The wind came in sharp tonight. You can smell the dirt in it — like the ground itself knows something’s coming.

I sat outside on the porch after chopping a half-cord of wood, rifle across my lap, and I just kept thinking: If it all goes down tomorrow — grid off, shelves empty, lines drawn — will I be ready? Will we be ready?

The answer’s yes — because I’ve made it my job to be.

That’s the thing nobody wants to talk about anymore: men have a job. We were built for this. To carry weight. To sweat. To bleed first. God wired us to lead, protect, and yes — provide. Not just in the good times, but when it all falls apart.

And I don’t care how unpopular it sounds now — women weren’t built for this fight the same way we were. That’s not a dig. It’s the truth. And if you’re a man who’s worth his salt, you know it too.

I don’t expect my wife to be on the roof patching leaks during a blizzard or hauling water barrels through knee-deep mud. I don’t ask her to clean a deer carcass or load security rounds unless I’m down for the count. That’s on me.

But she’s got her place too — and it’s just as important, if not more. She keeps the heart of the home beating when I’m out keeping wolves off the gate — literal and otherwise.

She’s in the kitchen, yes — and thank God she is. That place is her battlefield. She stretches what we’ve got, makes comfort from scratch, teaches the kids how to pray and read and stay grounded. While I fortify the perimeter, she fortifies the spirit of this house.

“The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish one tears hers down.”
— Proverbs 14:1

She’s no fool. She’s not fragile. She’s fierce in the way only a God-fearing woman can be — rooted, steady, fierce in prayer, and wise with what little we may have.

But I’ll say it bluntly: the home falls apart when men don’t lead. When men sit back, soften up, and hand off the mantle God gave them. You see it in the world right now — broken families, soft hands, empty spines.

I didn’t marry her to compete with her. I married her to lead her. And she followed me not because she’s weak, but because she trusts me to carry the load. She trusts me to keep her and the kids safe, fed, and covered — spiritually and physically.

“The man is the head of the woman, as Christ is the head of the church.”
— Ephesians 5:23

That’s not some power grab. That’s responsibility. That’s weight. That’s dying to yourself daily so that those under your roof can live a little lighter.

So yeah, I expect her to be in the kitchen. Not barefoot, not chained, not voiceless — but working that space like a queen in a war tent. And I’ll be outside, boots in mud, blood in the dirt if need be, doing what I was made to do.

I don’t apologize for order. I don’t apologize for hierarchy. God doesn’t. And when the power’s out, and the trucks stop running, and everything modern folks lean on turns to ash, you’ll be glad some men never bowed to the culture.

Tonight I read from Psalm 144 again:

“Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle.”
— Psalm 144:1

That’s the verse I pray over myself. Over my sons. And yes, over this land.

I train not because I want to fight, but because I will if I have to. For her. For them. For truth. And because God made me to hold that line.

The world can keep trying to blur the lines between man and woman, strength and softness, leadership and laziness. I won’t.

If they want to mock a man who expects his woman to cook while he guards the gate, let them. Because when it all burns, they’ll be the ones looking for a man like me.

And maybe if they’re lucky, a woman like mine will feed them while I keep the perimeter clear.

Lord,
Thank You for giving men a purpose. Thank You for giving us weight to carry and shoulders to bear it. Forgive the passivity of our generation. Raise up men who lead without apology and women who stand with them in strength and grace.
Make me sharper, stronger, and more steady as the days grow darker. Let me never hand off the role You gave me.
In Your name,
Amen.