The church was going to conduct a prison crusade – where prisoners are kept. Not the sort that I fish, hunt, or drink coffee with. But the sort that authorities have determined need to be separated from society. I found myself swallowing hard, knowing full-well the scriptural commands to visit the imprisoned. Surely the scripture reference was to political prisoners, or for the days of debtors’ prison?

There was to be singing, testimonials, preaching… and handshaking. Lots of handshaking.

And there was going to be visitation inside the prison barracks, inside the communal cells where they lived. And more handshaking.

Conscience–bound, I volunteered. Maybe my name would not be approved by prison officials, or my name would be confused with someone not allowed within the walls and barbed wire. Or maybe there would be another type of mistake, and they would keep me, as in lock me up.

Friday evening and Saturday morning proceeded well enough. I didn’t faint away after all, and they didn’t escort me to a cell of my very own. During the service, with us sitting up front, my eye seemed to return to a particular hard-case-appearing convict as he sat in the front row, arms crossed, eyes covered by sunglasses. I wondered about his crimes.

At the end of the Saturday morning service, volunteers were to mingle and pray with those who responded for prayer. Guess who towered over me near the altar? Only he wasn’t wearing the sunglasses and it wasn’t onions watering his eyes, but the calling of the Holy Spirit. The man was thanking and praising God. Me too.

Saturday evening brought more singing, testimonies, preaching, praying, visiting, and hand-shaking, lots of hand-shaking.

On Saturday evening, after the service, a Hispanic prisoner addressed me and our interpreter, a man of our church. The prisoner related how tired he was of continually messing up, continually getting into trouble, that he was truly tired of it.

The words from my mouth were every bit true. I didn’t think about what I might say to the absolutely sincere man. I’m a Do-It-Yourselfer. And I have the scars to prove it. After the man remarked of his feelings, I blurted out, starting with my chainsaw-scarred knee, proceeding over my torso, arms and hands identifying scars and the power tools involved in my injuries. I told him of the many trips to the doctor’s office and to the emergency room.

“Not once,” I told him, “Had any doctor ever told me he was tired of helping me, treating me, caring for me. Not once had any doctor refused his care. No one ever told me I’d messed up too many times. And that was what Doctor Jesus would say to you now.”

We prayed.

Thank you, Mr. Pedro South of the Border convict. And thank you Mr. Purple Sunglasses Dude. I pray for you both often… and would be proud to shake your hands.