"The Woman No One Saw" Mara had been invisible for so long, she sometimes wondered if she’d ever truly existed. Thirty-five years on the streets had taught her the art of shrinking, of folding herself into corners and shadows, of moving so quietly that the world forgot she was there. She was autistic, and her mind worked differently-too differently, it seemed, for anyone to understand. On top of that, her body was a battlefield: a rare, untreatable disease gnawed at her strength, CPTSD haunted her dreams, PoTS made her heart race and her head spin, and hypoglycemia left her shaky and confused. Every day was a gauntlet of survival. She asked for help, again and again. Sometimes it was for food, sometimes for a blanket, sometimes just for a moment of warmth or a kind word. But the city was busy, and people hurried past her with eyes fixed on their phones, their shoes, anywhere but her. Some muttered, “Get a job,” not knowing that standing up too quickly could send her collapsing to the ground, that her body punished her for even the smallest exertion. Others looked through her, as if she were a ghost, or worse-a nuisance cluttering their perfect city. Mara had tried to work. She’d applied for jobs, explained her conditions, even begged for a chance. But employers shook their heads. “Too risky,” they said. “Too unstable.” She couldn’t blame them, not really. Some days, her heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst; other days, her blood sugar dropped so low she could barely speak. How could she keep a schedule, lift boxes, or even stand behind a counter when her own body was her enemy? The shelters weren’t safe for someone like her. The noise, the unpredictability, the threat of violence-it was too much for her already frayed nerves. She’d tried, once, and left with more scars than she’d arrived with. So she learned to survive outside, to find the quietest corners, to trust no one. But the city was not kind to the invisible. People crossed the street to avoid her. Security guards shooed her away from warm doorways. Sometimes, she caught snippets of conversation: “She’ll just starve eventually.” “Someone should do something.” But no one did. She was dehumanized, reduced to a problem to be managed, not a person to be helped. On the coldest nights, Mara wondered if she would make it to morning. Sometimes, she wished she wouldn’t. The pain, the hunger, the loneliness-it was all too much. She felt trapped in a world ruled by people who didn’t care if she lived or died, a world that punished her simply for existing. Yet, somehow, she endured. She found small comforts: a half-eaten sandwich left on a bench, a discarded blanket, the rare smile from a child who hadn’t yet learned to look away. She clung to memories of better days-her mother’s laughter, the feel of grass under her feet, the hope that maybe, just maybe, someone would see her. One evening, as the sun dipped below the skyline, Mara sat on the steps of a library, her body aching, her spirit worn thin. She whispered her story to the wind, hoping it would carry her words to someone who cared. She spoke of her struggles, her pain, her longing to be treated as human. She spoke for all those who had been ignored, dismissed, and forgotten. The world did not answer. But Mara’s story lingered in the air, a silent plea for compassion, a reminder that every invisible person is someone’s daughter, someone’s friend, someone who deserves to be seen. And as long as her story remained, there was hope that, one day, someone would listen. This is my story Lord Jesus, You came to set the captives free and to proclaim good news to the poor. We cry out for all who suffer under the weight of poverty, injustice, and oppression-those who are hungry, homeless, and forgotten by society. We remember how You walked among the outcasts, healed the sick, and called us to love our neighbors as ourselves. Forgive us, Lord, for the times we have turned away from those in need, too caught up in our own routines to notice the suffering around us. Stir our hearts and open our eyes, so we do not ignore the cries of the homeless or the sick. Remind us that if we were in their place, we would long for compassion and help. Empower Your Church to be a true reflection of Your love-bold in action, generous in spirit, and relentless in seeking justice. Break the chains of indifference and complacency among us. Let us not be content with words alone, but move us to practical, sacrificial service, knowing that whatever we do for the least of these, we do for You. Jesus, You alone have the power to set us all free-from sin, from selfishness, and from the systems that keep people trapped in poverty. Fill us with Your Spirit, so we may work together for a world where every person’s dignity is honored and all are set free by Your love. Amen.