In 1994, a young man battling addiction left Toronto and came to Vancouver in search of drugs. Since then, his parents have not seen or heard from him. Thirty years have passed. Thirty years of silence, uncertainty, and wondering. They have lived each day with questions in their hearts. Is he still alive? Is he safe? Has he found peace?

For many, thirty years might seem like enough time to let go. But for his parents, even though they have said they cannot hold on anymore, their love has never disappeared. What they have let go of is the sense of control, not the love they carry. They simply no longer know what else they can do.

Recently, their pastor read an article in Sing Tao Daily, a Chinese news media outlet, about my community work in Richmond and Vancouver. He shared it with them. That article stirred something in their hearts. Perhaps it was a glimmer of hope. Perhaps it was just the comfort of knowing that someone still walks with people like their son. Whatever it was, the pastor reached out to me.

Now, the parents are asking for help. They want to find their son. After three decades of silence, they are still searching. They may not know where to begin, but reaching out is already a powerful act of love. It speaks the words their hearts have always held. We have not forgotten you. We still want to find you. You still matter.

This is not an isolated story. All across Canada and beyond, there are parents, siblings, and friends who have lost contact with loved ones because of addiction, mental health struggles, or life on the streets. These families carry a particular kind of sorrow. It is not the grief that comes with certainty, but the sorrow of not knowing. They live with memories that feel distant and unanswered questions that linger every day.

To these families, I want to say that you are not alone. The love you carry is real. Even if you feel helpless, your love has not been wasted. It continues to travel through time and silence. It gives strength, even when it cannot be seen.

To those who are living in the shadows, far from home, caught in addiction or hardship, I want to say that you are not forgotten. Even when it feels like no one cares, someone likely does. It may be a mother who prays for you every night. It may be a father who still looks for you in the faces of strangers. It may be someone like me who hears your story and holds it with care.

As a pastor and a fellow human being, I hold space for these stories. I walk alongside those who are searching, those who are lost, and those who are holding on to hope. If you find yourself moved by this story, whether you are a family member or someone longing to return home, please reach out. We may not have all the answers, but we can listen. We can walk together.

No story is finished until it is truly finished. And perhaps, even now, there is still hope.