A reflection on seeing, remembering, and choosing gratitude in a world full of invisible pain
It was a hot afternoon in Denver, 97 degrees Fahrenheit. The kind of heat that clings to your skin and makes the sidewalk shimmer. I sat in the car, quietly staring out the window as we drove through a part of the city I hadn’t seen before. That’s when I noticed it. A long line of people, lying on the concrete sidewalk with nothing but small bags, blankets, and the shade of a nearby building to protect them from the sun. Some were sitting up, heads bowed. Others were lying down, their backs pressed against the pavement as if it were a mattress. There was no drama, no outcry, just a stillness that spoke louder than any words. And suddenly, without warning, my heart felt like it cracked.
It wasn’t the first time I had seen homelessness. I have walked past people curled up beside buildings before. But this time felt different. Maybe it was the unbearable heat. Maybe it was the contrast between the inside of the car, cool, quiet, and safe, and the sidewalk outside, where bodies lay baking under the sky. Or maybe it was because I had spent most of that morning praying about my own struggles, unanswered questions, lingering doubts, asking God for clarity, direction, provision. But in that moment, my worries shrank to the size of a pebble. They didn’t disappear, but they felt smaller. Less urgent. Because while I was praying for my next step, someone else was praying for water, or shade, or simply the strength to make it through the afternoon. What I felt wasn’t just pity; it was perspective. My mind went still. And the things I had been carrying, an unanswered prayer, a missed opportunity, the weight of uncertainty, suddenly seemed embarrassingly small. I had a destination. I was sitting in a car. I had water, shelter, and a way to get home. They didn’t.
Children With Dreams, Adults With No Place to Sleep
As we drove past, I found myself wondering who they were, these strangers lying on concrete like forgotten stories. I imagined them as children once. Some may have grown up in chaotic homes, others may have been in families that tried their best. But I could see them in my mind, running through fields, raising their hands in class, laughing with friends, maybe even dreaming of changing the world one day. No child grows up imagining they will sleep on a sidewalk beneath a 97-degree sun. Yet there they were, tired, unseen, and somehow still holding on while the world passed them by.
I looked at the people lying there and didn’t see statistics; I saw stories. Faces that once beamed in school pictures, hands that once drew scribbles and cradled childhood dreams. I imagined them as children, dreaming as all children do, about what they would become, maybe a doctor, a teacher, a firefighter, a singer. Maybe they grew up with too little. Maybe they grew up with enough. Maybe they had a plan.
When Life Doesn’t Always Catch You
It’s hard not to ask the questions that follow: What happened? What failed them? Was it a broken system, a bad choice, a series of misfortunes too heavy to carry? Were they once like me, someone praying, working, holding onto hope? And if they cried out to God, did He hear them? I don’t pretend to know the answers. But I do know this, He sees them. I believe that. Even when it feels like the world has turned its back, I believe they are still seen.
It’s so easy to assume someone “didn’t try hard enough” or “made bad choices.” But the truth is, some people work all their lives and still fall. Some people carry wounds we will never see. Some had no role models, no lifelines, no second chances. Others had all those things, and life still unraveled. I once heard a counselor say, “People don’t ruin their lives on purpose. They do it to stop hurting.” And I have never forgotten that. Some people reach for a substance not because they are weak, but because they were introduced to it as the only comfort they were ever offered. Others shut down not because they gave up, but because disappointment became louder than hope. And the more we assume, the less we understand. They do it to stop hurting. Sometimes addiction is the only comfort someone knows. Sometimes the wrong choice is the only choice someone believes they have.
But still, the cry rose up from my own heart like a prayer I wasn’t expecting: “God, not this. Never this for my life.” And immediately, I felt the sting of shame. Not because I wanted a better life, but because of how easy it is to separate “them” from “us.”
A Man the System Forgot
And then I remembered Ryan. Years ago, I met him at a community center where I volunteered. He was once an accountant, sharp, polite, always with a pen in his pocket. He told me once, “Numbers calm me. They don’t lie like life sometimes does.” But then life did. He lost his job in a company-wide layoff. He wasn’t worried at first, he had savings, experience, a plan. Then came a medical diagnosis, unexpected bills, followed by months of trying to find work that paid enough to stay afloat. He moved in with family, who helped as long as they could. Eventually, he ran out of options. The descent wasn’t dramatic, it was gradual. Like watching dominoes fall, one after another. He slept in his car, then on benches. He said the hardest part wasn’t the hunger, it was feeling like he no longer existed.
Ryan didn’t make terrible choices. He didn’t stop trying. He just stopped being seen. And that is what broke him more than anything else.
That memory stayed with me as I stared at the heat rising off the pavement. How many of those lying on the sidewalk were just like Ryan? How many had families who helped until they couldn’t? How many had skills, dreams, resumes, and responsibilities before the unraveling began? It’s easy to explain away someone else’s pain when we need to protect our distance. But the truth is, some people work every day and still don’t make it. Some people fall not because they jumped, but because the ground gave way beneath them. Ryan’s story was personal, but it wasn’t unique. As I looked back out the window that day, I realized how fragile the line is between stability and despair.
The Illusion of Safety
But isn’t that the illusion? That some of us are safe from suffering, and others are not. That those with roofs should be grateful and ask for nothing more, and those without them should be the only ones we help. Yet I have come to see that suffering wears many faces. Some people lie on sidewalks. Others sit in air-conditioned homes, staring at overdue bills, wondering how they will make it to the next week. Some cry themselves to sleep on concrete. Others do so on clean pillows, hiding pain no one sees. One is public. One is private. But both are hurting. Both are human.
The line between where I am and where they are is thinner than we think. Sometimes, it’s just one diagnosis, one layoff, one lost lifeline away.
You may also like: What If You Are Not Behind —Just on a Different Road?
When Gratitude Becomes Clarity
That day taught me something I didn’t expect: gratitude is not just a warm feeling, it’s a kind of clarity. It reminds us of what we still have, even when much is missing. Gratitude doesn’t mean pretending we’re not struggling. It means recognizing that in the midst of struggle, we’re still standing, still breathing, still here. And being alive, even in the most fragile form, is still a chance. A window. A beginning.
Gratitude doesn’t erase grief. It doesn’t mean pretending things are fine when they aren’t. It means recognizing the gifts that are still here: the breath in your lungs, the roof over your head, the person who still checks in. The fact that you are not lying on a sidewalk today. That kind of gratitude doesn’t puff up, it humbles. It softens your gaze. It breaks the illusion that we’re so different from the people we walk past.
For those lying on the sidewalk, the fact that they are alive, even in that heat, is not something to overlook. It means hope is not gone. It means the story can still turn.
The Numbers Behind the Faces
There’s a kind of gratitude that comes easily. It flows when everything lines up, when life feels full and steady, when blessings are obvious and visible. But there’s another kind, the harder kind, that arrives in the middle of grief or uncertainty. The kind we cling to when we don’t know what tomorrow holds. It’s the gratitude that shows up through tears, when we whisper “thank you” with clenched fists, not because everything is okay, but because we are still here. And that kind of gratitude doesn’t come from comparing ourselves to others, it comes from remembering that compassion begins when we stop measuring and start seeing. That’s the kind of gratitude that keeps us grounded. And it’s the kind we need most.
Because once your eyes are open, it’s hard not to see the deeper cracks beneath the surface of our society. The moment in Denver made me wonder not just about the people I saw, but how many more I don’t see. The truth is sobering. On a single night in January 2024, over 771,000 people in the United States experienced homelessness. That’s about 23 out of every 10,000 people, men, women, and children living in emergency shelters, transitional housing, or completely unsheltered. That number, reported by the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, isn’t just a statistic. It’s a quiet cry. A reminder that suffering isn’t an exception in our system, it’s woven into it.
At the same time, the U.S. Census Bureau estimates there are over 15 million vacant housing units across the country. Some are temporarily empty. Some are unavailable or in transition. But still, the contrast is hard to ignore. While nearly 800,000 people live without a roof, there are millions of roofs without people. And while the causes are complex, tangled in policy, zoning laws, and economic realities, the questions these numbers raise are deeply human. What kind of society have we built? And more importantly, what kind are we willing to build next?
Around the world, the ache multiplies. More than 1.6 billion people lack adequate housing globally. The numbers stretch across countries, cultures, and continents. Yet no matter the location, the longing is familiar: a door that locks, a bed to rest in, a place where the body and soul can exhale. This isn’t just about real estate. It’s about dignity. It’s about the space between being housed and being forgotten. It’s about the homes we’ve left empty, and the hearts we have allowed to go unseen.
When you hear numbers like these, it’s not just the scale that stings; it’s the silence that surrounds them. And in that silence, we are invited to reflect. Not only on what others lack, but on what we carry. On what we can change. On the kind of world we hope to leave behind.
Remembering, Not Fixing
I didn’t stop to speak with any of the people on the street that day. I wish I had. But their faces stayed with me, etched into my soul like a quiet vow. To not forget. To not look away. To remember that while I am praying for my own breakthrough, someone is praying for a meal. While I am worrying about purpose, someone is just hoping to make it through the night. And that doesn’t mean I should stop hoping or stop asking for more. It means I should hold my hopes with humility, and my blessings with open hands.
We tend to put suffering into neat categories: visible versus invisible, deserved versus undeserved, fixable versus impossible. But suffering doesn’t ask for our analysis. It asks for our attention. Some people lie on sidewalks. Others cry on clean sheets. Some are screaming silently while keeping up appearances. Others are whispering for help we no longer hear. We’re not meant to measure the pain, we are meant to see the person.
I won’t pretend I have all the answers. But I know that day in Denver changed something in me. I no longer see people on the street as “them.” I see someone’s child. Someone who once had a dream. I don’t pity them. I remember them. And I remember that being alive means there’s still hope for all of us.
Where We Go From Here
So what do we do with all of this? Maybe we don’t need to have all the answers. Maybe we start by softening our gaze. Maybe we learn to stop walking past people and start seeing them again, not as problems to fix but as people to love. Maybe we become a little more generous with what we have, our time, our attention, our resources. Maybe we say thank you more often. Maybe we listen to the ache inside us and let it lead us to action, not guilt.
We start by noticing. By softening our judgments. By letting go of the need to explain everything. Maybe we stop asking, “What did they do wrong?” and instead ask, “What happened to them?” Maybe we remind ourselves that, as hard as life is, we are not powerless. We can listen. We can give. We can teach our children to see. We can remember. And most of all, we can choose gratitude, not the kind that makes us feel superior, but the kind that grounds us in humility and opens our hearts to the pain of others. We can remember that everyone is fighting a battle we cannot see.
Soul Reflection: A Quiet Inventory
Before you go back to your day, I invite you to take a breath and ask yourself, Have I become too quick to explain away suffering? Too quick to judge what I do not understand? Have I forgotten the gifts I carry each day, the ones so easy to miss because they are always there? And have I truly seen the people around me, the ones with houses and the ones without, the ones smiling and the ones barely holding on?
What small act of kindness can you offer someone this week, to someone who may not be sleeping on the street, but who may feel just as invisible?
The truth is, everyone is carrying something. Everyone is hoping for something, but perhaps what we all need most, more than solutions or answers, is to be seen. To be remembered. To not be walked past. If you are alive today, you have something to offer. Your presence. Your compassion. Your attention. Maybe you are the quiet answer to someone else’s prayer.
Let that be enough.
