“The Cry Unheard”

It was back in 2009, on the southern edge of Bricktown in Oklahoma City. I remember the cold—sharp, dry, and lingering in the wind. I had my camera with me, just walking, when I noticed a man sitting alone in the distance.

He was tucked between weathered stones and a chain-link fence, surrounded by a few belongings—a worn bag, a plastic sack, and a half-finished can of Pringles. He didn’t see me. We didn’t speak. I stood quietly, lifted my camera, and took the photo.

And for reasons I didn’t fully understand at the time, this image stayed with me.

Even now, all these years later, it lingers in my mind. I think it’s because I can still hear him crying out in the silence. Not with words or movement—just in the stillness of his presence. Something about the way he sat, the slump of his shoulders, the look in his eyes, even from a distance… it said everything.

I never knew his name. To me, he remains unknown. But what I saw in that moment was unmistakable: a human being who had fallen through the cracks of the world’s attention.

And the verse that later came to mind has haunted me ever since:

“Whoever closes his ear to the cry of the poor will himself call out and not be answered.”
— Proverbs 21:13 (ESV)

He wasn’t shouting, yet his need echoed louder than any siren. The world around him hurried past, busy with its own burdens. But I had stopped. And though he never knew I was there, I believe I was meant to see him.

That day taught me something about presence—about the responsibility we carry to truly see the people the world tends to overlook. The cry of the poor isn’t always loud. Often, it's silent, sitting cross-legged against a cold stone wall, waiting for someone to listen.

I don’t know what happened to him after that day. But I still hear him.

And I’m still listening.