There I was, parked in my car during street ministry, my windows slightly fogged from the contrast of the cold outside and the heater blowing inside. My supplies included socks, hand warmers, lip balm, blankets, and a stash of encouragement. My goal was simple: to connect with those who needed a little hope.
Then, I saw him. A man walking with that all-too-familiar air of weariness. His clothes told stories of days spent outside, and his overloaded backpack hung loosely from one shoulder. That’s when it happened. He tripped over a curb, and his backpack—lacking a zipper that did its job—launched its contents like confetti.
A can of soup rolled into the gutter, a baggie of chips fluttered to the ground, and his well-worn wallet landed a few feet away, spilling receipts and small change. Without thinking, I jumped out of the car to help, but I managed to stumble on the same curb; I steadied myself just in time.
