LOOKING at the man standing at the intersection with the scribbled-on cardboard sign, I am overwhelmed by a familiar, yet uncomfortable feeling.

His disheveled clothes and dirt-stained face indicate that he does not have a place to call his own. His hunched shoulders bear evidence of someone carrying the weight of the world. But it is his eyes that haunt me the most. They tell the tale of someone who has hit rock bottom and who has no hope.

The seconds seem to turn to minutes as I wait for the light to change. I try not to look at him--try not to make eye contact. I ignore him because I feel like there isn't anything I can do.

I am at war with myself. I know that as a Christian, I am called to care for the poor. In Matthew 25:40, Jesus tells me that what I do for the most insignificant person, I am doing for him. But in the moment it is too difficult. So I pray that someone else will be able to help.

When the light turns green, I hurriedly move on and try to forget the man standing on the corner.

Except I can't forget him. I see a different version of him everywhere I go. On the corner of Bragg Road and State Route 3. Walking down Sophia Street. Sitting on a bench along U.S. 1.

Their stories are different, but their eyes are the same. Eyes that are praying for someone to notice them and to treat them like they matter.

Coming home from the store one day, my daughters ask why there is a man standing on the corner holding a sign. I explain that he is poor and does not have a home. Their innocent response humbles me. "Mom, can he can stay at our house?" they ask. "We learned in Sunday School that Jesus wants us to help poor people."