Lend a hand. Lend your truck. Lend an ear while skinning a deer. 

            Such is friendship between guys: working together...pulling together…a slap on the back…a nod of the head.   

            No explanations required.  

            Such friendships have shaped my priesthood more than any theology course or seminary training.

            Show me your friends, show me yourself.  

            Let me tell you about Quint. He’s divorced, has two daughters and runs a construction business in a small town. I grab supper at his house each week after ministering at a nearby prison.  

            This evening, when I pull up, Quint’s chopping wood. He’ll be grilling steaks. Or brats. Or catfish. Maybe mushrooms and peppers on the side. I get out of my truck, pet his dog, then walk over to shake his hand—wincing inwardly at the crushing grip I’m about to experience.   

            The hearty welcome will compensate for momentary pain.

            Quint reaches into a cooler hands me a Shiner. I take a seat on his porch and feel the tension in my neck relax. It’s been a long day. A class on the Eucharist, spiritual direction, group discussions. I glance at the bottle in my hand. Interactions inside the prison are different than interactions in a small town. Behind the walls conversations are guarded and handshakes are rare.

            My mind drifts to the room where I counseled an inmate earlier in the day. Tattooed and distraught, the young man sat hunched in chair, his hands clasped in front of him. He relaxed his grip only when wiping tears from his face.

            I feel a nudge my knee. Quint’s dog is staring at me with a twig in his mouth. I grab the stick and give it a throw. “Fetch!”

            Supper opens in the kitchen with prayer. Quint’s table is cluttered with files, envelopes and receipts. I cut into a ribeye and ask him who has horse hay for sale. He refers me to a neighbor, then mentions that his youngest daughter made the cheerleading squad. I report that my place received seven-tenths of an inch of rain. He comments on the rising price of steel. I ask about the worker he let go last week. He shakes his head. I decide not to rehash an argument with my bishop.

            “There’s a new film about St. Maximillian Kolbe.” I pass him the salt. “It takes place inside the cell where he and nine others were sent to die.”

            Quint nods. “I admire St. Max.” He grins. “Did you know that I’m named after San Quentin?”

            I laugh and we continue with supper. If I’m lucky, there’ll be Oreos for dessert. Quint won't allow me to help with the dishes--he'll stack in the sink and wash them next week. His friendship, like his handshake, assures me of God’s grip on my life.

            On my drive home, I stop at a crossroad and notice the prison’s guard towers in the distance. The sun has nearly set and the lonesome landscape lends itself to prayer. I think again of the inmate with clenched hands.

            “Pry open his fists.” I whisper as the engine idles, my eyes on a buck peering from a stand of brush. “You’ve lanced his heart, Lord. Now, pry open his fists.”