As a young person, I admired my grandfather so much that I feared him. He is the kind of man that commands respect; a military man who doesn’t put up with any funny business. With Grandad, you need to try your damned hardest, always. And after you do that, you should have another go. Squeeze the last drop out of that lemon. Wedge it into your mouth and suck it. Grate every last bit off the rind.

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So it surprised me that my conservative, God-fearing and law abiding grandfather would make time for a man incarcerated for murder and manslaughter.

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It was around the start of the new millennium when Mark first walked into Grandad’s church. At the time he was released on bail and awaiting trial, and his local church in Queensland had opened their doors to serve a free meal for the local community (in exchange for a Bible study, of course).

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There was something about the way Mark spoke that caused my Grandad to pay attention. “God calls a spade a bloody spade,” he remembers Mark saying to the group, leaning back in his chair, arms folded. Of course, Grandad would call it a divine intervention, a “real ‘on the road to Damascus’ revelation”, but either way, something happened. There was a connection. A spark.

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Mark was convicted soon after, sent away for a long and punishing sentence, but during this time, a remarkable friendship blossomed. Every month Grandad and his wife would visit Mark, driving over two hours to walk through the gates of the maximum security prison and sit in those hard, plastic seats.

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Mark took an interest in theology, and Grandad and his wife sponsored his studies. When he was released on parole some years later, they housed him until he found his feet and could stand in a church and watch his now-wife walk down the aisle. Grandad was at her right arm, walking proudly, all smiles.

Five years on, Mark and Grandad still see each other a couple of times a year. Mark works as a groundskeeper and a handyman, and he has churches and community groups lining up to book him for speaking opportunities. Grandad continues to advocate for Mark as a friend and a father figure.

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It was, and still is, an inspiring and unlikely friendship. But what this brief story doesn’t show is just how challenging it was for Grandad and Mark to maintain their friendship. How much friction the system places on the incarcerated and their visitors. How much one is at the whim of offices and their moods.

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“From the visitor's perspective, visiting high security prisons is not a nice experience,” Grandad writes. “Many visitors are down-graded to non-contact or some are cancelled because a trace of drugs is detected on the visitor. Mark’s son and girlfriend were refused entry many times… Mark’s partner and I spent many hours disputing decisions.”

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To Mark and to Grandad, many of the decisions affecting the rights of incarcerated people are arbitrary and unjust. The injustice continues, of course, upon release, whereby a free person is shunted out of the gates and into the world with little support.

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“A prisoner released after 15 years is a non-person”, Grandad writes. “He has no identification, driver’s licence or medicare card. He is unknown to Centacare. He has no transport. He has no references or employment history to offer an employer.” In the end, it was up to Grandad to help Mark obtain a vehicle and a driver’s licence.

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The prison system has a habit of chewing people up and spitting them out, of making it difficult to maintain strong connections to community, of inhibiting integration after years behind bars.

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It was pure chance that Mark and Grandad met, and that Grandad wasn’t willing to be deterred by the difficulties.

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Just like my Grandad, ordinary folk can do a lot to help reintegrate incarcerated people back into society. As Jesus (whom my Grandad loves to quote) said: “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.”