In the weird, wild, and wonderful era of the ’90s, my brothers and I had a ritual that defined our week: watching Monday night wrestling.
I was the oldest, with Sean three years behind me and Andrew trailing another four. Our age gaps were big enough for bickering but close enough to create a kind of tag-team loyalty.
Every Monday night, without fail, we’d inhale dinner like a pack of raccoons and then launch ourselves onto the living room floor for what mattered most: the Monday Night Wars on our console TV. This was before HD and 4K. We were grateful to have a satellite.
Back then, there wasn’t just one wrestling show. There were two cultural juggernauts: WWE’s Monday Night Raw and WCW’s Monday Nitro. It was like Marvel and DC going head-to-head right in front of you as your little brothers laid down with their heads propped in their hands, shoulder-to-shoulder.
Turns out, God doesn’t always show up in church pews or devotionals. Sometimes he shows up in consistency, in habits that hold you when your faith feels quiet.
Forget DVR. If you had to pee, you better sprint. Snack break? Only during commercials. And if you changed the channel without a vote, you were the heel of the household.
We lived for it. Stone Cold Steve Austin, Kane, The Rock, Goldberg, Sting, NWO—this was our golden age, and we were ringside with our carpet wrestling mat.
But then life hit us with its own twist ending.
Somewhere between heel turns and pay-per-view specials, real life body-slammed us. Our parents divorced in the late ’90s, and suddenly the house that once echoed with Monday night hype felt quiet. Heavy.
But wrestling didn’t change. And we were still brothers.
So we clung to it.
Every Monday became sacred. A kind of reset button. The storylines were wild, often absurd, but dependable. Predictable in the best way. Who was going to win? Who would interfere? Who would jump ship to the competition? Inquiring minds wanted to know, and we were there for it.
For a few hours, we weren’t three kids navigating grief and growing up too fast. We were just us again. Three boys sprawled on the carpet, arguing about whether Sting would finally speak or if The Rock was done talking. (Spoiler: He wasn’t.)
And that routine, as silly as it might sound, gave us something solid when everything else felt fractured. It gave us a rhythm. A story to follow. A reason to lean in instead of drift apart.
Looking back, I think God gave us that. Not because wrestling is spiritual in itself, but because the act of showing up for each other—week after week—was. It was grace in spandex. It was healing hidden in habit.
Turns out, God doesn’t always show up in church pews or devotionals. Sometimes he shows up in consistency, in habits that hold you when your faith feels quiet. Monday nights weren’t a Bible study, but they were a service of togetherness. The carpet was never sacred, but the space between us was.
There was one storyline that captured our attention more than any other: Sting.
Not the loud, colorful Sting from the early ’90s with the blonde buzz cut, but rather, the version who returned with dark hair, Crow face paint, and an aura of silent justice. Sting didn’t speak. He watched from the shadows while Hollywood Hulk Hogan and the NWO cheated, gloated, and ruled the WCW unchecked. We would watch a whole episode to see Sting in the rafters for a few minutes. Awesome!
Sting was the hero in the background, the one we kept tuning in to see. He reminded us of the kind of justice we hoped for in real life. That the bad guys wouldn’t always win. That someone would rise up and make things right.
When he finally got his title shot and beat Hogan, it was electric. The good guys didn’t just win a belt. They got their dignity back. And so did we, somehow.
As time rolled on, life moved forward. I got older, got a job, and eventually bought my first house. My youngest brother Andrew moved in while he was in college, and just like that, Monday night wrestling was resurrected Undertaker-style minus the gong sound.
Instead of laying on the floor, we camped on the couch, each with our own medium Domino’s pizza and a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper or Sun Drop between us like a tag-team partner. I was dating my wife Karen at the time, and she would stop by and just shake her head.
“Y’all are ridiculous,” she’d say, laughing.
We’d shrug, take a bite, and reply, “It’s Monday.”
Eventually, marriage and kids rearranged the rhythm but not the heart of it. Mondays have changed to Fridays, but wrestling is still involved. Only now, I’m surrounded by a new generation of super fans: my kids.
They’ve got their own favorites now: LA Knight (mine, too), Roman Reigns, CM Punk. They pile onto the couch like it’s a Royal Rumble. They cut promos in the living room. They place their bets on who will win.
We talk about cheaters and champions and why “faces” (the good guys) don’t just cheat back. That opens the door to talk about character, self-control, and why we don’t repay evil with evil.
Sometimes they ask me how my day was. Sometimes I ask about school. And just like that, while watching a match with folding chairs and pyrotechnics, our guards are down. There’s room for real connection.
That’s the thing I never saw coming. That this goofy, over-the-top ritual would create sacred space in my parenting. I’m not raising wrestlers. I’m raising kids who know what it feels like to belong. To have a shared thing. A rhythm. A built-in time when I show up, not just as their dad, but as a teammate in their corner. I still talk about the time I spent with my brothers, and I hope they tell their kids about Friday nights spent with Dad.
People love to mock wrestling. “It’s fake.” “It’s scripted.” “It’s just a sweaty soap opera in spandex.”
And sure, some of that’s true. But so is every movie that made us cry and every book that changed our lives. The truth isn’t in the punches. It’s in the connection.
Wrestling was never just about the ring. It was about the floor. Then the couch. Now, the spot between my kids where we all lean in a little closer during the big moments. It was about the inside jokes, the routine, the chance to sit shoulder-to-shoulder when eye-to-eye felt too hard.
It wasn’t therapy. But it was healing.
And maybe that’s what grace sometimes looks like: loud, chaotic, over-the-top… and exactly what we needed. Not because it was profound, but because it was consistent. Because in the middle of all the noise, it made space for us to show up. We knew that we three brothers were going to spend some time together.
Sting may have fought from the shadows. But we learned something from him. Something the gospel echoes louder than a championship pop: In the end, good wins. Justice matters. And redemption is always worth watching for.
Even if it comes with entrance music and pyro.
