Warrior Poets

I have been looking

for men who stay

long before I knew

that was what I was doing.

Not heroes —

just witnesses.

Someone to stand beside me

and say without words

you are not alone here.

⸻

Third grade.

A lunchbox

that told the truth about our house

before I had language for poverty.

I learned hunger quietly.

I learned how to laugh

with my mouth closed

so no one would ask

why I never ate.

What I remember most

is not the teasing

but the absence—

no hand on my shoulder

no adult noticing

a boy pretending he wasn’t hungry.

That was the first lesson:

pain does not come only from cruelty

sometimes it comes

from nobody stepping in.

⸻

I found men to trust anyway.

A pastor who knew my name

until one day

God called him somewhere else.

Another who listened

until life rearranged itself again.

They were not unkind.

They just left.

But a boy does not record reasons,

only patterns.

I began to translate love

as temporary.

⸻

At home

success grew in the garage

and distance grew in the house.

Brothers age quickly.

One day you throw a ball together,

another day

you are someone he hopes

his friends won’t see.

No speech marked that moment.

Childhood just ended

without telling me.

So I told myself:

don’t need

don’t ask

don’t lean.

⸻

By junior high

I had a strategy.

If every door closes

be the one who shuts it first.

I ended friendships

before they could end me.

It felt like strength.

It felt like control.

It felt safer than hope.

Years passed

with laughter that never reached

the locked rooms inside me.

Surface is survivable.

Depth is dangerous.

⸻

I grew into a man

who could carry weight

but not share it.

Strong hands

guarded heart

independent soul

and a quiet loneliness

that strength kept well protected.

⸻

God stayed.

That was the confusing part.

Through every departure

He did not mirror the pattern.

As a child He was a companion.

As a man He became a question:

Will you trust Me

when everyone else eventually leaves?

I answered honestly—

often, no.

Yet He did not go.

⸻

Then fatherhood

made the question louder.

Loss again

but deeper now.

The kind that wakes at night

and argues with heaven.

In anger

in grief

in exhaustion

I heard the same steady whisper:

Do you trust Me?

Not explanation.

Not defense.

Presence.

An anchor

that does not calm the storm

but keeps you from drifting away.

⸻

Looking back

I thought I had few blessings.

But they were there

like small lights

I refused to notice:

a friendship that was real

even if brief

a companion who remained

even if shallow

a God who endured

even when doubted.

And now—

men who sit in circles

telling truths

without fixing each other.

This feels unfamiliar.

This feels holy.

This feels like standing

instead of bracing.

⸻

I see that boy again

hands on a closed lunchbox

pretending he chose not to eat.

He was not weak.

He was waiting

for someone to sit beside him.

Today

I am learning

to become that someone—

for him

for you

for myself.

⸻

My story has not resolved.

Trust grows slowly

like muscle after injury.

But I am no longer running

ahead of abandonment.

I am standing

inside relationship

without armor on my heart

believing

that what broke me

does not have to define me

and that the One who never left

is still asking gently,

Will you trust Me now?

I am from where Texas prairies meet 40 foot oak trees, where those oaks meet Lake Worth. Born in San Antonio like dad and raised in Fort Worth like mom. I am 9th generation Texan. I am from a long line of hard working hispanic fathers, I am link that broke the chain of alcoholism on both sides.

I am from a lake that ripples blue and green, where the oak trees gently sway. I am from where the sound of flying fighter jets sounds like home, where Blue Angel pilots could see us play in the street every summer. I am from prairie grass and blue bonnets, live oaks and pecans. From lake roads and a rocky cliff that overlooks the lake.

I am from bicycles and skateboards, basketball shoes and football cleats, baseball trophies and BB guns. I am from Red lobster on birthdays and laughing with my entire family on the weekends, I am Coca-Cola and Nachos, church fall festivals and steak and shrimp on New Year’s Eve. I am moms meatloaf and dads spaghetti.

I am dads Van Halen 5150 album, and moms Journey CDs, Hotel California and Smooth Criminal, I am Third day and Mercy Me. I am from church on Wednesday and Sunday each week, I am from food outreach and worship ministry. I am from Victoria, Layla, August, and Eden. I am from hidden sin to healed and forgiven, from restlessness to peace, I am from hate to love. From hopelessness to faith, from fitting in to being called by name. I am from His story of faithfulness, grace, and love.

Heavenly Father,
You are the Master Gardener,
the One who formed my heart
and knows the soil of my soul.
You tell me that my heart is like a seed—
full of life, full of promise,
yet I’ve wrapped in a hard coat of fear, pride, and self-preservation.
I confess that I cling to this covering,
believing it keeps me safe.
But You, Lord, are gentle and kind.
You do not wound to destroy.
You pierce to bring life.
Like a hard seed coat that must be scarred to grow,
You lance my layers of self-protection—
not in cruelty, but in mercy.
Help me trust that You are making room for growth.
Where I feel exposed, You are inviting surrender.
Where I feel pain, You are releasing what You have planted within me.
Keep me from mistaking Your refining work for abandonment.
Remind me that every careful cut is guided by Your hand,
and every opening is an act of love.
Holy Spirit, let Your living water reach the depths of my heart,
that hope may sprout,
love may take root,
and faith may rise toward the light.
Jesus, I place my heart back into Your care—
scarred, opened, and ready.
Grow in me what only You can grow,
for Your glory and the good of the world You love.
In the name of Jesus,

The Seed who fell to the ground,
who was scarred even unto death,
that I might live.
Amen.

I am the evening breeze whispering through summer warmed branches and leaves, as the cicadas sing their song of a brief life above the dirt.

I am the click and the clack of playing cards in the spokes of a bike wheel, fun at first but then pulled in irritation.

I am the smack of a bat sending a tennis ball towards the clouds, arcing down onto a neighbors windshield.

I am the scent of bubblegum and dollar store lip glaze smeared on my cheek, a kiss from a girl, teasing compliments from beyond my shyness.

My heart is the summer wind; unstoppable, unknowable, and free.

My soul is the setting summer sun, climbing down from the heights of the day, easing into the cooler night and its adventures offered in the dark.

My spirit is too wild for indoors, refusing to go home until absolutely left with no other choice, answering the call of my father.

I am an adult, looking back longingly and sadly.

I am a question; where did it all go?

I am a man capable of terrific force and action, but longing for peace.

I am a heart stripped of innocence, longing for purity and nobility of purpose.

I am a husband to a royal queen, born of a bloodline that tickles my conscience with its ancientness.

I am a father to children that deserved so much more than I gave.

I am a grandfather, amazed at how these little faces can cause my heart to so greatly swell.

I am just a man…saved by the most Powerful Being to ever exist.

I am from the hills of east Tennessee, the streets of New York, the big skies of Texas, and the beaches of southern California. Equal parts each. I am a Jew and Gentile, from Scotland, Ireland, England, Germany, Sweden, Denmark, and the Cherokee Nation. I am an American, through and through, a citizen of the world who migrated to the United States. I’m a junkyard dog and prized shepherd. I am from Village Green, Concord, and Farragut; the same place in East Tennessee. I am from the streets of Knoxville, the farms of Lawnville, the rice patties of Viet Nam, and battlefields of wars gone by, from spiritual, mental, and physical places my generations of family know too well.

I am from a place that wants to hear you and desperately seeks to connect – yet I’m still battling to leave a place that haunts me, disconnects me, and leaves me isolated and lonely. Trust is so fragile for us – in this place we so desire. I’m from a place that sees you, even if through corrective lenses or at times, you’re still a little blurry. I can make out your shape and sense your goodness as I discard the contempt for the story of me I’ve hidden for so long.

I am part of the wannabees, pretenders, and the people in-the-middle-of-it-all part of our country. I’m from the lower middle class trying not to be poor again, working to be more than before. I am Mountain Dew and Little Debbie. I am a dogwood and a bluebonnet, a rose and a rose by any other name, a weeping willow and forgotten tulip poplar. I am from football on Thanksgiving Day and gifts on Christmas morning, from strawberry pie and chicken and dumplings, from a family that sings Amazing Grace, the National Anthem, Just as I Am and I Surrender All, each with conviction and a sense of “this is who we are”.

I am hard work, long hours, and going all-in. When you fail, go all-in again. I am from Dana, Ryan and Madi, from Spot, Nicholas, Rex, Hagrid, Joker, Ren, and B. I’m from fear to freedom, from addiction to recovery, from isolation to community. I am from heaven to hell then back to heaven again. I am from the kingdom here on earth. I from the place where every circumstance offers its blessing if you’re willing to see it in light of the good it wants to be. I’m from the promise of what this breathe offers me.