A friend recently retired from the military and moved to Arkansas with his family. I gave him a call to ask how the transition was going.
            “The new job’s a good fit.” he said. “And I like our parish.”
            “What do you like about it?”
            “The men’s group.”
            “What do you do?”           
            “We drink beer.”
            I thought a moment. “So, what do you talk about when you drink those beers ?”
            “Nothing, really.” He chuckled.  “My wife hates it when I say that. But you know what I mean.”
            Exactly. I experienced the same thing two days prior at Jorge’s Bar and Grill.
            It was noon and the place was crowded. Two priest friends arrived from Mass at the cathedral and a third came from attending to an elderly parent. I had just endured a chiropractic appointment.
            We talked about the recent Buffalo-Cincinnati game where a player was hauled off the field. One of the guys gave a review of the bishop’s homily at the Mass. Someone else mentioned the cost of clerical attire. We commented on the weather, speculated about upcoming parish assignments and complained about road construction.
            Mixed into the flow, like fish in a stream, were moments when we reached for words we couldn’t quite grasp, as when someone inquired about a colleague currently on leave from the ministry or when another mentioned a family in his parish struggling with a death due to drug overdose or when another referred to the amazing work of his youth minister.
            At these moments we fell silent, looked at each, then moved on to the next topic.
            At the end of the meal, after arguing over who was going to pay the bill, we left Jorge’s and went our separate ways.
            Just another “men’s group.” Brothers in Christ. Friends for the long haul.
            ‘Nuff said.