The whole documentary is here:

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Hit the heart. ❤️ Restack it.

The first one was a boy. Eddie. He ran fevers that wouldn’t break. The doctor came. Prescribed a warm bath. That was it. A warm bath for a dying child.

She held him while his breathing turned to groans. Between seven and eight o’clock, spasms shook his little frame. Then the cries stopped.

And his spirit left.

She wrote a poem about it. Because that’s what you do when you can’t scream anymore. You write.

Blessed child, dear child, for thee Jesus is calling.

A few months later, God gave her another baby. A girl. Bessie. Perfectly beautiful. Dark hair. Dark blue eyes.

The birth nearly killed the mother. She was bedridden for weeks. Couldn’t hold her own baby. Finally begged the nurse to let her hold the child. The nurse placed four-week-old Bessie in her arms.

Elizabeth wept and held her for hours.

The next day the baby had a fever. Then red, swollen blotches on her face. Then the blotches turned black.

By eleven in the morning, the lesions were black.

She crawled on her hands and knees to the nursery. Found wet towels strewn about. Empty medicine bottles on the floor. Frantic whispers. And the moans of a dying infant echoing through the house.

Her husband carried her back to bed. Made her promise not to go back in.

She lay there repeating one phrase over and over.

God never makes a mistake.

At half past six, someone came to her door and said: “Yes, she is dying. The doctor says so. She will not live an hour.”

She fell from the couch. Crawled back to the nursery. Snatched the baby from the nurse’s arms.

In just a few short hours, that angelic face was cruelly marred by the pitiless disease.

At seven o’clock, they were left with only one child.

Empty hands. Empty hands. A worn-out, exhausted body. And unutterable longings to flee from a world that has had for me so many sharp experiences.

God help me. My baby. My baby. God help me. My little lost Eddie.

Her name was Elizabeth Payson Prentiss.

Her husband George was a pastor. They ministered in Lower Manhattan during a cholera epidemic. Less than a mile from the epicenter of the disease.

She was sick her entire life. Chronic illness. Anxiety. Depression. Sleepless nights. And now two dead children.

One evening, coming home from the graves of Eddie and Bessie, she broke.

She told George: The night is dark and I am far from home. What are we to do now? Just sit silently while our home is broken up and our lives wrecked? I don’t think I can stand living for another moment, much less a lifetime.

George said something that changed everything.

God loves us all the more when we are broken. Just as we love our children more when they are sick. Suffering is not sent by God as a disciplinary measure. It is here to be used and mastered for His glory.

Then he said this:

The more we love God as we know Him in Jesus, the more His healing miracle takes place in our own hearts.

She sat alone that night. Opened her Bible. Then opened a hymn book. The melody of Nearer, My God, to Thee drifted through her mind.

And in the meter of that song, she wrote her own prayer to God.

More love to Thee, O Christ. More love to Thee.

Hear Thou the prayer I make on bended knee.

Once earthly joy I craved, sought peace and rest. Now Thee alone I seek. Give what is best.

Let sorrow do its work. Send grief and pain. Sweet are Thy messengers. Sweet their refrain.

More love, O Christ, to Thee. More love to Thee.

She wrote it on a scrap of paper. Thought nothing of it. Stuffed it in a journal.

It stayed hidden for thirteen years.

When she found it again, her husband asked to share it. She said no. It’s unfinished. He insisted. She added a few lines and let him print copies.

One copy found its way to William Howard Doan, who set it to music.

The song went global. Translated into dozens of languages. Sung in revivals across America. Beloved in China. So beloved that when Elizabeth died, a Chinese congregation crafted an exquisite fan with every word of her hymn written in Chinese characters and sent it to her husband.

A song born from the worst night of a mother’s life became the anthem of a generation.

Here’s what I can’t stop thinking about.

She didn’t write that hymn for an audience. She wrote it because she was dying inside and the only thing left to ask God for was more love.

Not more answers. Not more comfort. Not more understanding.

More love.

“Lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” — Matthew 6:20-21

When your love is directed toward heaven, what you value most is absolutely secure. Death can’t touch it. Disease can’t rot it. The grave can’t hold it.

But when you set your affection on what’s confined to this world, your course is set to disappointment, brokenness, and pain.

Elizabeth knew this. Not because she read it in a commentary. Because she crawled on her hands and knees to a nursery and held a dying baby with black lesions on her face.

And still said: God never makes a mistake.

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P.S. I listened to this story from a podcast called Forgotten. The host, Ronnie Brown, told it in a way that stopped me cold. I sat in my truck and didn’t move for ten minutes after it ended. Elizabeth Prentiss lost everything and her only prayer was more love. That’s the kind of faith that makes me feel like I haven’t even started yet.

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His name was Daniel Nash. He was a rejected, broken pastor who lost his church and nearly lost his sight. But in the darkness, God forged him into a weapon. Nash became Finney’s personal intercessor. He would slip into towns weeks before the revivals, rent a damp cellar, and pray for days without food until the spiritual darkness broke.

Finney preached to the multitudes. Nash stayed in the shadows, face down on the floor, bleeding for the souls of men.

In this episode of Follow Me, we look at the forgotten life of Brother Nash. It’s a brutal reminder that the greatest work in the Kingdom of God isn’t done on a stage. It’s done in the closet.

Listen now. And then go find your closet.

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She was the daughter of a farmer. Gilbert Wilson, Glenvernock. A quiet man who bent when the pressure came. He and his wife conformed. Joined the Church of England. Kept their heads down. Kept their land. Their children would not.

Margaret, eighteen. Her brother Thomas, sixteen. Her sister Agnes, thirteen.They walked into the hills. They lived in caves. Hunted like criminals for the crime of believing Jesus Christ — not King Charles — was head of His church.

That’s the whole thing. That’s what she died for. A sentence about headship.

February 1685. Margaret and Agnes came down from the hills. Went to Wigtown to visit believers. Someone told. Someone always tells.Arrested. Thrown in jail. Agnes was thirteen years old.

Locked up with them: Margaret McLachlan. Sixty-three. A widow. Small woman. No threat to anyone. They were offered a way out. The Oath of Abjuration. Just say it. King is supreme. Church is his. Say the words and go home.

None of them said it.

April 13. Sentenced. Tied to stakes in the Solway Firth. Drowned by the incoming tide. Their father Gilbert rode to Edinburgh. Sold everything he had. Raised a hundred pounds. Bought Agnes’s release.

He could only save one.

He came home without Margaret.

Here’s what the local authorities did with the reprieve the Privy Council signed. They ignored it. The paperwork existed. The order came down. Margaret Wilson was not supposed to die that day. They killed her anyway.

May 11, 1685.

The Solway Firth at high tide.

They drove two stakes into the wet sand. The old woman’s stake went farthest from shore. The logic was deliberate — the eighteen-year-old would stand closer, and she would watch Margaret McLachlan drown first.

Psychological war. Against an eighteen-year-old.

The tide came in. The old woman went under. A soldier cut her throat. The water went red. A soldier looked at Margaret. “What do you think of her now?”

Margaret Wilson looked at the body floating in the Solway.

“What do I see but Christ wrestling there. Think ye that we are the sufferers? No, it is Christ in us, for he sends none a warfare upon their own charges.”

She was standing in saltwater. A dead woman was ten yards away. She started to sing. Psalm 25, from verse 7. “Remember not the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions: according to thy mercy remember thou me for thy goodness’ sake, O LORD.”

Singing. In the water. Tide rising.

Then she read Romans 8 aloud. The whole chapter. “With a great deal of cheerfulness,” the witnesses said. I want to sit with that phrase. A great deal of cheerfulness. Standing in the Solway Firth. Singing psalms. Reading Paul.

“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?”

She had the answer.

The water kept rising.

They pulled her up one last time. She was still alive. A friend — someone who loved her —screamed from the shore.

“Margaret. Just say ‘God save the King.’ Just say it.”

She looked up.

“God save him, if He will, for it is his salvation I desire.”

Not enough. They wanted the oath. The whole thing. Say the King is supreme. Say it.

“I will not. I am one of Christ’s children. Let me go.”

A soldier forced her head under the water.

He said: “Take another drink.”

She drowned.

I don’t know what to do with this story.

That’s the truth. I’ve sat with it for days and I don’t have a clean thought at the end. No takeaway. No three steps. I’m forty-four. I’ve been in church since I was 12. I’ve taught Sunday School for years. I know every right answer. I’ve never been tested like that.

Not once.

I’ve been uncomfortable. I’ve been broke. I’ve been afraid. I carried something for thirty-one years I couldn’t say out loud — and that nearly killed me in a different way. But no one has ever put me in the water. And here’s what I can’t shake.

She was eighteen.

She had less life behind her than most men have regrets. She had less theology than most guys who argue about church government on the internet. She had no platform, no audience, no one watching who could help her.

She had a Bible she’d apparently memorized.

And when they gave her the choice — say the words or die — she said no.Then she sang.

That’s you. That’s me. That’s every man sitting in a comfortable chair who has never been asked to pay anything real for what he claims to believe.

What do we have that she didn’t?

More information. More comfort. More options. More ways to avoid the question. She had none of those. The water came in anyway. I’m not going to tell you that you need to die for your faith. You’re not going to be tied to a stake in the Solway Firth. That’s not the point. The point is the cheerfulness.A great deal of cheerfulness. Standing in death, she was more alive than most men I know. She was not performing courage. She wasn’t grinding her teeth through it. She sang. She read Romans 8 out loud in the water like it was Sunday morning. I want to know where that comes from. I think I know. I think she’d spent so many years in the caves with nothing but the Word that ithad become her actual reality. More real than the water. More real than the soldier. More real than her own fear.

“It is Christ in us.”

That’s not a theology statement. That’s a description of what she was experiencing in real time. Christ in her. The water rising. And Him — present. Wrestling there.

A man who mocked her at trial watched her die.

He said: “We have drowned a saint.”

Even he knew.

Her stone in Wigtown reads like it was carved by someone who had no more words:

“Here lyes a virgine martyre here. Murther’d for ouning Christ supreame head of His church, and no more crime.”

No more crime.

She owned that Christ was King. That was the whole thing. I don’t know what you do with this. I don’t know what I do with it. Except sit in it for a while. Let it do its work. Let an eighteen-year-old girl ask you something you haven’t been willing to ask yourself.

What would you not let go?

If this hit you, share it. Someone in your circle needs to read this today.

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Wolverine. Logan. Whatever you want to call him.

He’s standing in a forest. Beaten to heck. Bloody. Scarred up. Looking like he just went ten rounds with a cement mixer.

The caption said: “How men feel just rawdogging life alone, without anyone cheering them on.”

I felt that in my bones.

That’s it, isn’t it?

That’s the secret feeling most of us carry around. The world sees the suit, or the uniform, or the calloused hands. They see the guy who shows up, does the work, pays the bills.

They don’t see the war behind the eyes.

They don’t see the guy sitting in the truck in the driveway for ten minutes, just trying to find the strength to walk inside and pretend he’s not getting his teeth kicked in by life.

Rawdogging it.

No support. No backup. Just you against the world, the flesh, and the devil. And the devil is a cheater.

That image hit me because it’s true. And it’s a lie.

It’s true because that’s how so many of us live. Isolated. Islands. Believing the lie that we have to be a self-made man, a lone wolf, a rock.

But a rock just sinks.

A wolf alone is just a target.

And a self-made man is a myth cooked up by guys who want to sell you something.

This is why I started this transmission with Brandon.

It’s not a podcast. It’s a signal flare from one trench to another.

Brandon and I are just a couple of mangy mutts. We’re not special. We’re not gurus. We’re just two guys who figured out that a man alone is a dead man.

So we call each other. Every single morning.

Not because we’re soft. Not because we need to “process our feelings” or find a “safe space.”

We do it because we’re smart enough to know the enemy is real. We do it because we’re humble enough to know we can’t see our own blind spots. We do it because the Bible doesn’t talk about lone-wolf Christians. It talks about a body. An army.

We are at war. Every day. You wake up and the battle is already raging.

And the modern church? It’s not helping. It’s selling you a cruise ship when you need a battleship. As I said in the transmission, “Religion will just take you to hell in a more cushioned carriage.” It’s a comfortable ride to the wrong destination.

It gives you programs and coffee bars and a 3-step plan to a better you.

It doesn’t give you a brother to call when you’re ready to burn it all down.

It doesn’t give you a man who will look you in the eye and tell you you’re wrong, or that he’s praying for you, or that he’s been there too.

That’s what this is about.

This isn’t about being perfect. It’s about getting back up.

For a just man falleth seven times, and riseth up again: but the wicked shall fall into mischief. (Proverbs 24:16)

Seven times. That’s a lot of falling.

That’s a Monday for some of us.

The difference isn’t in the falling. Everyone falls. The righteous and the wicked both hit the mat.

The difference is in the getting up.

And sometimes, you can’t get up on your own.

Sometimes you need a hand reaching down. Sometimes you just need to hear another guy’s voice, another soldier in the same war, to remember you’re not insane. You’re not the only one.

Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God. (Psalm 42:11)

That’s the question. And the answer is always the same. Hope in God.

But sometimes that hope feels a million miles away. Sometimes it needs a human voice. A brother who can remind you of the truth when all you can hear are the lies.

That’s what these transmissions are. It’s me and Brandon, figuring it out in real-time. It’s not polished. It’s not professional. It’s raw. It’s real.

It’s a record of two guys getting knocked down and getting back up, by the grace of God.

If you’re out there rawdogging life, I get it. But you don’t have to.

Stop pretending you’re Wolverine. He’s a comic book character. You’re a man. And men need brothers.

Listen to the transmission.

If it hits you where you live, subscribe. Share it with another man who needs to hear it.

This is how we fight back. Together.

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I was not planning to. I sat down to write, and the verse would not leave me alone. Proverbs 24:16.

For a just man falleth seven times, and riseth up again: but the wicked shall fall into mischief.

Read that again. Slowly.

The righteous man falls more. Not less. More. Seven times. The wicked man falls once — into mischief, into ruin — because he never stood up in the first place. You cannot fall if you are already on the ground.

The only man who keeps falling is the man who keeps getting up.

I fall in my home. I fall in my heart. I fall when no one is watching and the house is dark and the only sound is my breathing.

Over on The Biblical Man, I am the man with the sword. Over here, I want to be the man with the scars.

There was a night a few years ago when I understood what it means to fall into mischief — to fall once and stay down. I was on the floor. Not metaphorically. The actual floor. The door was locked. My phone was buzzing but I could not answer it. Everything I had built, everything I was — it was over.

And in that silence — the kind that has weight to it, that presses into your chest — I heard something. Not a voice. Not a verse. Just a single word rising from somewhere deeper than my own mind.

Again.

I thought of Jacob. He wrestled with God before the sun came up and walked with a limp for the rest of his life. He got a new name, but he paid for it with a broken hip. From then on, the way that man walked was different because of what he had met that night.

There on that floor, I felt that breaking. Not a hip. Something deeper. My pride. My certainty. The part of me that thought I was strong enough to do this on my own.

I did not pray for victory. I did not even pray for deliverance. I had no words. I just whispered it again. The only word I had left.

Again.

It is not a prayer of faith. It is a prayer of defiance. A prayer from the bottom of the pit that says: You can break my bones, but you cannot have my will.

My knees cracked. My back ached. I pushed myself off the floor.

I rose up again.

The rising is not a single moment. It is not a victory speech. It is a quiet, ugly decision to put your feet on the cold floor when every part of you wants to stay down.

It is opening the Word. Not for a sermon. Not for content. For a lifeline.

It is a prayer that is not eloquent. Just a single word. Help.

Those notes became the first posts I put on Follow Me.

This is the receipt. This is the cost of following Jesus in a world that wants you to stay down. It is not clean. It is not pretty. But it is real.

This is not a publication about answers. The Biblical Man — I put the answers there. This is a publication about the questions that come at 4 AM.

The falling is not the shame. The falling is the proof.

We fall. We rise. We fall again.

Some truths can only be bought with scars.

Press play. This morning’s episode is above.

I got an email this morning from a 62-year-old man. He has been a Christian since he was five. He wrote to tell me that these devotionals have helped him more than I will ever know. That knowing God was beside him in some of his darkest times has meant so much. That I opened his eyes to a whole new picture of God, the Bible, Jesus, and how complex and powerful and loving He truly is.

Then he said: I know you are being attacked and persecuted, but I want you to know that you have meant so much to me.

He asked me to continue the fight.

Challenge accepted.

If this hit you, do three things for me:

* Pray for me. I mean that.

* Forward this to one man who needs it. You know who he is. The one who makes everyone laugh and goes home and stares at the ceiling.

* Subscribe. If you are reading this for free and it has ministered to you, become a paid subscriber. Not because I need the money. Because this is how we keep the lights on in a ministry that the world would rather shut down. $8 a month. The cost of two coffees to keep a man writing the truth at 4 AM.

Fight on.

Until next time, this is Adam. Out.

Follow Me is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

P.S. — Every paid subscriber gets access to the full archive — the posts I cannot publish anywhere else. The war journal. The 4 AM confessions. The scars behind the sword. If Follow Me has meant something to you, join the men who are choosing to stay in the fight.

P.S.S. — If you came here from The Biblical Man and you have not read “The Jester” yet — read it. It is the most honest thing I have ever written. And it is only the beginning of what I am going to say over here.

This morning, I got on the phone with my brother in Christ, Brandon — an Army veteran who spent years in the Middle East — and we talked about what nobody in your church is going to talk about this Sunday.

The bombs are falling on Iran right now. Strategic strikes. Oil infrastructure. Defense systems. Israel has eyes on the ground. And the Daily Mail just published an article claiming this is one of “four biblical signs the world has entered the end of days.”

They cited Matthew 24. They cited Ezekiel 35. They cited 1 Thessalonians 5:3.

And they got every single one of them wrong.

The media does not understand the Word of God. They are using it to stoke fear, to drive clicks, to make money off your anxiety. They are playing to the fleshly need of people to know what the future holds. But God holds the future in His hand. And Jesus told you plainly — wars and rumours of wars, see that ye be not troubled.

We also talked about:

The Jared Kushner Antichrist theory — why people are running with it and why it matters less than you think.

The Save America Act — five points that should not even be a debate. Voter ID. Proof of citizenship. No mail-in ballots. No men in women’s sports. No transgender mutilation surgery for children. And somehow Congress is still “contemplating.”

Revival — Our church has grown by a third. Sunday mornings are packed. People are singing loudly. Something is happening.

And at the end, I teased what is coming next. An exorcist priest went on the Sean Ryan Show and said that demons manifest themselves as aliens. UFOs. Bigfoot. The unexplained. We are going to go there.

Because someone does not want you looking at the Word of God. Someone does not want you finding peace. Someone wants you afraid and troubled — because if you are afraid and troubled, you are not going to be effective.

This is what Follow Me was built for.

Hit play. Subscribe. And if this is the kind of conversation your small group is too afraid to have, forward this to the one man you know who is ready.

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An exorcist went on the biggest podcast in the world this week. Nearly two million people watched. The comments are a river of fear and half-formed prayers. “I need to get my life in order.” “Pray for me.” “Is this real?”

Everyone is asking the same question.

Who is the antichrist? When will he come? Is the chip the mark? Is the digital currency the mark? Is this priest right?

Wrong questions. All of them.

The right question is what in you will love him when he arrives.

You are being trained.

Not by a shadowy cabal. Not by a government. By your own appetites. By the small surrenders you make every single day for a softer, easier, more comfortable life.

Every time you choose distraction over discipline, you are practicing. Every time you nod along to a sermon that costs you nothing, you are rehearsing. Every time you trade the hard word of God for the soft poison of the world, you are laying another stone in his temple.

You are building a throne for the antichrist in your own heart. And you do not even know it.

The scripture does not describe a monster.

Let no man deceive you by any means: for that day shall not come, except there come a falling away first, and that man of sin be revealed, the son of perdition; Who opposeth and exalteth himself above all that is called God, or that is worshipped; so that he as God sitteth in the temple of God, shewing himself that he is God. (2 Thessalonians 2:3-4, KJV)

A falling away first. Not a marching in. A slow erosion. A quiet turning of the heart. The man of sin does not conquer a people. He inherits them. He sits in the temple. And the temple is you.

For the mystery of iniquity doth already work. (2 Thessalonians 2:7)

It is already at work. Not coming. Working. Right now. In your living room. In your pocket. In the silence where your family prayer should be.

He will not come with horns and fire. He will come with solutions.

A secular history channel — not a pastor, not a theologian — laid this out with cold clarity. He will be a benefactor. A uniter. A man of peace. He will solve the world’s problems. He will make so much sense. He will feel like relief.

Watch it. See how the world already understands the prophecy. They describe a charismatic savior who imitates the light. A man so reasonable, so compassionate, so effective, that to oppose him will look like madness.

And the world will love him. Because he will be the culmination of everything they have been trained to worship.

Now turn the lens.

Your entertainment is your liturgy. You sit in the glow of the screen and you are catechized. The stories you consume teach you what is good, what is true, what is worth wanting. The algorithm is your pastor. It knows your secret heart. It knows what you crave, what you fear, what you hate. And it feeds you. Endlessly. It gives you teachers with itching ears, who tell you what you want to hear.

Your comfort is your idol. You have built a life around the avoidance of pain. You cannot tolerate silence. You cannot endure boredom. You cannot face your own soul without a screen between you and it. When the man of sin arrives and offers a world without friction, a world without suffering, a world of total seamless comfort — what in you will have the strength to refuse?

Your church is his seminary. The pastor who avoids the hard texts and calls it being relevant. The worship leader who curates a 40-minute emotional experience with lights and smoke and measures success by the raising of hands, not the repentance of hearts. They are training you to prefer a god who serves your needs, not a God who demands your life. When the real counterfeit shows up, he will look, sound, and feel just like the god you already worship.

Your home is his forward operating base. Your son watched something last night on the phone you pay for, on the wifi you provide, in the bedroom you built for him. You have no idea what it planted in him. Your daughter follows someone you have never heard of. A voice, a face, an influence shaping her soul hour by hour. This teacher has more access to her heart than you do. And you are paying the bill.

You are not scrolling. You are being catechized.

Beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God: because many false prophets are gone out into the world. (1 John 4:1, KJV )

And every spirit that confesseth not that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is not of God: and this is that spirit of antichrist, whereof ye have heard that it should come; and even now already is it in the world. (1 John 4:3, KJV)

Even now already is it in the world.

Not coming. Here. In the world. In your church. In your home. In the secret places of your heart where you have made room for a savior who costs you nothing.

Stop looking for a man on a throne. Start looking at the man in the mirror.

The spirit of antichrist is not a future political event. It is a present spiritual condition. And you are marinating in it. You drink it when you choose the algorithm over the Book. You drink it when you nod along to a gospel stripped of its blood and its thorns. You drink it when you choose the easy way, the pleasing lie, the self-serving narrative.

Every time you do, you lay another stone in his temple.

I feel it in my own bones. The pull to be reasonable. The temptation to soften the edges. To make it palatable. To build a following instead of calling disciples. The fear is not that he is coming. The fear is that when he arrives, he will look like a brother. He will sound like wisdom. He will feel like home. And we will not have the strength to turn away. Because we have spent our whole lives turning towards him in a thousand small ways.

This is the work now. Not to scan the headlines for a villain. But to scan our own hearts for the treason that welcomes him. To build a home the world cannot enter. To raise children who can spot the forgery.

The question is not whether he is coming.

The question is whether you will be ready when he does.

Or whether you will call him lord and thank him for the chains.

— Adam.

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P.S. This is why I started Follow Me. The things I am writing here, I cannot put on The Biblical Man. This is the conversation for people who know there is a war on and are willing to fight it.

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I hate asking. But the work is too important to let the enemy win by attrition.

Things were stolen from my store while my family slept. Not random. Not an accident. Targeted. Because every time I touch these subjects, the enemy answers.

I am not telling you that for sympathy. I am telling you so you understand the nature of this work.

For a long time, I have written at The Biblical Man. Scripture. Conviction. Truth spoken plainly to men who need it. That does not change. That is the rock.

But there is a cost to standing on that rock. A cost I have not always shown you.

There is a battle that comes when you speak truth in the hearing of the devil. He does not argue with the message. He attacks the messenger. He comes for your livelihood. He comes for your peace. He sends his servants to disrupt, to steal, to cause chaos while your family is sleeping.

“For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”

That is not a verse for a postcard. That is a war report.

God’s first institution was not the church. It was the home. He made man. He made woman. He said be fruitful and multiply. He gave them dominion. And then the serpent came. The lie. The fruit. And dominion was handed over.

We live in the wreckage of that rebellion. The god of this world controls the systems. The veil is torn, and people are seeing it now. Sick men run this world. Devil-possessed men. They aim for women and children. They are methodical. And they do not stop.

This is why Follow Me exists.

Not as a second publication. As a deeper one.

The Biblical Man is for the truth of Scripture. Follow Me is for the cost of that truth. The spiritual warfare. The personal testimony. The live recordings and conversations I cannot put anywhere else. The journal of a man on the narrow way.

I recorded a short message explaining the rest. Hit play. Hear it in my voice.

This is not for everyone. It is for the man who knows there is a war on. A war for his home. For his children. For his own soul.

If that is you, then come.

— Adam

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P.S. This work costs me something real. If you want to stand in this fight, you can become a paid subscriber. Your support keeps this independent.