Words remain persuasive, but the visual has captured our day — and the visuals of the Eucharistic Congress are an especially poignant illustration of hope.

Our diocesan pilgrimage making its way from Fargo, North Dakota, to the National Eucharistic Congress in Indianapolis last week got off to a rough start when our bus broke down on Day 2, even before leaving Mundelein Seminary — our midway stopping point. We were resigned to watching the opening from our smartphones in our replacement bus, which had arrived several long hours after our planned departure from the seminary.

Though not our original plan, watching the opening from bus seats turned out to be more thrilling than expected. The camera views brought us very near to the Eucharistic Host from every angle imaginable, including hundreds of feet above, allowing us to peer down on Jesus as if from heaven. It was exciting to know that as we watched the welcome unfold, we were inching closer to our destination to reach Jesus and the rest of our Catholic family in person.

When we finally arrived in Indianapolis, the first night’s “Revival Session” was nearly over, but my friend Joanne and I decided to walk to Lucas Oil Stadium, where Masses and other sessions would happen. On the way back to the hotel, we stopped at a small church with two steeples, St. John the Evangelist, positioned in the heart of the city. A sign placed on an easel on the sidewalk out front beckoned: “OPEN FOR PRAYER: THIS IS JESUS,” with a depiction of a monstrance and Eucharist, followed by, “COME AND SEE.”

And so we did, and what we saw inside was a lit altar, the pews filled with weary travelers sitting in the dark, hungry and thirsty for Our Lord. From the loft, a group of religious performed soothing songs about Jesus’ presence. Making our way to the front, we soon noticed people bringing up flowers, one by one, placing them in vases at the foot of the altar. Soon enough, Joanne and I were given flowers by sisters at the back of the church and took our turn at offering Jesus something beautiful.

Leaving the church, we noticed a young woman sitting on the ground, and two religious sisters approached her with bouquets. She held a sign: “PTSD: Seeking Human Kindness.” I snapped a picture just as the sisters bent down low to speak with her. I don’t know what they were saying, but I felt hopeful just watching a hurting heart being refreshed in a spontaneous, tender encounter.

The next day, we joined the throngs in the stadium for Mass. We couldn’t have imagined beforehand the awesome feeling of being in a space of 50,000 or more others, not for a concert or athletic event, but to worship the Lord God. Still, I wondered, “How will the priests ever reach us with the Eucharist?” As Communion commenced, however, lines of clergy in white garments began moving in orderly, almost surreal, fashion. Watching them make their way through the crowds, often ascending many staircases to bring Jesus to us, brought a surge of joy that remains.

During the last “Revival Session,” we were near the floor, not far from the stage with Matt Maher and his band. In a particularly endearing scene, a father in front of us picked up his little girl, around 3 years old, so she could see. There they stood, their gazes fixed on the stage, her hand planted on her daddy’s large, sturdy back. This moment melted the edges of my heart that had become calcified by a world gone astray, and I felt hope.

At the last Mass on Sunday, as Joanne and I looked down from our perch on high, though centered on the altar in the distance, we noticed another little girl, around 6, in an aisle a mile down on the floor. She was twirling gleefully with her doll, spinning in circles. Captivated by her simple, childlike joy, I imagined God peering down at his little daughter, surrounded by 60,000 others, just content in being loved.

During that same Mass, watching seemingly endless lines of priests, then bishops, moving toward the altar in an opening procession that seemed fashioned from the cloth of eternal glory, I felt and received the gift of experiencing divine bliss. When the music began, I sensed what it might be like to be with the heavenly angels.

I could continue describing all the moments that touched me: the rosaries that hung from the necks of unhoused people, who had food and devotionals now tucked near them under the bridges where they sat; on-fire Catholics ministering to those they found in their midst, assuring them of something better; and the responses of the Indianapolis residents, whose world we’d overtaken for a week, returning happiness and hope back to us.

I could tell, too, of the hollow look in the eyes of a drug-damaged street musician, or the unknowing girl wearing a paper chef’s hat with the words, in marker: “Poster Child for Plan B.” We soon realized she’d just eaten at a restaurant known for offending its customers for laughs, but how could that ever be funny? And then there was the open-aired party bus, propelled by patrons moving the rig “bicycle style” with pedals at their feet, laughing and screaming around a bar.

All these were part of the experience, but whether haunting or holy, the pictures I bring back from our week in Indiana will be what remain — most deeply.

The congress brought me, and many others, a determined, renewed mission through images we are now presenting to the weary world; one aching for the kind of heart-transforming moments we witnessed — and the waiting source of our longing: Jesus.