This morning in Deweyville, while filling up my boat, a man approached me. His face showed a weariness no words could fake — the weight of too many losses. He quietly asked if it was time yet, if he could go home. I had to tell him no.

His shoulders sank. Then, he opened up: this wasn’t the first time he’d lost everything. It was the second. The first time, he rebuilt. This time, he feared losing the only thing left — his daughters.

He’s living in his truck. But he didn’t ask for money or pity. He asked for work. A welder by trade, with his own truck and equipment, he just wanted the chance to provide — to hold on to what mattered most.

One of my fellow officers quietly took a photo of us praying together at that gas station — my hand on his shoulder, heads bowed. Looking at it now, I’m reminded: we can’t fix everything, but we can stand beside each other.

He told me his faith is being tested. So I ask you: pray for him. And for every person quietly rebuilding, quietly struggling. Because while faith may waver, compassion and community can carry us through.