When the guard clanged shut the heavy steel door, the hair on the back of Irvin Judd's neck stood up. Now he, too, was locked in.

The year was 1976, and Judd (he goes by his last name) entered the Oklahoma State Prison to visit a man he had never met before. On an airplane flight to California a few months prior, a man named Bud Holt had implored Judd to visit his despondent brother. So here he was, in a fortress of iron bars and cold concrete.

It wasn't a stretch for the tireless extrovert to talk with someone new—even a rough inmate ("He talks to anybody—everybody," says Betty, his wife, "like he's known them forever"). But this was Judd's first time in a prison, and he didn't know what to expect.

From working oil rigs in Iran to being a pastor of an inner-city church in Pennsylvania, Judd, now 71, has lived a diverse life. He has served in prison ministry for 28 years—devoting himself full time to this effort for the past 11. Five years ago he and his wife joined Campus Crusade for Christ, and the couple still introduces prisoners to Jesus today.

They split their time between two jails and a prison, all within a 50-mile drive of their home in Edmond, Okla. Often they work as a team, which allows Judd to work with female inmates too. Other times they split up. Judd has met with thousands of prisoners; sometimes he'll counsel with seven or eight in a day. But it doesn't wear him out.

"When we get back from the jail, I'm tired," says Betty, 62. "But Judd wants to keep talking with people."

A 2-foot-long sailboat made out of toothpicks and matches sits in Judd's living room, and he also keeps a makeshift "Jesus Loves You" belt buckle—both items from death-row inmates. He can still see many of their faces.

	Model Behavior Judd was kicked in the ribs by a horse the day before and was in pain as he met with this prisoner (above). So after Judd asked how he could pray for the prisoner, he asked for prayer for himself.

But it was Don Holt who got Judd started in prison outreach. Don was the brother of the man on the plane, and at their first meeting, Don was 10 months into a 500-year sentence for various drug and robbery charges. When Judd met with him, Don was receptive; anyone who would keep his word to his brother was worth listening to. Judd explained how he could turn his life around: by becoming a follower of Jesus Christ. Steadily, after several visits, that's exactly what happened.

Soon Don was talking about Jesus with his fellow inmates and prison guards, inviting them to surrender their lives to the Savior. Eventually Don was released from prison and later pardoned by the governor. After graduating from Wheaton College, Don joined the Campus Crusade prison ministry, becoming to other prisoners what Judd had once been for him. Before Don died in 1999 from cancer, he coaxed Judd into working the prisons full time with Campus Crusade.

Judd became a follower of Christ when he was 12 years old through a Southern Baptist revival meeting. His parents divorced when he was young, so his aunt and uncle raised him. Judd says he always felt loved. "Most people I deal with have never been around love," he says with a thick Oklahoma drawl. "It blows my mind."

Judd's compassion for the common man may stem from enduring some of his own hardships. His first wife died 16 years ago from a brain tumor, and he has lost two children—a 17-year-old son in a car accident and a 5-year-old daughter to cancer.

About seven years ago, he was diagnosed with bladder cancer. A few years later, he went skydiving. He was 68 at the time. When he turned 70, he did it again, this time from 10,000 feet. "It kept people off my back," he says. "So they don't say, 'Poor little ol' Judd.'"

Prison ministry isn't glamorous; often it's downright tough. "You see a lot of men and women come to the Lord and then drop out," says Ron Dooley, director of the Campus Crusade prison ministry.

Just Checking Judd stays in touch out of prison, too—like with this visit to Charlie (above), a former inmate.

Many times the inmates' faith doesn't last once they are released. Other times they fake it, hoping it will win them an early release.

For the past few years Judd had been mentoring an inmate named Mark (not his real name), who has been in and out of jail. He was released from jail to Judd's custody and lived under his supervision at his home. Mark had professed Christ and appeared to clean up.

Then one day Judd noticed items missing, and Mark was gone also. He found Mark and recovered some of the items, but not all. Mark then took off and has not been found since.

Experiences like that have prompted Judd to consider leaving prison work. Such thoughts raced through his mind one day as he drove near Oklahoma City. Judd suddenly recalled the words of Matthew 25:40, as if God were speaking to him directly: "I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me" (New International Version). Every time Judd thinks of leaving, his thoughts drift back to those words.

And so he stays. To honor Don Holt on the one-year anniversary of his death, Judd took some Bibles and gospel tracts to a local house frequented by drug addicts to perform what he coins a "God bust." His wife told him he was crazy—perhaps rightfully so.

Soon after he pulled his car up to the house, four young men approached his car. "What can we do for you?" a tattooed Latino asked him coolly.

"I'm here to pay tribute to a guy named Don Holt," Judd told them.

"Don Holt? He visited me in Lexington [a prison in Oklahoma] a few years ago!" exclaimed one of the men.

Judd explained how Don had turned his life over to Jesus and that they could too. Soon Judd had the men, along with the rest of their crew, circled in the front yard for prayer.

The men reminded Judd of the inmates he regularly deals with. And Judd sees himself in all of them, which is probably why he has been so effective. "I don't care how rotten or lowdown they are," says Judd. "We're all in the same boat."

You can contact the writer at Chris.Lawrence@ccci.org.