When I saw this picture I knew I would find words to explain how it struck me, today was that day. 

I went to the mission to visit one of the men (Fred, we both have the same name) and take him out for coffee; as we walked to the coffee shop we passed so many different faces. Christ has tuned my heart to the downcast, and the streets of Portland are filled with faces lost and bound. What an experience to simply walk there, what opportunities rise up to meet you! 

Along the way back, we met a brother that graduated from the program a few years ago and Fred introduced me to him and after we chatted with him for a few minutes, we left him, with a smile of encouragement on his face. 

Then a young woman, in her mid-twenties, and I'm sure she wasn't five feet tall, with ashen skin, and eyes with the unmistakeable look of loss and confusion. She wasn't thin, yet, and we stopped and told her about the women's program at the mission and gave her a pamphlet that lists all the free resources available to her. She seemed appreciative and as we left we noticed she didn't discard the pamphlet, many do. 

 We walked by a group of about six people sitting, backs against the wall, and we handed out some more pamphlets on the mission. 

At the end of the block, the walk was littered with items from a woman’s backpack—old cosmetics, a pen, a compact—as well as two pages torn from a notebook that lay on the walk. I picked them up and read what was written: it was one paragraph: a plea for help, and the hopeless question of whether all help is “fictitious.”

We looked up and another brother that graduated from the program was walking by on his way to a job interview; we chatted for a bit and then prayed his endeavor would be successful. 

All this as we walked by in just one block.