing from rejection as a man

  • The Father’s Heart for His Sons

    Beloved sons,

    I, the Lord your God, speak to you from the heavens, where I see each of you clearly, without the veils of human judgment or the shadows of imperfection. You are all My sons, crafted in My image, each one of you a testament to My love and creativity. From the moment I breathed life into Adam, I established a brotherhood amongst all men—a sacred bond, deeper than blood, meant to strengthen and uphold each of you in your walk with Me.

    Hear Me now, for I say to you, every man, regardless of his stature, whether he stands tall or not; whether his frame is broad or slender; whether his skin is dark, light, or any shade in between; you are all equally My sons. Age does not diminish your worth in My eyes; from the youngest boy to the eldest man, you are precious to Me. The external signs of what society might call masculinity do not define you. Whether you are bold and outspoken or quiet and reflective, you are all equally men in My kingdom.

    The size of your body or the depth of your voice does not measure your manhood; these are but fleeting aspects of your earthly vessel. Nor does your physical strength or athletic prowess dictate your value, for I look at the heart, not the muscle. My love for you does not waver if you are disabled or if your body does not conform to what the world deems perfect. You are each a unique expression of My love, and I cherish you just as you are.

    In marriage, singleness, or covenant brotherhood, you are each called to serve Me in your unique way. Those who are married, those who remain single for the Kingdom, and those who forge brotherhood covenants in My name all share in the same mission—to love, to lead, and to live in righteousness. Your worth does not come from your marital status, but from your faithfulness to Me and your willingness to walk in the bond of brotherhood I have ordained.

    Regarding the inclinations of your heart, understand that My love for you is unwavering, but I call you to live according to My teachings. Your identity as My sons is not defined by where your attractions lie, but by your commitment to live a life that honors Me. I encourage you to seek purity in your thoughts and actions, to walk in My ways which lead to life and peace.

    Let not the world’s judgments or its shallow standards of manhood sway you. You are all part of a greater brotherhood, a covenant that reflects My love—a bond meant to support, uplift, and call each other to holiness. Stand firm together, for where one stumbles, another is there to lift him up. Where one is weary, another is there to strengthen him. This is My design, that no man should walk alone. (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10)

    Remember, My sons, you are not defined by what you see in the mirror or what others see in you, but by what I see in your hearts. Stand tall in this truth, for in My eyes, you are all equally men, equally loved, equally called into a brotherhood that reflects My Kingdom. Walk in this knowledge, live in this love, and let your bond as brothers be a beacon of My grace and truth in the world.

    With eternal love,
    Your Father in Heaven

    (This is not a direct prophecy or revelation, but a reflection of what God has spoken through Scripture—truths He has already declared about men, our identity, and our brotherhood.)

  • Covenant Formation

    Covenant Formation

    (Chapter Excerpt)

    Days later, Ethan stood in Ted’s living room, lamplight warming the space. Rachel sat by the fireplace, eyes bright with pride. Leo leaned against the wall, arms crossed but attentive. Dale was there—quiet, present, a nod of respect earned. An old Bible lay open on the coffee table, a silent witness.

    Ted faced Ethan, a paper in hand. “We ain’t here for a show,” he said, voice steady. “This is just puttin’ words to what’s already true.”

    He unfolded it, glancing at Ethan. “Ethan, I commit to walkin’ this road with you—not just as a friend, but as a brother. To pray with you, stand with you, hold you up when you’re strugglin’, challenge you when you need it. This world’ll pull at us, but we don’t belong to it. We belong to Christ. Long as I’m here, you won’t walk alone.”

    Ethan swallowed, the weight sinking deep. He unfolded his own paper, hands steady. “Ted, you’ve been more than a friend. You’ve been solid when I wasn’t. You showed me what it looks like to live for something bigger, and I don’t take that lightly. I commit to walking this with you—to keep learning, stay accountable, stand with you no matter what. I don’t know what’s ahead, but I don’t want to face it without this.”

    Silence stretched, thick with meaning. Ted pulled two braided leather wristbands from his pocket. Ethan frowned. “What’s this?”

    “Somethin’ to carry,” Ted said, handing one over. “A reminder.”

    Ethan slipped it on, then grasped Ted’s outstretched hand—firm, final. Rachel murmured a quiet, “Amen.” Leo whistled low. “Well, I’ll be. Didn’t think I’d see somethin’ like this.”

    Ted smirked. “That a compliment or an insult?”

    “Compliment,” Leo grinned. “I think.”

    Dale gave Ethan a long look, then nodded once. “Takes guts to commit like that.”

    Ethan nodded back—hard-won respect. Rachel stood, hugging him quick. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered.

    Ethan exhaled, lighter than he’d felt in years. This wasn’t about fitting in—it was bigger.

    As the night wound down, Rachel lingered, looking from Ted to Ethan and back. “I think you needed him as much as he needed you,” she said soft.

    Ted’s lips pressed tight, fingers brushing the wristband. She didn’t wait for a reply—just squeezed his arm with a knowing smile and left.

    Ethan caught Ted’s brief stiffness. “She’s right, isn’t she?”

    Ted chuckled weary. “Never thought I’d have this again.”

    Ethan nodded. He got it.

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

  • Who We Are, Men of God

    1. I am fearfully and wonderfully made, created by God in His image as a man (Psalm 139:14; Genesis 1:27).
    1. I am a beloved son of God, adopted into His family through Jesus Christ (Galatians 3:26; Ephesians 1:5).
    1. I am chosen by God, called to live as a man of strength, integrity, and purpose (1 Peter 2:9).
    1. I am fully seen, known, and loved by the One who formed me in my mother’s womb (Jeremiah 1:5; Psalm 139:15).
    1. I am equipped by God to fulfill the good works He has prepared for me as a man of faith (Ephesians 2:10).
    1. I am redeemed and restored through Christ, free to walk in my true identity as a man of God (2 Corinthians 5:17).
    1. I am called to reflect God’s image in my masculinity, bearing His strength and compassion (Genesis 1:26-27; Micah 6:8).
    1. I am a temple of the Holy Spirit, chosen and empowered to live as a godly man (1 Corinthians 6:19-20).
    1. I am part of the body of Christ, where I belong and am valued as a brother in the family of faith (Romans 12:4-5).
    1. I am strengthened by the Lord to be courageous and stand firm in my identity as a man (1 Corinthians 16:13; Joshua 1:9).

  • Youth Mentorship

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • From Searching to Found: My Salvation Story

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

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

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

    A Boy Out of Place

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

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

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

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

    Years of Searching in the Wrong Places

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

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

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

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

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

    God Starts Chipping Away

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

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

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

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

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

    The Moment It All Made Sense

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

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

    I got it.

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

    Jesus had already done it.

    And in that moment, my answer was YES.

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

    A New Creation

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

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

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

    So I let it go.

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

    Still in the Process, but Fully His

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

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

    God was after me the whole time.

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

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

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

    And that’s all I need.

  • Sky’s Thread

    Sky’s Thread

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Rewired: A Testimony in Progress

    I don’t know exactly where this road ends. I just know I’m not where I started.

    For most of my life, brotherhood and desire were tangled together—so tightly woven that I couldn’t see where one ended and the other began. The longing I felt for men wasn’t just about attraction—it was deeper, more complicated. A mix of admiration, craving, and something I once thought was awe-inspiring.

    And for a long time, I held onto that. Even after surrendering my life to Christ, even after stepping into a new way of living, a small part of me still wondered: Was this really something to let go of? Or was there a way to keep it, to sanctify it somehow?

    It wasn’t about sex. It was about closeness, belonging. That deep, aching pull toward men. The way it hummed inside me when I felt seen, chosen, wanted.

    And maybe, I thought, that hum wasn’t a distortion. Maybe it was a gift.

    The Truth That Cut Through

    But slowly, steadily, God began rewiring me. Not with a single, dramatic moment, but with truth creeping in like light through cracked blinds—truth I couldn’t unsee.

    The longing wasn’t wrong. But the way it had been shaped in me was.

    What I’d thought was beautiful was actually broken. The love I longed for was real, but the way I sought it had been distorted by wounds, lies, and a world that sexualizes everything it touches.

    And here’s the key realization: That distortion was its own thing. Separate. A counterfeit standing beside the real.

    Two Realities, but One Truth

    I still experience echoes of the old, eroticized fantasy of brotherhood. It hasn’t vanished overnight. It still exists in my mind as its own thing—a leftover framework, a script I once believed in.

    But then there’s something far greater—the actual, real, God-designed brotherhood that has emerged alongside it. And these two things? They are not the same. They exist side by side, but they do not mix.

    The true brotherhood I now know—the bond I have with my brothers in Christ, with men I walk alongside in faith and life—is completely separate from the distortion. That confusion doesn’t exist between us. The old wiring may hum in the background at times, but it has no place in my actual relationships.

    I used to believe my longing for men had to be expressed in a certain way or it would be wasted. Now I see—God wasn’t withholding something from me. He was leading me into something far better.

    Still in the Process

    I’m not fully rewired yet. I still feel the hum sometimes. The old patterns still try to stir.

    But they don’t own me. They don’t define me.

    And more than ever, I trust where this road is leading.

    Because the further I go, the more I see—this longing isn’t meant to be suppressed. It’s meant to be redeemed.

    Not in eroticized connection. Not in longing for a brother to fill something in me.

    But in the kind of pure, deep, Christ-centered brotherhood that was God’s design all along.

    I don’t know exactly what it looks like to be fully on the other side of this process. But I know this:

    I’m getting there.

    And what I’ve already tasted of the real thing? It’s already better than what I thought I wanted.

  • Brother, This is Who You Are

    1. You are a man because God made you one, and He does not make mistakes. (Genesis 1:27, Psalm 139:14)

    2. You are strong—not just in body, but in heart, in mind, in spirit. (1 Corinthians 16:13, Joshua 1:9)

    3. Your manhood is not defined by your skills, interests, or personality—it is defined by God’s design. (1 Samuel 16:7, Isaiah 64:8)

    4. You were made to lead with love, to protect with strength, and to serve with courage. (Ephesians 5:25, Mark 10:45)

    5. You are not alone—you were created for brotherhood, to walk with other men, sharpening and strengthening each other. (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10, Proverbs 27:17)

    6. You are a warrior in God’s kingdom, equipped to stand firm against the enemy. (Ephesians 6:10-11, 2 Timothy 2:3-4)

    7. Your past does not define your manhood—God does, and He is making you new. (2 Corinthians 5:17, Romans 8:1-2)

    8. You do not need the world’s approval to be a man—you already have your Father’s blessing. (Matthew 3:17, Galatians 1:10)

    9. Your body was made by God and is good, a temple for His Spirit, not for shame. (1 Corinthians 6:19-20, Genesis 1:31)

    10. You are called to be bold, to stand firm, to walk in truth, and to live as the man God made you to be. (Micah 6:8, 1 Corinthians 16:13-14)

  • A Quiet Surrender

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

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

    Ethan smirked. “What, handing you tools?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Ethan shook his head.

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

    Ethan frowned. “Where was He?”

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

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

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

    Ted didn’t speak, just listened.

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

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

    Ethan glanced at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Emotional Dependency vs. Healthy Covenant

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

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

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

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

    1. Covenant Strengthens—Dependency Drains

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

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

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

    Brotherhood should fuel your strength, not replace it.

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

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

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

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

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

    3. Covenant Respects Space—Dependency Fears Distance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    5. Covenant Deepens with Time—Dependency Eventually Breaks

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

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

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

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

    The Answer: Bringing It to Christ

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

    Ask yourself:

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

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

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

  • More, Not Less

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

    But what if that’s a lie?

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

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

    It’s God’s design.

    And what He designed? It’s better.

    Not a Limitation—A Gift

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

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

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

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

    And that’s what makes brotherhood stronger.

    More Than Skin Deep

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

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

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

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

    That’s what we’re made for.

    Something That Lasts

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

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

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

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

    You don’t lose anything.

    You gain everything.

  • The Gift of Us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    It felt like a gift.

  • Not Alone

    Jason had been watching Eli slip for weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

    Jason didn’t buy it. “Tired how?”

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

    Jason’s chest tightened.

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

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

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

    Jason swallowed hard.

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

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

    Eli flinched, barely noticeable.

    Jason tightened his grip. “I see it.”

    Eli’s throat bobbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Walking It Out

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

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

    Tyler glanced over. “How do you mean?”

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

    Tyler nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Tyler grinned. “Damn straight.”

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

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

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

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

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

  • Baptism of Freedom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “And God’s got us,” Luke added.

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

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

  • Brotherhood as the Missing Rite of Passage

    Some men were initiated into manhood. Most of us weren’t.

    We never had that moment—the one that said, You are a man now. Step into it. We just kept moving forward, hoping that at some point, it would click.

    But it never really did.

    The world tells us that manhood just happens when we turn 18, or when we hit certain milestones—first job, first car, marriage, fatherhood. But deep down, we know that’s not how it works.

    We don’t need another achievement to feel like men. We need other men to call us forward. And more than that—we need Christ to define us first.

    Brotherhood Restores What Was Lost

    The ancient rites of passage weren’t just about a challenge—they were about witnesses. Older men stood around the younger and said, We see you. You have passed the test. You are one of us now.

    That’s what covenant brotherhood does.

    • It doesn’t leave a man to figure it out alone. It calls him up—through challenge, truth, and trust.

    • It doesn’t measure him by worldly standards. It confirms what God already placed in him.

    • It doesn’t let him sit in doubt. It names him as a man and holds him accountable to live as one.

    But even brotherhood is incomplete without the One who created it.

    Christ is the True Initiator

    Before any man can call us forward, before we can walk in covenant with our brothers, we need to hear it from God Himself.

    “You are my son.”

    “You belong to Me.”

    “Your manhood is not fragile—it is rooted in Me.”

    Christ is the One who restores what was lost. But He doesn’t do it in isolation—He places us in brotherhood, because manhood was never meant to be lived alone.

    It’s Not Too Late

    Brotherhood is the road back to initiation. It’s not about recreating old rituals—it’s about stepping into a circle of men who won’t let you drift, won’t let you doubt, and won’t let you stay passive.

    It’s about walking with men who challenge you, not to prove yourself, but because they already see the man God made you to be.

    And once you have that? You do the same for another. Because manhood isn’t just about being called up. It’s about calling others up too.

  • When Do You Become a Man?

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

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

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

    We’ve lost something vital.

    Manhood Was Never Meant to Be a Guessing Game

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

    The boy was gone. The man had stepped forward.

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

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

    Without Initiation, Men Drift

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

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

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

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

    It’s Not Too Late to Step In

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

    Here’s the truth:

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

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

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

    Manhood Is Meant to Be Stepped Into

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

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

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

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

  • Campfire Reflection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Together,” Luke added, his voice steady.

    “Together,” James echoed.

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

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

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

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

  • Giving the Wound to Christ

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

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

    Here’s where it starts:

    1. Stop Trying to Fix It Yourself

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

    That means admitting:

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

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

    2. Bring the Wound Into the Light

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

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

    So we bring it into the light:

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

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

    3. Let God Redefine You Through Brotherhood

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

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

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

    4. Walk in the Truth Before You Fully Feel It

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

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

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

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

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

    And He will finish what He started.

  • The Lie That Steals Sonship

    Brother, let’s talk about the wound most men don’t even realize they have. The one that starts early—so early, you can’t remember a time before it.

    Maybe it wasn’t a single moment, but a slow drift. Maybe it was a father who was there but distant, a brother who overshadowed you, a world that told you—subtly, persistently—you weren’t quite like the other boys.

    And then, the lie crept in:

    You don’t belong.

    You’re different.

    You’re not really a man.

    It wasn’t just about interests or personality. It was deeper. A gnawing sense that you missed something vital, that masculinity was something other men had—something you could admire, even long for, but never fully claim as your own.

    And for some of us, that’s where same-sex struggles first took root. Not as a choice, not as rebellion, but as a search for something we felt we lacked. The strength, the confidence, the belonging we thought we weren’t given. And because the world only knows how to frame male longing in sexual terms, that ache got twisted before we even knew what was happening.

    The enemy planted a lie in our boyhood, then spent years reinforcing it:

    You’ll never be one of them. You’re not enough. You’re something else.

    But brother, hear this: the enemy is a liar.

    God did not make a mistake when He made you a man. You are not an outsider to your own design. You are not less of a man because you don’t fit some narrow mold of strength or skill or stature.

    Masculinity is not about muscles or sports or how deep your voice is. It’s not something you earn. It’s something you are.

    You were born a son. Not half a son. Not a different kind of son. A son.

    The wound is real, but so is the healing. And it starts with rejecting the lie and stepping into the truth that was alwaysyours.

    You belong.

    You are enough.

    You are a man.

    Because God says so.

  • Covenant as Spiritual Warfare

    The enemy hates brotherhood.

    He always has.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    But that’s a lie.

    Brotherhood is a Weapon

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

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

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

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

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

    The War is Won Together

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

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

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

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

    It’ll be the men who stood together.

  • Truth Reflected

    The water was cool against the afternoon heat, rippling against their shoulders as they treaded side by side. Sunlight flickered off the surface, dappling their skin in shifting gold.

    Nathan ran a hand through his wet hair, glancing at Caleb. The guy looked like he belonged in the water—broad shoulders, solid frame, the kind of build that made everything look effortless. Nathan, leaner, wiry, felt like a reed next to a stone.

    They had swum out far enough that the shore was just a blur of trees and rocks. No one else was around. Just them, the lake, the sky stretching endless above.

    “I don’t know if I’ll ever shake it,” Nathan said finally, kicking slow beneath the water.

    “Shake what?” Caleb asked.

    Nathan exhaled. “The feeling that I missed something. That I was wired wrong from the start.” He looked down, watching the water ripple around him. “I see guys like you and I think—that’s what a man is supposed to be.”

    Caleb laughed softly. “Like what?”

    Nathan gestured vaguely. “You know. Strong. Built for it. Like it just fits on you.”

    Caleb floated on his back, staring at the sky. “You think muscle makes a man?”

    “No.” Nathan hesitated. “Not exactly. It’s not just that. It’s… I don’t know. It’s like you move through the world like you belong to it. Like you’ve never had to second-guess who you are.”

    Caleb let the silence settle between them before rolling back upright. “You ever notice how trees grow?”

    Nathan frowned. “What?”

    “Some grow thick, some grow tall. Some are knotted, some straight. You don’t see a pine tree looking at an oak, wondering if it should be broader. Or an oak looking at a pine, wishing it was taller.” He met Nathan’s gaze. “But they’re both trees. They both stand.”

    Nathan was quiet.

    Caleb ran a hand through the water. “You weren’t wired wrong. You weren’t meant to be me, or anyone else. You were meant to be you. A man, as God made you. Period.”

    Nathan swallowed, something in his chest tightening—not in pain, exactly, but in recognition.

    “You think you missed something,” Caleb said, “but maybe you just haven’t recognized what’s been in you all along.”

    The water lapped between them. Nathan didn’t answer right away. But he felt the weight of Caleb’s words sink deep, settling in places that had never quite known peace.

  • The Woodshop

    Nathan wasn’t sure why he agreed to come. He wasn’t a woodshop guy. Never had been. But Caleb had invited him, and he didn’t have a good reason to say no.

    The shop smelled like sawdust and oil, the kind of scent that lingered in clothes long after you left. Nathan hovered near the door, hands in his pockets, watching Caleb move around like he belonged there.

    “You just gonna stand there, or you gonna help?” Caleb shot him a look over his shoulder.

    Nathan smirked but didn’t move. “Not really my thing.”

    Caleb raised a brow, picking up a rough-cut slab of oak. “Sanding wood’s too big a stretch for you?”

    “I don’t know.” Nathan shifted, glancing at the workbench. “Just never did much of it.”

    Caleb grabbed a rough plank, running his fingers over the grain. “Nothing to it. You just sand down the rough edges ‘til you get something smooth. Wanna give it a shot?”

    Nathan hesitated—then stepped up. Took it—pressed it to the wood. First strokes were clumsy—grit catching awkward under his hand. He wasn’t sure he was doing it right—kept his eyes down.

    “My dad had a shop like this,” he said, voice slipping out quiet, almost lost in the scrape. “Used to sit on a stool in the corner—watch him work.”

    Caleb nodded—steady, listening. “He let you lend a hand?”

    Nathan let out a short laugh—sharp, no warmth. “Nah.”

    Caleb glanced up—caught the edge in it. “How come?”

    Nathan shrugged—kept sanding. “Didn’t trust me with his tools, I guess.” A beat—wood dust curling under his fingers. “Or maybe I wasn’t the son he figured on.”

    Caleb set down his sander, dusting off his hands. “What kind of son was that?”

    Nathan exhaled—eyes locked on the plank. “The kind who’d rather be in the kitchen with Mom than out here with him.” He laughed again—soft, thin—didn’t reach his eyes. “My brother got the ‘man stuff.’ Me? I got… I don’t know. Told I was different.”

    Caleb watched him—quiet for a stretch—then nodded at the wood in Nathan’s hands. “You know what makes oak tough?”

    Nathan looked up—caught Caleb’s steady gaze. “What?”

    “The grain.” Caleb ran his fingers along the plank’s surface. “It’s not straight and clean. It twists, knots up in places, even looks weak sometimes. But that’s what gives it strength. It holds.” He tapped the wood. “This is solid. Even with the knots.”

    Nathan stared at the grain beneath his fingertips, something catching in his chest that he wasn’t ready to name.

    “You’re not weak, brother,” Caleb said, quieter now. “Just because you weren’t a copy of your dad or your brother doesn’t mean you weren’t meant to stand strong. Maybe your grain’s just different.”

    Nathan swallowed, looking down. The wood dusted away beneath his hands, the surface smoothing. But some knots stayed, no matter how much he worked at them.

    Maybe that was alright.

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

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

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

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

    Covenant.

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

    I stopped fighting him, too.

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

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

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

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

    It’s what Ted and I chose.

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

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

    And I’m not standing alone.

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