Captured in the Fashion District by Mitchell Royel, the atmosphere hums with an electric energy that defies the ordinary. The streets pulse with a kaleidoscope of colors, textures, and styles—each one a testament to the boundless creativity and individuality of those who walk them. It's as if every corner and every glance tells a unique story, all converging in a harmonious celebration of self-expression.
The evening began with the haunting notes of Elley Duhé's "Middle of the Night," the hypnotic melody weaving through the air as if it were a soundtrack to the district’s cosmopolitan heartbeat. Its alluring rhythm drew people into its spell, blending seamlessly with the rich tapestry of streetlights and expression around. Slowly, like the natural transition of dusk into night, the soundscape faded into Joseline Hernandez's "Sex Drive."

I've been sitting with this all morning. Coffee's gone cold twice. And I figure if I'm going to be honest with the Lord about it, I might as well be honest with you men too.

Something happened last night. A friend of mine — a woman from our congregation, not my wife, let me say that plain — she got herself into trouble at a bar. A real mess. The kind of thing you hear about and your stomach drops.

And here's where I went wrong.

I decided I was the man to fix it. To correct her. To sit her down and tell her what she should've done, what she ought to do next, how she needed to walk from here. Like I'd been appointed. Like wisdom was mine to hand out just because I felt strongly about it.

Brothers, let me tell you something I learned the hard way. There is a time to speak, and there is a time to keep your mouth shut. Scripture told us that long before I ignored it. When a person is already low, already ashamed, already carrying more than they can hold — that is not the hour to stack your opinion on top of the pile.

I didn't lift her up. I stood over her. There's a difference, and I couldn't see it until it was too late.

And it didn't stop there.

I had money set aside for my boy. Tanner's travel league. Money I'd promised him, money he'd earned my word on. And I took it — I redirected it — to help her. I told myself it was charity. I told myself we're called to help those in need, and that's true, that is true. But I never asked. Not my wife. Not my son. Not the Lord, not really. I just did it and called it generosity so it would feel holy.

Men, hear me. Giving is good. But giving out of guilt, giving to look righteous, giving with money that wasn't fully mine to give — that isn't generosity. That's pride wearing Sunday clothes.

Now she won't speak to me. Not at church. Not anywhere. I reach out and there's silence. And I earned that silence. I keep waiting to feel wronged, and instead I just feel foolish.

So here's my word of advice, for whatever it's worth from a man who got it wrong.

Know when you are not the one to speak. Sometimes the most loving thing you can offer is your presence and your quiet, not your judgment.

Guard the promises you've made to your own house before you go rescuing everyone else's. A man who neglects his family to look charitable has his priorities upside down.

And when you give, give clean. Give in the open. Give what's yours to give, with a right heart, and then let it go without needing credit for it.

I don't have this fixed yet. I'm not standing up here with the answer. I'm asking the Lord to show me how to make it right — with her, with Tanner, with my wife, with all of it. Maybe some of you have walked this road and can tell me what mending looks like.

Until then, I'll do the one thing I should've done first.

I'll be still. And I'll listen.

Amen.

-Clifford (as Mitch & Deck)

BLESSED BE THE POLE