From the Battlefield to the Porch: Healing, Faith and Music with Brother P

There’s a kind of quiet that only comes after chaos — a stillness that feels earned. That’s where I found Brother P, or as the world knows him, The Sky Priest. A war vet, a musician, and a man who’s walked through the fire and learned how to heal in the open air. 

We sat down one Sunday night, just two voices from different sides of the world, meeting somewhere between faith, music, and the long road home. 

“Mental health is being in control of my mind.” 

That’s how he began — no hesitation, just truth. He told me about the years when his mind didn’t feel like his own — the sleepless nights, the noise that wouldn’t quit. 

“It felt like someone hijacked my brain,” he said. “There was this person in my head wrecking shop — arguing, keeping me awake. I didn’t like that person.” 

And I got it. That sense that someone else has the wheel, that your body’s just the passenger. We’ve all been there in one way or another — drifting but still awake, fighting a storm only we can hear. 

Small Things, Big Healing 

He told me that healing doesn’t start in a therapist’s office — it starts in the kitchen sink. Every morning, he washes one dish he’s left from the night before. 

“When I wash that plate, I think about the meal I had. It reminds me of yesterday — to be grateful, to reflect.” 

That one line said everything. Healing isn’t always fireworks; sometimes it’s routine. Sometimes it’s just clearing space — on the bench, and in the mind. 

I told him how a friend once taught us to never leave dirty dishes overnight, and how something as simple as that made the mornings quieter, lighter. He smiled and said, “Exactly.” 

Faith, Meditation and Morning Gratitude 

Brother P grew up in Thailand, where every school day began with meditation. Later, life took him through war and into Christianity, but the practice stayed with him. 

“When I speak God’s words out loud, it’s like a deep-tissue brain massage,” he laughed. “It’s dopamine for the soul.” 

We talked about how both faith and mindfulness are languages of grounding — how saying thank you can change the chemical storm inside your head. He doesn’t sit cross-legged in silence; his prayers come while sweeping the porch, cooking breakfast, or walking through the park to watch the deer. 

And I told him that peace doesn’t always need a ceremony — sometimes it’s just in remembering to breathe. 

When the World Tells You to Keep Producing 

We spoke about burnout — the kind that hides behind the phrase “I’m fine.” He said, 

“The world measures your worth by how much you can produce. But what’s the price tag on your peace?” 

That question stopped me cold. I’ve been that person — working, proving, pretending. We both had. The houses, the jobs, the cars — we had it all except ourselves. 

“I had the BMW, the jewelry, the dinners out … but we were dead inside,” he said. And I told him how we’d once looked at our own lives and realized we were living someone else’s dream. Sometimes peace looks like leaving — like an Exodus, as he called it — leaving Egypt, leaving the noise. 

The Battle Within and The Power of Honesty 

We talked about therapy. About self-medication. About silence. He laughed at how absurd it feels now — how long he believed not talking was strength. 

“It’s not funny, but it’s hilarious how dumb we can be,” he said. “I was this hard man — forged through poverty and war — and therapy melted me. It opened my heart.” 

That line stayed with me. Because I’d been there too — the quiet wars, the moments you think about not being here anymore. I told him about those dark years in the Wheatbelt, when we could barely afford food and almost gave up. He nodded slowly, the way someone does when they’ve stood in the same storm. 

We agreed — honesty is the first act of survival. And once you start telling the truth, you realize how many others have been waiting to do the same. 

Music, Silence and Everything In Between 

For both of us, music was medicine. For him, it was the place he could be real. For me, it was the bridge to understanding others. 

He talked about walking at 3 a.m. with a rucksack on his back, humming into the dark to fight his demons. I told him how, after leaving the city, I’d stopped listening to music and started listening to the birds. That silence became its own song — one that slowed the heart, one that let the world in again. 

“Peace has a sound,” he said. “Sometimes it’s a melody. Sometimes it’s the quiet.” 

Leaving to Find Yourself 

“That life you imagine,” he told me, “it’s real — it’s touchable. But you have to leave to find it.” 

That’s something I’ve learned too. You can’t keep living the same story and expect a new ending. Sometimes you have to burn the script and walk out of frame. And maybe that’s what healing really is — remembering that you’re allowed to rewrite your own story. 

Reflections from Uncle Tatt 

Talking with Brother P reminded me that healing isn’t about becoming perfect; it’s about learning to love the parts of yourself that survived. We might live on opposite sides of the world — me in a unicorn onesie under the Australian sky, him on a porch in Texas — but we’re speaking the same language: truth, music, and grace. 

If you’re still in the fight, start small. Wash one dish. Say one prayer. Hum one tune. You deserve peace — and it’s closer than you think. 

You Are Not Alone 

If this story resonates with you, please reach out. Talk to someone. Visit BTN-Music.club for more Mental Health Chats, stories, and support links. Because your voice matters — and the world needs to hear it.