The first time I met him was six years ago. He was sixteen, in Remann Hall, facing serious charges. He did not talk much, usually just a quiet nod or sometimes a shrug. But I kept showing up, week after week, for a year and a half. There were a few times he joined a Bible conversation or sat nearby as I talked with someone else about faith. He had been a standout football player once, known, respected, and full of promise. And even though we did not have many long conversations, I never forgot him.

This year, we gained access to Green Hill, one of the state’s long-term juvenile facilities. It is a place that houses some of the most serious youth cases. This was only our second time being allowed inside. As soon as I knew we would be going, I asked specifically if I could see him. It had been years, but I wanted him to know that someone still remembered him. Still believed he mattered.

The drive to Green Hill is long, nearly an hour. I kept praying along the way. Not for the perfect conversation, not even for a warm reunion, just that he and the other youth we would be visiting would sense the peace of Jesus in whatever small moment we might have.

When we walked in, I saw him before he saw me. He looked older, of course, even more hardened. There was no big smile or light in his eyes. Just a glance, a small flicker of recognition. I smiled and said his name, told him I had asked to see him. His response was quiet: “You drove all the way here?”

I stood next to his chair, recalling what I could of his story, asking questions that would let him know I remembered. It was only five or ten minutes. Nothing dramatic was said. No hugs. No deep conversation. But I wanted him to hear what I came all this way to say: “I still think about you. I have prayed for you. You are not forgotten.”

He looked down for a moment. Then he said something that stopped me: “I did not think anyone remembered me.”

That moment is why we go.

There is something sacred about showing up, especially in places where most people do not. We call it the ministry of presence. It is not flashy. It does not always feel successful. Often, it is awkward and uncomfortable. Sometimes it feels like nothing is happening at all.

But I believe Jesus meets us in those moments. I believe that five quiet minutes, sitting across from a young man in a dim room at Green Hill, can carry the weight of eternity.

This is what our ministry is about. We do not just go where it is easy. We go where the doors are locked, where hope feels distant, where someone might be wondering if they have been forgotten.

And we keep going.

Because even if they do not remember us, we remember them. And more importantly, Jesus remembers them.