by Stephanie Himango, NBC News producer

Under a black sky, Marcia Merrick put her key in the ignition and started another day. Only a high half moon shone down as she navigated the darkness -- her minivan packed with 400 sack lunches she'd already made that morning, as she does every morning. She flipped on the rock radio station and Peter Frampton's "Show Me The Way" filtered through the speakers. ".... I wonder how you're feeling..." Frampton sang.

She pulled into the parking lot of the homeless shelter -- still more than an hour before daybreak. People moved like silhouettes under the streetlights and made their way to Marcia. Many of them had been waiting for her white minivan to arrive. She slid back the side door and began to distribute the lunches.

"There you go." . . ."Thank you"
"Here you go. Have a blessed day." . . ."Thank you sweetheart."

After everyone who wanted a lunch had received one, Marcia moved on. As she drove through downtown Kansas City, Missouri, she spotted a homeless woman sitting in the dark on a bench, and her brake lights went on. The woman slowly made her way to Marcia's open passenger window, outstretched an empty hand, and turned and walked away clutching the lunch bag. This same scene was repeated about six times before she reached her next destination.

Video: 'I never want to see someone hurt' 

In the noisy concrete underbelly of highways and train tracks, daylight was beginning to show. Marcia unloaded more lunches, and people unseen gravitated toward her. They know her by now, most of them. She's known as the Mother of the Streets in Kansas City, Missouri. At 61, hair pulled back in a ponytail, she brings more than lunch to the city's homeless population, which now is estimated to be 2,512 according to a point in time study by the Homeless Services Coalition of Greater Kansas City. That number jumps to 13,300 if you look at the unduplicated count of people served throughout the year by all agencies. Marcia brings a caring, inquisitive spirit. She learns names and asks specific questions that stem from previous conversations. She bothers to find out what people want and what they need.

In 2001, she started Reaching Out Inc, a 501(c)(3) non-profit which allows her to deliver help to the city's neediest residents on a daily basis. Seven days a week. Through Marcia, and the generous donations of those who know what she does, she provides food, clothing, shelter, furniture, transportation, encouragement, love. She says this is about love, about hearts.

What motivates her to get up at 4:15am every day, year after year? It's not a paycheck, because Marcia doesn't receive one. It's not glory, she says. It seems to be more of a motivation to protect and nurture.

"I never want somebody to hurt. I never want somebody to wish that somebody cared about them. And number one, I never want anyone to feel like a mistake," she paused. "Because nobody is a mistake. We all have something to offer."

Her life mission is now to stop others from giving up. Her daily ritual which spans about 12 hours is a minute by minute counterpoint to pain and suffering. With sincerity, she nourishes, she uplifts, she asks poignant questions, she looks into eyes, she holds hands, she gives hugs, and she keeps coming back. Her giving spirit does not seem to take a break, as I witnessed over breakfast.

We ducked inside a diner to wait out the driving rain storm that made 7:30am look like 10:00pm. After we placed our orders and received our food, Marcia chatted kindly with the waitress, who I will call Lucy. Lucy was petite, and struck me as responsible and stoic. Marcia noticed the restaurant was quite empty, and casually asked Lucy how she makes tips when there are no customers. Lucy said it's tough.

After inquiring about where Lucy lives, Marcia's eyes grew more concerned and compassionate. She thought, then switched back to the topic of money and asked whether Lucy was able to make ends meet. Lucy said she could, adding that it was a little challenging right now because she had been off work for a foot problem a few weeks prior, and during that time was unpaid. Marcia's eyes fixed on Lucy's, and she asked, "Have you paid your April rent yet?" Not yet, said Lucy, acknowledging it was almost a week past due. "How much is your rent?" asked Marcia. Lucy said it was $410 dollars a month. Marcia said, "I can help you with that, you know. That's what I do."

Stunned, Lucy looked at Marcia, then looked at me, then looked at Marcia again. "Are you some kind of angel?" she asked Marcia in disbelief. She then turned to me, "Is she some kind of angel?" Her eyes glassed over. "I'm gonna cry," she said, as she maintained her composure and gently tapped away a tear.

Marcia pulled out a Reaching Out Inc checkbook, and wrote a check to the management company where Lucy lives. "What's in your refrigerator at home?" Marcia asked Lucy. "Two eggs, butter...." The list was short. Marcia pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen, and asked what foods Lucy would like to eat. She mentioned fruit, vegetables, eggs. "Do you need toiletries?" asked Marcia. "Yes, well..." Marcia found out what vehicle Lucy drives and where she parks. Marcia said she would discreetly place the groceries in Lucy's car before she finished her shift.

Outside, the streets ran with water, but the rain storm had passed. It was still early morning. Marcia would go back out and continue to be the hands and feet of Reaching Out Inc., and by day's end, the remainder of the 400 lunches would be handed out to hungry, homeless people.

She knows her deeds are highly dependent on the generosity of others. But it's through her awareness, tenacity and human warmth that Marcia can offer an unexpected light to Lucy and many others on a rainy day.

For more information about Marcia Merrick and how you can help, please visit http://www.reachingoutinc.org.

By Lester Holt, NBC News anchor

We have all been gripped by the drama of nature today as that massive earthquake spawned a tsunami that has marched from the shores of South America, clear across the Pacific Ocean.

It is hard to imagine an earthquake in Chile could trigger warning sirens in Hawaii. With the grim memories of the horror I witnessed in Port-au-Prince last month, it is also hard to imagine any quake could be more powerful than that one. Today's 8.8 magnitude quake in Chile unleashed roughly 500 times more energy than the one that rocked Haiti.

By Ann Curry, NBC News anchor

PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti-- All hotels are down, so we are sleeping on the tarmac... Brian in a tent, me in a Canadian Air luggage container, many others on metal grates. In all cases, the ground is hard, so we are using blankets, pieces of foam, some of us even suitcases to sleep on top of.

We are worried about rats, which are numerous. There are lots of mosquitoes.

Hard to sleep because the planes are so loud, especially the c130s. We have to negotiate for bathrooms in nearby buildings, and are currently without one.

We brought in water, but are running out of food, which now consists of MREs. We hope for more supplies tomorrow.

Tonight we have a luxury... the crew of one plane gave us all airline pillows. We are definitely not comfortable, but we are also in the lap of luxury compared to so many here in Haiti.

How are we successful? There are no whiners amongst us. We are all focused on getting the story out that must be told.

By Lauren Selsky, NBC News desk assistant, Washington, D.C.

Joe Youcha didn't set out to make a difference. Graduating with a degree in history from Columbia University he sort of drifted, taking jobs around the country before settling near the Potomac river in Alexandria. His reasoning was simple, telling us "I'm vocationally impaired. I just like building boats."

Seventeen years ago Joe setup an apprentice program at the Alexandria Seaport Foundation. It's through word of mouth that high risk teens who have dropped out of high school and have had run-ins with the law learn about the program. With Joe at the helm, they're are able to earn their GED while preparing for a career in the building trades.

Joe's passion for building boats has provided over 500 apprentices with meaningful social, educational, and recreational experiences.

By Nightly News staff

It was supposed to be a week devoted to reporting on the military and political situation in Afghanistan, where a runoff presidential election is scheduled for Nov. 7.

Yet even as "NBC Nightly News" anchor Brian Williams was still in the air, making his way toward his first visit to the country in more than a year, assignments were being overturned. It would turn out to be a week looking for stories amid extraordinary violence that NBC's Richard Engel reported has reached record levels.

First came the crashes of three helicopters on Monday, which killed 14 Americans, making October the deadliest month for U.S. forces since the war in Afghanistan began eight years ago. Then came the Taliban attack on a U.N. guesthouse Wednesday in Kabul, the capital, which killed eight people — five of them U.N. workers — plus the attackers.

In Kabul, the vibe has changed "literally overnight," Williams observed in an e-mail interview with the Huffington Post.

"Kabul has hardened and tightened — it's much more about security now that the Taliban has 'entered the battle space'" with its attack Wednesday, which has prompted a reassessment of the U.N. role in promoting the election, Engel reported.

After the blast, "there was nothing here to salvage," Chris Turner, a truck driver working as a contractor for the U.S. Defense Department, told Williams, who toured the devastation afterward.

The situation is Afghanistan has "deteriorated extremely in the last six months," Turner said. "I don't know why, but I think we've lost the minds and the hearts of the people. I think they've turned against us. And I think our task here is ... very, very difficult, if at all possible."

For the Americans, winning back those hearts and minds is paramount.

In parts of the country where there are no doctors or clinics, U.S. personnel and American-trained Afghan health workers are treating the sick and the injured — part of a strategy by Maj. Gen. Stanley McChrystal, the U.S. commander in the country, to build "strong personal relationships between security forces and the local population."

At a camp in the east where U.S. special forces train Afghan commandos, as many as 100 people a day troop into a clinic, where they receive basic health and dental services that hadn't been accessible for years. The clinic has forged a bond between local residents and the military personnel who are so much a part of daily life here, said the local Afghan commander.

"The people have sensed, really realized that they are the center of gravity," the commander told Williams.

Perhaps not coincidentally, Williams reported, insurgent attacks on the camp have stopped now that U.S. money is being spent to help the people.

The clinic, and others like it, are just one part of the American HA initiative. "HA" stands for "humanitarian assistance," and food is another big part.

"We want to work ourselves out of a job," said the commander of a U.S. unit in a small town in the east, where American soldiers supervised Afghan forces who handed out food to local children with 1,000-yard stares and to men and women scarred by years of war.

The key to the operation is the involvement of the Afghan troops — pamphlets that accompany each handout tells recipients that the food is being provided by their own neighbors.

"We really want the people to understand that it's the Afghans, so they can put trust in their Afghan soldiers," the U.S. commander said.

All the while, the war is still
going on.

Eight more U.S. soldiers were
killed this week by improvised bombs that exploded by the roadside. After more
than eight years of war, October 2009 stands as the deadliest month for U.S.
forces so far.

President Barack Obama and his
top military advisers here and in Washington met in a secure conference call
Friday to continue trying to find a workable policy. Even as the Americans on
the ground here are working on humanitarian initiatives, the administration is
considering
a proposal to send tens of thousands more troops to the country.

Whatever it decides, life will
remain difficult for everyday Afghans, especially the children, untold numbers
of whom have been orphaned by the fighting.

At an orphanage run by the
Afghan Child Education and Care Organization, the executive director, Andeisha
Farid, 26, the fears and threats encroaching on Kabul melt away. A huge flower
garden adds a burst of color to the cheerful and warm home for 67 girls and 15 boys, who are preparing to celebrate the Friday holiday with special treats
like pomegranates and bananas.

Farid, a native Afghan who
spent most of her childhood and adolescence in refugee camps in countries
neighboring Afghanistan, recently graduated from the 10,000 Women project in
Afghanistan, which teaches entrepreneurial skills to women from underprivileged
backgrounds, and she has vowed to make life better for these
children.

"We [were] born in war, we
[have] grown up in war and we may die in war, but I really want to do
something," Farid said. "OK, we have gone through [a] very tough situation and
we [are] fed up. But we
shouldn't just give up."

Every child here has an
achingly sad story, but their smiles are testament to Farid's devotion and the
generosity of others. Each child has a sponsor, and the institution itself is
funded by donors around the world — for example, a recent fundraiser in
Brooklyn, N.Y., raised $600 for firewood.

These are lives that are being
saved and launched for the future. The children may not recognize the irony in
the title of today's English-language movie — "Home Alone" — but all of them
came here alone, and they're home now. 

"When I see all the girls, all
the boys, all the small children — when I see their happy faces, I see a future
in them, a bright future, so it gives me hope," she said. "I'm sure I am doing a
difference for the Afghan people."

Click here to see more of Brian Williams' reporting from Afghanistan, including photos from the field, and Web-only video.

By Brian Williams, Anchor and managing editor

This has been an eventful day: the ride (under heavy guard) from Bagram into downtown Kabul, our tour of the courtyard of the guest compound where so many died yesterday -- and then to top it all off, while we were working in our rented building in Kabul late tonight, an earthquake.  It was a long, slow roller -- like surfing -- though somewhat weaker in intensity than some of the quakes I've experienced in California.  We went through the usual "delay" before realizing just what was happening (considering where we are, every time something shakes, its also possible there's been an explosion), and then watched as fixtures started to swing.  Obediently, I stood in the doorway of my room as Senior Producer Subrata De did the first thing she thought of: she got her Flip camera and we started making a video toward the end of the quake.  Several of our staff members were jolted out of bed by it and we've had one small roller since then. We hopped on an earthquake-monitoring site on the web and discovered that today's quake had been a 6.0 centered near the Hindu Kush -- the scene of the last big one -- and we had felt one of the outer bands.  Just another day in Afghanistan.  We sure hope you can join us tonight.

By Brian Williams, Anchor and managing editor

I am living inside a containerized shipping box. It's a base housing unit here at Bagram, and it's actually perfect. Small? You betcha. It's tiny, taken up mostly by bunk beds. But it's got all the comforts of (a very tiny) home, and we feel fortunate to have a place to rest our heads and take a shower at an Air Base where they have other things to worry about... aside from where to put the folks visiting from NBC.

During a few hours of down time this afternoon, I quickly fell into a deep, exhaustion-fueled sleep. I was awakened by an explosion. Luckily, I've heard my share (like one every 30 seconds on the third night of the invasion in Bagdhad) and wasn't overly alarmed. I could tell it was some distance away. Only when I got to our workspace tonight was I told it was a "Controlled Det" in military parlance: a detonation conducted by the Army. I apparently slept through the announcement on the P. A. system warning that it was about to happen. Considering the violence in Kabul today, an explosion made perfect sense to me.

It was also a reminder that we are in a war zone.

Then there are the people you meet here in uniform. Like the young lieutenant I met today -- we quickly established the fact that we'd been in Iraq at the same time. Then he re-counted for me his decision to avoid going on patrol with his unit one day, at the height of the fighting, because he had come off a double shift and was too tired. Everyone in his platoon was killed that day.

Then there was the major we met today. Tonight she told me that her 5-year-old son tried to chase her down the jetway when she left for this last deployment, five months ago. She says she video chats with her husband and son once a week. Their system for counting down the days until Mommy comes home? She orders a certain number of custom-printed M&Ms containing messages like "I love you" and "Mommy misses you." Her son is allowed to eat one M&M a day until they're all gone. On the day the M&M bowl is finally empty... well, that's the day when Mommy comes back down that jetway. The major loves her job, and like so many of the people you meet in this God-forsaken valley of rocks and dust and rusting Russian tanks, she says she wouldn't want to be anywhere else. And she means it. She loves her family, and she loves the 82nd Airborne.

You know how they say during the World Series games, "We'd like to welcome all those watching at all U. S. military installations around the world"? It sure is weird to hear them say that while you're sitting on your bunk inside a shipping container at Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan.

I hope you can join us for our broadcasts from here all week.

See Brian Williams' reporting from Afghanistan here. See photos from his trip to Afghanistan here.

By Mike Taibbi, NBC News correspondent

Funny how memory works.  You can think about something that's familiar to you, research the subject in the ways encouraged by Google, and begin the work of reporting on that same subject because, after all, that's your job, and then in a moment, a millisecond, something internal kicks in and it's no longer about information, it's about how you felt in your bones and your heart when that subject first became familiar to you.

That's what happened during the process of reporting on the fortunes of family-owned CF Martin and Company in Nazareth, Pennsylvania. They make Martin guitars, the standard in the industry for, oh, around 175 years. From Dylan and Clapton, to Elvis and Johnny Cash. Threesomes like the Kingston Trio and Peter Paul & Mary. Duos like Simon and Garfunkel...you get the idea.

Nightly News producer Bob Adschiew had pitched the story to me and I'd said "sure." His take was that family owned businesses, which make up 90 per cent of the businesses in America and employ 60% of all workers, had unique challenges and opportunities in the tanking economy. With the economy cratering last fall, Martin, like other businesses, considered all the options while some stopgap measures – a freeze on hiring and overtime, for example – were put in place. But because of the unique nature of the business, not just ownership but employees handing down their love of the craft from generation to generation, the current boss, CF Martin IV, refused to resort to layoffs or even a temporary plant shutdown. They'd continue to make guitars...by hand. Each instrument went through 60 work stations and over 300 individual processes, all visible to anyone from the public who wanted to see how it's done.

We did, and it was fascinating of course.  But it was the company's solution to the economic crisis, the same solution employed by CF's great-grandfather during the Great Depression, that triggered my memories in that special way. The solution – with the average guitar costing $2-3,000 and a few special works of art going for as much as $100,000, not the kind of numbers that'll deliver you from a recession, especially when your product is the quintessential discretionary expense – Martin decided to make a cheap guitar. Cheap by comparison, hundreds, not thousands of dollars. No inlays, or fancy finishes, just good solid construction out of those same find wood.

VIDEO:Family guitar business keeps finances in tune

Walking through the part of the plant where the new line was being produced, as painstakingly as ever, it happened for me.  I remembered my first guitar, in college, and could hear the songs I'd played (not all that expertly, I should say) as I sang my son to sleep many nights. I'd had a Puerto Rican friend then who'd taught me some Spanish guitar, Maleguena and some of the riffs Jose Feliciano was then popularizing, and the rest of what I played was that odd simplistic mix of familiar favorites – House of the Rising Sun, Girl from Ipanema, Puff the Magic Dragon, a few dozen others.  As a kid I'd played classical piano but was never a natural musician, it was always hard work, mastering a score and playing it well enough to allow others to listen. But the guitar, while difficult, was all about pleasure, playing the instrument, seeing its effect on my toddler son.

So of course, before I left the CF Martin factory floor, I bought one of their Series 1 guitars.

How could I not? Even as it was being tuned and inspected for a final time and placed in its case, I could hear all those songs and longed to play them again, I could see my son's face and the color of his bedroom walls.

And for those moments I wasn't a reporter on a story, but simply someone who remembered something special and who had a chance to revisit that memory again.

Video: The guitar by which all others are measured

by Mike Mosher, Nightly News Senior based in Los Angeles
Mosher was based in the Middle East from 1974-1980

Imagine the knock on the door early in the morning to be told, "You've won the Nobel Peace Prize. It happened to me.

Cairo, Egypt October 27, 1978, (BC) -- before cable and before Twitter there was telex, often the only means for my New York headquarters to relay breaking news to the field reporters. The telex machine was especially important in places like Cairo where an international phone call required booking a day in advance.The machine punched out and received lines of text messaging on a roll of paper. If the news was really urgent there was a bell key. The sender could 'ding' 'ding' ding' until someone woke up on the other end. 

Ahmad was the overnight doorman in the Cairo news bureau. During the day Ahmad made tea for the staff, but at night he knew if the telex 'dinged' he was to find someone from the news staff. 

"Dr. Mosher", Ahmad said with excitement, (Egyptians are generous with titles), "Bell is beating! Bell is beating!"  I thanked Ahmad for his diligence.

'Now Ahmad read it to me slowly.'

"It is saying …URGENT URGENT, MOSHER SADAT AND BEGIN HAVE WON THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE MILLIS"

Millis was Walter Millis the New York desk editor that day. Telex talk often omitted punctuation.

After Egyptian President Anwar Sadat's startling announcement a year earlier that he would talk peace with Israel, it became NBC Cairo duty to keep a reporter and camera team with Sadat everywhere he went. I knew this urgent message meant hurry and get to the president for his reaction to the award.

I gathered NBC correspondent David Burrington and the camera crew and told them the news. "I just won the Noble Peace Prize and we need to get Sadat's reaction."

At the presidential palace, we learned Sadat was surprised too! He told Burrington he was honored but the timing was not good. At that moment talks with Israel were stalled and there was Arab world and domestic opposition to peace. Sadat even questioned why he had to share the prize with Israeli Prime Minister Manachem Begin.  Our report from Cairo was the lead story on Nightly News with John Chancellor that night. 

On December 10, 1978, President Sadat accepted the Nobel Prize alongside Prime Minister Begin. Sadat spoke of breaking with the past and stepping forward into a new age.

"I am convinced," Sadat said at the Oslo ceremony, " that we owe it to this generation and the generations to come, not to leave a stone unturned in our pursuit of peace. The ideal is the greatest one in the history of man, and we have accepted the challenge to translate it from a cherished hope into a living reality, and to win through vision and imagination, the hearts and minds of our peoples and enable them to look beyond the unhappy past."

A few weeks later Sadat took a respite on board the presidential yacht 'Al-Houriya ' in the Suez Canal. He often took time alone to think and focus before he made decisions.

Journalists were told there would be a few days of no news. Still our New York editors insisted we go. There wasn't much room on the ship so the foreign press assembled a 'pool' to accompany the president, 'just-in-case.'

For three days on the ship we never saw the president. There was nothing for us to do but sunbathe, read, and play cards. We begged the press spokesman for an audience and finally Sadat agreed. On day four, there would be a 'family' photo but under no circumstances were we to ask 'news' questions.

President Mohammad Anwar Sadat met us on deck. He was wearing admiral dress whites with the highest honors displayed on his chest. With tremendous poise and dignity he invited us all to stand for the photo. He knew our names and he thanked each of the journalists for covering him everyday and relaying his message of peace to the world.

Photo: The foreign press pool aboard the Al-Houriya in Suez Canal December 1978
Top left to right : Mohammad Gohar (NBC),  Bill Foley (AP),  Mike Mosher (NBC) , President Anwar Sadat , Doreen Kays (ABC), Rick Hull (ABC), Ali Ashmawy (ABC), Mike Lee (CBS) ; Bottom :  Ali Abed (NBC) , Magna (UPI)

Then to our surprise he presented each of us with a medal… it was the Nobel Peace Prize 1978, stamped in Arabic, 'The Hero of Peace Anwar Sadat.' It was a small replica, too small to include Begin or Mosher but such an honor to receive. I'll always treasure my Nobel Peace Prize.      

By Janet Shamlian, NBC News correspondent

Route 231 is just off Interstate 40, about a half-hour outside Nashville.  And like clockwork, the bus bound for Wilson Central High stops on the busy road every school morning at 7:10. It seems an unlikely spot to be picking up children until you see the campers and tents set up just off the road.

By Janet Shamlian, NBC News correspondent

The day was eerily similar to last September 12th. Foreboding skies, swollen clouds and deceivingly light rain. I was back in Galveston a year after Hurricane Ike, but there was no killer storm bearing down on the island this trip. 

By Janet Shamlian, NBC News correspondent

It used to be the epitome of the American dream. Jobs were plentiful in this heartland town, and hard working miners took pride in knowing the lead ore they extracted became bullets for both World Wars. Times were good in Picher, Oklahoma, and the population soared.

Just a bike ride from the Kansas border, you can still find Picher on a map, but today it's little more than that. The schools closed in July, the post office shut down last month and city hall went dark last week. Only a dozen or so people are still living on the small patch of land that's been called the most toxic town in America.

You can guess the rest. The same industry that delivered prosperity to Picher's front door later crept in the back and robbed it of its riches. The soil is poisoned, the water runs orange and the air has been ruled unsafe. Government buyouts started a few years ago, and most families left as soon as they could. But roots run deep in Picher, and a handful of holdouts haven't had the heart or the will to up and leave.

By any accounting, Picher has been dying a slow death for years. Now, even those who remain acknowledge the ink is drying on the obituary of their beloved but tainted town.

Video: Mining leaves Midwest town toxic, tainted

Web only video: Resident on growing up in 'tainted town'

Picher, Oklahoma in 1929

Letters spray painted on almost every home and business mean "to be condemned"