The parking lot was filled with millions of dollars in tractors, combines and trucks. It was the annual Men's Ministry Weekend, and the guys were prepared to kick tires.

Lots of good happens at these weekend retreats. Men sing boisterous songs and tearful ones. Men study Bible men like Samson, Solomon, Daniel and Timothy, and Bible women like Lois, Mary, Sarah and Rebekkah. Men eat hearty meals, tons of salad and all the desserts. And men talk trucks, transmissions, load factors and wheels versus tracks. Then they return to the dessert table and argue over whether Brett Favre's cross-the-grain passes were as good as John Elway's.

A "Men's Ministries Weekend" is just that, a safe place for men to be themselves while talking about where their lives fit into God's ministry.

Sometimes the conversations are practical—focusing on the role of Christian men in a local congregation, Christian men at home and Christian men at work. Sometimes the topics are theological—Sabbath, planning for death or understanding the sanctuary. Always the weekend is personal, a time when men relax enough to share glimpses of their temptations in exchange for support in finding God's solutions.

One year my wife joined me at these weekends. I led the presentations and then Brenda would answer questions, "to set the record straight." The men loved her and probed her on several subjects that are never discussed in church.

One weekend stands tallest in my men's ministry memory, all because of a man I'll call Frank.

It was Sabbath afternoon, and the men were in small groups discussing the challenges they face as Christian men in an un-Christian world. After 30 minutes of dialogue the group came back together for an open discussion.

We talked about church board meetings and getting over the anger we sometimes feel toward power-hungry members.

We discussed what to say when coming home "later than she was expecting me to come home."

We practiced saying, "I'm sorry."

Then Frank raised his hand. Frank was about 35, wavy red hair, great full beard, jeans and a plaid wool shirt. I recognized him, and he stood, like a mountain of muscles in a room full of gladiators.

"I've been having some trouble with the women," Frank began. "I like looking at 'em. I like looking a lot."

Frank's words sucked the air from the room, leaving everyone unable to breathe.

"They look good on the poles. I know, 'cause I've spent a lot of time at the clubs and watched 'em dance and stuff."

No one breathed—like when an old nightmare is crawling out from under the bed.

"But about three months ago I learned about Jesus. Y'all know how He did with the women? He treated 'em like queens, like Cinderellas in waiting, like we'd all like our daughters to be treated."

Frank paused, and looked slowly around at each pair of eyes.

"Well, I've been clean now for three months, Jesus help me! And I've discovered that the ladies look best with clothes on!"

Frank sat down.

The room burst into the hoots, hollers, cheers and whistles that can only come from a hunkering of men who are giving a standing ovation to a brother.

Frank let the chaos of understanding quiet a bit, then he stood, tears moistening his red beard.

"Pray for me, fellows," Frank wiped his nose with a large handkerchief and then continued. "God's really working with me, and I know we're gonna win this one."

Dick Duerksen is the official storyteller for Maranatha Volunteers International. Readers may contact Dick at dduerksen@maranatha.org.