The Vet and the Shaman

I never imagined that one day my best friend would become my husband’s brother, not by blood, but in every way that matters.

On paper, they couldn’t be more different. My husband — the conservative Navy combat vet with a body that carries the scars of service and sacrifice — and the shaman who works with energy, clears spaces, and fights in the shadows you can’t see.

In real life, they’re cut from the same cloth: loving, loyal, and unwilling to give up on the people they care about. They were strangers, but something unspoken passed between them. Maybe it was the recognition of another man who’s seen hard things and is still standing.

It didn’t take long for them to figure out they both knew how to fight — my husband with the battles he’s faced in uniform and in life, and Eduardo with the battles he faces in spirit. Somehow, those two battlegrounds became the same fight: protecting our little family and keeping the light in and the dark out.

My husband might joke with him too much, but underneath is something rare. They’ve both been knocked down by life — literally hit in the head harder than most people could imagine — and still, they laugh, they choose kindness, and they keep showing up.

Watching them together, I see it: the beauty of two worlds colliding. Not to cancel each other out, but to build something more substantial. And maybe that’s the real magic — not just the sage, the scripture, or the rituals, but the brotherhood that grew where no one would have thought to plant it.

The Psalm 91 Show

Our Shaman, our friend, our brother is pacing barefoot in our yard, sage smoke drifting like he’s marinating the lawn, chanting in that deep rhythm:

“OM NOM NOM PIKA NOM…”

My husband watches, narrowing his eyes the way only a combat vet can. In his head, he’s thinking, I’ve been in war zones less confusing than this.

Then he grins and says out loud, “You can’t even find this kind of entertainment on YouTube.”

Once the yard is sealed, he steps inside, pulls out Psalm 91, and starts the limpia. Out comes the egg — his spiritual lint roller — and he rolls it over my husband slowly, voice steady as he reads:

“He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge; His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.”

With every pass, he’s not just clearing heaviness; he’s battling spirits and sweeping out the stubborn moods that try to stick. The egg quietly gathers whatever shadows dared to hang on while his voice flows like a shield wrapping the room.

When he’s done, the egg takes the plunge into water — swirls and bubbles telling their quiet story. His voice lingers with the closing promise:

“For He will command His angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.”

We might joke with our friend. We might even roll our eyes when he’s pacing the yard barefoot, chanting to the wind. But we also know the truth — God works through him.

We’ve felt it.

And whether it’s Psalm 91, an egg, or that wild chant, our shaman has a way of pushing back the dark and letting the light rush in.