THE THORNS

The labor was never punishment. The labor was delivery.

She opened her hand and showed me two coins. Small. Bronze. Worn smooth at the edges the way things get when they’ve lived in a pocket for years. Armor of God coins — carried so long their shape had pressed itself into the denim of my Levi’s.

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I thought I knew the trail. I had been there before. But the seasons had turned. And the field had grown over everything I remembered.

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DEDICATION

For my mother — who brought me into this world and delivered me through the first labor of it. And for the trials that came after — which taught me more than I could thank them for at the time.

For the friend who first walked into the berry patch beside me — and trusted me to get us out, even after I was the one who led him in.

For the ones who walked alongside me — who cared when they could have moved on, who inspired me once in a while in ways they may never know.

For Marty — who sees what I walk past. Who reached into my pockets that day, held out two coins, and called me into the room to tell me there is nothing more precious to her than being married to a man who armors up every morning and carries it with him wherever he goes. She wanted me to know I was loved. Honored.

For the readers — those still inside the thorns, clearing what needs to be cleared. And those who have walked out of the field, and no longer stand under the pressure of it.

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SCRIPTURE

“My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing.” — James 1:2–4 (NKJV)

“Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” — Ephesians 6:11 (NKJV)

“And when they had twisted a crown of thorns, they put it on His head.” — Matthew 27:29 (NKJV)

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THE HOOK

I almost didn’t make it into the world.

Born early. Underweight. The umbilical cord wrapped around my neck before I drew my first breath.

They placed me in an incubator just to keep me here.

I think about that sometimes.

Not with bitterness.

With recognition.

The labor started early for me. Before I had a name for it.

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THE STORY

When I was young, we had a cabin in Boulder Creek.

When friends came to visit, we chased everything the hills had — the creek, the redwoods, the trails that wandered far past where anyone told us to stop.

One afternoon I decided to lead a group of us through a berry patch trail I had walked before. I knew it. I had been there.

But the seasons had turned.

The trail was gone.

The vines had taken everything over — chest high, then taller — crossing and tangling until no path could be traced, no ground could be trusted.

At first it felt like adventure. We laughed. Ate berries. Pushed forward.

Then the field changed.

One bush. Then another.

Then we lost the trail completely.

Before we understood what had happened, we were trapped deep inside a massive field of thorn-covered vines. No edge visible. No tools. No way back that made any sense.

The more we forced ourselves through it, the more the thorns tore at us.

Our skin. Our Levi’s. Our arms. Our faces.

By the time we found the other side, we looked like we’d been through a paper shredder.

One of my friends looked at me — scratched, bleeding, shredded — and said:

“What did you get us into?”

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THE MOMENT

Years passed.

Life started filling in the answer.

Marriage young. Children young. Financial pressure that moved in and didn’t leave. Fear that found the walls of the house and made itself at home.

Performance with no ceiling.

Survival that felt like a full-time job with no days off.

I had been taught the rules clearly:

Be tough. Provide. Endure. Work hard. Stay silent until spoken to. Defend your honor.

I did all of it.

And the thorns still came.

The harder I pushed through, the more I bled.

It wasn’t until I was forty that I visited the idea of Jesus seriously. And then spent nearly a decade doing almost nothing with it.

Then something began to shift beneath me. Not sudden. A slow excavation.

I found myself standing at the cross in my backyard.

Not metaphorically.

There was a physical cross there. And I stood at it.

And I laid everything down.

My sin. My failures. My bitterness. The wounds from childhood I had pressed into corners of myself where I thought no one could see them. The anger. The need to prove something to people who were no longer even in this world.

All of it.

I asked God to excavate whatever was left.

Something lifted.

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The field didn’t end because the thorns stopped.

The field ended because I finally stopped believing I had to carry them.

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THE TURN

I understand the Armor of God differently now than I did the first time I read Ephesians 6.

Then I read it like a text.

Now I wear it like gear.

Every morning — the belt tight, the breastplate in place, the shoes on, the shield up, the helmet seated, the sword in hand.

Not partially. All of it.

You cannot wear half the armor and expect full protection. That is not faith. That is decoration.

And the sword — I learned this the hard way — must first penetrate your own heart before it can help anyone else.

Marty does laundry the way she does everything. Thoroughly. No corner missed.

She called me into the room one afternoon and held out her hand.

Two coins.

“You never cease to amaze me. I find these everywhere. Your pockets. Your jackets. Your drawers. And I’ve watched you give them to men for years.”

She wasn’t correcting me. She was telling me what she had witnessed.

That the armor had become so embedded in what I carry that it leaves impressions even when I don’t notice.

The coin pressed its face into the watch pocket of my Levi’s. Year after year.

What you carry long enough eventually leaves its mark.

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THE DRIFT

There is a voice that tells you the field is what makes a man.

That the bleeding is the point.

That if you survive it alone, you’ll come out the other side forged.

That real men find their own way out.

I believed that voice for a long time.

Every time I pushed harder through the thorns alone, I just bled more. And told myself the bleeding was proof I was doing it right.

The field doesn’t care how tough you are.

It just keeps growing.

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THE REFLECTION

The hardest thorn God ever removed from me was bitterness.

Not the obvious wounds. The ones I had buried so deep I had forgotten they were still bleeding.

Forgiving people who hurt me as a child — people who were no longer even in this world — was the thorn that had worked its way in furthest.

When God finally pulled it free, peace entered places in me I didn’t know existed.

Not relief. Peace.

That is a different thing.

There is a night at Dolphin Bay I have carried for years.

We sat down to dinner and our waiter approached the table. Something inside him registered immediately. Not anxiety. Darkness. The kind that sits low and quiet and isn’t looking for conversation.

I asked Marty to head back to the room after dinner.

When his shift ended, he sat down.

We talked for hours.

The next afternoon, we were passing the same restaurant when he spotted us from across the lawn.

He dropped what he was doing and ran toward us.

Then picked me up and wept.

We didn’t understand the full weight of it until later.

He had planned to go home that night and end his life.

But something about being seen — truly seen — changed what he did next.

Today he is married. Has children. Became a professional golfer.

That story is his to tell.

I only know what it taught me:

The armor is not only for surviving your own thorn patch.

Sometimes it prepares you to walk into someone else’s.

You cannot do that for another man if you are still bleeding through your own.

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WALKAWAY LINE

When I finally walked out of the field — I realized the thorns had already been carried for me.

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SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What thorn have you been forcing yourself through alone — one that was never meant for you to carry?

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MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

You know every thorn patch we have wandered into — some by ignorance, some by pride, some by trusting a trail that had long since grown over.

You know the ones that are still bleeding.

Thank You for not leaving us inside them.

Thank You for the Cross — where the thorns already went before we ever arrived.

Help us to stop white-knuckling through what we were never meant to carry alone. To lay it down. To let You excavate whatever is left underneath.

And teach us to armor up — not to prove our strength, but to protect what You are building inside us. So that when You call us to walk into someone else’s field, we are ready for that too.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

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ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

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