The Last Valentine

 “Forget the former things; don’t dwell on the past.” ~ Isaiah 43:18

Every year, a Valentine arrived for Clara. It slid through the mail slot with the same soft scrape, landing on the kitchen tile as it had for a half-dozen years. Cream envelope sealed in red wax pressed with a heart shape. No return address.

She didn’t open it right away. She never did anymore. At first, she laughed at the mystery. A secret admirer had felt romantic then, almost flattering. But mystery wears thin when it repeats itself without explanation, especially when it arrives on the same date a life ended.

Jonah had died on a February evening. Rain-slick roads. A Sheriff’s phone call split time into before and after. The cards began the following year, cryptic messages like, “Don’t stay. Move,” always closing with the same initial: -V.

This year, the envelope felt heavier. She hadn’t seen the photograph inside for years: her and Jonah at the overlook, the ocean stretched endlessly behind them, the wind carrying their laughter over the cliff. The night before everything fell apart. Her hands trembled as she read the card. “Meet me where our sun last disappeared.” -V.

She almost didn’t go. But love long-buried has a way of pulling us forward. The overlook hadn’t changed. The sky still blushed as the sun sank, the horizon devouring the last of the light. Clara stood alone, memories pressing in like the tide.

Her eyes fell on the man at the railing. He wasn’t Jonah, though the resemblance made her heart stumble. He introduced himself simply as Victor, Jonah’s twin brother.

The truth unfolded slowly. Jonah hadn’t died that night, not right away. He survived, but his memory was broken, shards of his former self scattered. His heart still loved her deeply, even as his mind no longer remembered her.

“He believed you deserved a whole man,” Victor began. “So, he stepped back, giving you space to grieve. The cards had been Jonah’s idea, when he could no longer write them, I interpreted his meaning. He died last spring. This time, completely.”

Victor handed her one final Valentine before leaving. The script carried the final words to his forever love: “Don’t dwell on the life that ended with me. Move forward where I can’t.”

The sun disappeared. Grief didn’t leave Clara that night, but it loosened its grip. Love, she realized, doesn’t always stay beside us. Sometimes it keeps watch from a distance, asking only that we keep living fully.

Jonah hadn’t been asking her to remember him. He’d been asking her to release him.

When the next Valentine’s Day arrived, Clara didn’t wait for the mail slot to clink open. She wrote a card of her own, sealed it in red wax, and left it inside a book on the bookshop’s free shelf. Inside were just four words: “Keep moving forward, always.”

Lord, thank You for love that remains even after loss. Give us courage to release what we cannot keep, and strength to walk forward into the life You still have for us. Amen

Idol in the Mirror

“Whoever wants to follow Me must first deny themselves.” ~ Matthew 16:24

Andrew’s mornings began with coffee, emails, and a glance at his reflection in the hallway mirror. Not to admire himself, but to make sure he looked “put-together.” Over time, the mirror offered more than reflection. It became quiet witness to everything he refused to see in himself.

The mirror caught him declining to help a friend because he “needed some self-care that day.” It observed him skipping church because he was exhausted, though never too tired for his own pursuits. It watched idly as his prayers, once rich with gratitude, thinned into requests for success, applause, and recognition.

He didn’t recognize it as pride. Andrew told himself it was simply being responsible, managing routines, and doing what normal people do.

The turning point didn’t come with a crisis… but with a small child.

One Saturday afternoon, his six-year-old niece, Hannah, visited with Andrew’s sister. While the adults talked, Hannah wandered down the hallway. Her tiny sneakers stopped before the mirror. Andrew watched her eyes scan the glass, not with vanity, but with a curious, unflinching honesty.

“Uncle Andy,” she said, tilting her head, “why do you look sad today in the mirror?”

Andrew froze. He hadn’t realized she could see the reflection he’d spent decades hiding. “I’m not sad,” he said quickly, his words thin against the weight of truth.

“But your face looks tired… like it’s not happy right now,” she said without wavering. Her words landed like a bell in an empty cathedral - sudden, pure, and impossible to ignore.

She saw what he’d refused to see in himself: a man hollowed by worship of his own image.

After they left, silence swallowed the apartment. Alone, he returned to the mirror and saw it differently this time. Not just the dark circles beneath his eyes, but he faint lines of a soul starved for meaning. The ache of a man who’d wandered so far from his real self that even he no longer recognized himself.

For the first time, his image reflected the cost of worshipping himself. He’d prayed for applause, not surrender; for adoration, not transformation. Standing there, he felt the cold shadow of what that devotion had cost him: joy, peace, true identity.

The mirror, of course, said nothing, but its truth settled heavily. Andrew had built an altar to himself and asked God to bless it. He turned away from the image he’d tried so hard to perfect, and faithfully returned to the God who’d loved him all along.

Later, Andrew lay down to sleep, unpolished and unfinished. Not because he’d suddenly become enough, but because he remembered the One who is. And when the idol in the mirror crumbled, worship found its rightful target again.

“Lord, forgive me for the times I’ve turned my heart away from You. Help me to lay down my pride, my need for approval, and my busyness. Teach me to seek You first, to rest in Your love, and to live for You each day. Amen

Willing Workers

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as if working for God.” ~ Colossians 3:23

Wednesdays always began the same, at Miller’s Diner, in the corner booth with cracked vinyl seats. The place smelled of bacon grease and fresh coffee, an aroma that wrapped around you like a familiar hug.

Bill arrived first, claiming he needed “time to organize his thoughts,” though everyone knew he just wanted the first cup of coffee. Charlie, the crew’s unofficial captain, brought steady leadership and encouragement. Pete faithfully studied the entire menu, “just in case today was the day waffles appeared.” Others soon filled the booth, their laughter and fellowship fueling the day’s work ahead.

They laughed, prayed, and traded stories of aching joints and grandkids. Only when the plates were cleared and the last cups drained did they rise together, ready to serve.

A few miles away, St. Luke’s Methodist Church waited. The men moved through it like caretakers of something deeply sacred. 

Doug tested every light, convinced a bright room welcomed a lively spirit. Jim circled the building, checking each door with the urgency of a professional security agent. And Bob, “Head of Plumbing,” proudly inspected every toilet, a title no one challenged.

Others painted, polished, and repaired whatever needed attention. Church members called them the Wednesday Willing Workers. They simply called themselves brothers.

For decades, these retirees had tended the church as if it were their own homes - patching cracks, repainting walls, polishing windows until they shimmered in the morning sun. They never spoke of payment; only of gratitude.

One morning, Pastor Johnny arrived early and found them already working. Tom knelt in the entryway, wiping dust from the baseboards. Ray dusted the pews, humming a hymn that drifted softly across the sanctuary. Benny mopped the Fellowship Hall floor in steady, practiced sweeps.

“Fellas,” the Pastor said gently, “You know we could hire someone to do this.”

Charlie smiled respectfully. “Why hire someone to love what we already love?” Gene nodded. “This church held us when we were young men raising families. It buried our wives. It baptized our grandchildren.” He tapped the wall with quiet affection. “We’re not just fixing a building, Pastor. We’re preserving what matters most.”

That Sunday, Pastor Johnny paused the service to honor them. The congregation rose, clapping and cheering, until the men’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. Bill quietly wiped his glasses, struggling to keep his composure.

“We’re not heroes,” Allen said later, slightly embarrassed. “We’re just old men who believe there’s no greater service than caring for God’s house.”

Everyone knew better. Their care had left a mark far deeper than paint or polish. Long after they were gone, their love would linger in every corner of the church they cared for with faithful, joyful hearts, a living testament to lives devoted to God’s work.

Holy Father, bless their hands that care for Your house, the hearts that give without seeking praise, and the fellowship that strengthens them for the tasks ahead. Teach us to serve with the same humility, devotion, and joy. Amen

Friend Circle

 “Two are better than one, for they can help each other succeed." ~ Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

Daryl’s hospitalization came without warning. Treatment followed swiftly—relentless and aggressive. Consumed by the fight to survive, he had little mental space for anything beyond the next round of therapy. The odds were clearly stacked against him, and he knew it.

Against his instincts, his wife Karyn urged him to be public about their situation - to be open, honest, and authentic with friends, family, and their faith community. Daryl resisted. Strength and self-sufficiency had always been core to his identity. Accepting help felt like surrender.

Karyn saw it differently, reminding him that Scripture calls believers to “carry each other’s burdens” (Galatians 6:2), and “rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn” (Romans 12:15). To her, asking for help wasn’t weakness, but humility. A circle of friends praying, encouraging, and helping out wasn’t optional; it was essential for surviving the ordeal.

Her argument won.

Karyn created a CaringBridge webpage to rally support and keep people informed without the weight of countless individual updates. An introvert by nature, she preferred the shadows to the spotlight. Every time she hovered over the “post” button, fear rose in her chest.

Something inside kept prompting her to continue posting until the miraculous day Daryl rang the survivor’s bell. Even then, she kept writing, regularly, for a full year.

Three days before her first post, a tornado struck their small community. Their home was partially destroyed. Smaller paychecks, delays by the insurance company, and Daryl’s chemo treatments paralyzed Karyn with the fear of becoming a bankrupt widow living in a crumbling house.

Then Jesus showed up... wearing work boots, carrying tools, food, and envelopes of cash.

Friends flew in from afar to help repair the damage. Others called, offering donations for materials, hot meals, and help navigating insurance paperwork. The generosity was overwhelming.

The blog quickly flooded with followers checking in for every update. She logged hundreds of prayers, each one, she later realized, had been answered in tangible ways.

They were sustained by a remarkable circle of friends, many of whom they’d never met.

Everyone’s situation is different, so this isn’t a prescription for how others should respond. Still, experience, and research, suggests that a loving community plays a vital role in healing. American Cancer Society studies show that survivors with strong emotional support often adjust better, maintain a more hopeful outlook, and report a higher quality of life.

Never underestimate the difference you can make in the life of someone facing cancer. A new friend is an opportunity to lift you both higher, because different people draw out different strengths within us.

Almighty Father, thank You for the gift of true friendship - for the joy we share in good times and the grace of showing up for one another when life is shaken. What a privilege it is to share good times and be present for others when challenges disrupt our lives. Amen

Guided, Not Ignited

 “Anger doesn’t produce the righteousness that God desires.” ~ James 1:20

The blast shattered the quiet of the evening, a sound no parent ever wants to hear near a child’s bedroom window. Glass exploded. Wood splintered. Smoke rose from the front porch of the small Montgomery home where Martin Luther King Jr. lived with his wife and baby daughter. The bomb barely missed them in 1956.

Neighbors ran. Sirens wailed. Fear moved faster than the chaos that followed.

A crowd filled the lawn from every direction, working men, weary women, some gripping bricks, some bottles, all carrying a rage that’d been gathering for years. They had seen churches burned, threats ignored, lives broken. That night, violence had crossed a line. It had entered the home of Dr. King and his family. Retribution felt righteous. Necessary. Long overdue.

Inside the house, Reverend King’s knees hit the floor in prayer. He’d preached courage while secretly carrying fear. This time, danger wasn’t theoretical - it had arrived with dynamite. For a moment, even he didn’t know what to say. But he stepped outside, anyway.

Standing amid his porch’s wreckage, unarmed and unguarded, he raised his voice, not in anger, but calmly and deliberately. “Put down your weapons,” he said. The noise immediately faded.

“We can’t solve this problem through retaliatory violence,” he continued. “We must love our white brothers, no matter what they do to us.”

Some wept. Others trembled. This was not the response they wanted, but the one they needed. King looked at them and said softly, “If you harm anyone, you harm me. If you have a gun, take me first.” Weapons began littering the grass.

That night, the Civil Rights movement stood at a crossroads between rage and restraint, between justice by force and justice by faith. In a broken house on a quiet street, King chose the much harder path, one that demanded discipline rather than release.

Decades later, another city wrestles with its own tension as sirens echo through Minneapolis. Crowds gather, grief and frustration close at hand. When agents, protesters, and media turn to blame, human dialogue collapses. When rhetoric escalates, solutions retreat. History reminds us that lasting change rarely comes from burning down the middle ground; it comes from widening it.

King’s response that night was deliberate, not passive. He insisted that anger be shaped into something constructive - something that could still speak to lawmakers, persuade neighbors, and leave room for reform. He understood that systems change through pressure and persuasion, protest and policy, moral witness and conversation from both sides.

The choice is not between silence and chaos. It’s between escalation and engagement.

The porch was damaged. The moment was volatile. But the path forward remained hopeful,  because someone insisted that justice moves best when it is guided, not ignited.

Lord, grant us the courage to stand for justice without yielding to anger. Teach us patience in moments of fear, wisdom in instants of outrage, and the strength to choose paths that build understanding rather than deepen division. Amen

It Only Took One

 “Teach kids to choose the right path, and they’ll stay on it when older.” ~ Proverbs 22:6

The teacher begged for more time to work with him… to help shift his focus, to show Mateo that someone actually gave a damn. He had the classic troubled childhood background that gave him little chance of succeeding in life.

Mateo’s mom was chronically ill from drug addiction, his father but a distant memory. At 17, he was alone – emotionally, financially, and academically. He wasn’t a high school dropout yet. But his failing grades and labels like “unfocussed, rebellious, and loser” had already begun to define him, steering him toward a dismal future many assumed was inevitable.

The principal argued that the teen had cycled through every program the district offered kids like Mateo. Mrs. Farley, his teacher, made a strong case for giving Mateo another chance  - and won.

Farley stayed late, listened longer, and showed up consistently. She focused on trust before instruction, encouragement before correction. Together, they identified areas for improvement, set realistic goals, and slowly built the mindset Mateo needed to make confident changes.

In time, Farley noticed some encouraging progress. Mateo’s attendance, attitude, and social skills improved. Other teachers noticed increased participation, steadier grades, and a boy who was finally beginning to engage.

Mateo had never known this kind of attention. It should have come from home, but like millions of young people, he was desperate for just one dependable adult. Then, without warning, Mrs. Farley left the school due to a family health emergency. The following semester, she learned Mateo had quit school and never returned.

Had she left too soon? Was it naïve to believe her presence could have made a lasting difference? She would never know—and the unanswered questions stayed with her. Now, she’d never know.

Years later, she spotted a man resembling Mateo talking with a group of young people. Her heart sank when the man broke free from the group and rushed toward her, wearing a shirt emblazoned with the logo of a local rehabilitation clinic.

“Mateo, how are you?” she asked, bracing for bad news.

“I’m doing great!” he beamed. “Mrs. Farley, come meet my friends.” She followed, expecting to hear about struggles rather than success.

“Sarah, Brandon, Jess,” he began, “this is my favorite teacher from high school, the one I told you about. She was the inspiration for me to become a drug and alcohol counsellor. Mrs. Farley proved that it takes the faith and kindness of one person to give someone the confidence to change.”

He nodded towards his friends. “Now I try to be that person for everyone I work with.”

Programs don’t change kids—relationships do. Peers influence teen identity. But relationships with caring adults form the building blocks for all future relationships. They model belief, hope, and consistency.  Don’t miss your opportunity to be one of them!

Father God, You’ve entrusted us with the privilege and responsibility of being Godly role models. Lead us as we walk humbly with You, dependent on Your strength working through us. Amen

Nana's Prayer

 “Even to your old age, I will sustain you and carry you.” ~ Isaiah 46:4

Every morning, in the silent moments before the house came to life, Nana sat at the small kitchen table with her Bible and a chipped blue mug of black coffee. The house had settled into quieter routines, its old clamor gone, yet now and then stillness gave way to the joyful presence of an infant grandchild  - happy gurgles and hungry cries that livened up the space.

Her hands were much older now, fingers stiff with arthritis. They’d once trembled in hospital rooms, clenched in prayer beside their teenage daughter fighting a childhood illness doctors weren’t sure she’d survive. Those hands had pleaded through restless nights, offering boundless love and hopeful courage, asking God to spare their child.

And He had.

For years afterward, Nana wondered what the future might hold. Would her daughter remain healthy? Could her body ever carry a child of her own? Nana never voiced these fears. She simply trusted the God who had already proven Himself faithful.

Today, Nana sat in her favorite chair near the fireplace, cradling her infant granddaughter. Maria’s tiny hands fumbled with the bottle as she fed, eyes wide with curiosity, soft coos escaping between suckles. Firelight danced across the room, casting a glow that mirrored the love in Nana’s heart. Every breath, every sigh, every moment felt like a miracle – life born from one nearly lost.

Her back ached. Her knees protested. But her heart was full. Nana closed her eyes, tears tracing paths down her weathered cheeks. She bowed her head and whispered, “Thank you Lord.”

Then she took Maria’s miniature hands and cupped them inside her own. A warm glow flickered across their faces, as if heaven itself had paused to watch. No words were needed – only the pulsing rhythm of breaths, heartbeats, and a shared sense of gratitude – tender, holy, and complete.

Nana felt the weight of years tighten across her chest: the hospital nights, the unanswered questions, the prayers whispered through fear. And yet, in that same breath, she felt the wonder of the moment bloom, living proof that God had been faithful through it all.

Time seemed to bend, past and present meeting in a single, sacred hush. She thought of the long road, from fear to faith, from hospital halls to bedtime stories. Gratitude, she realized, wasn’t forgetting the pain. It was remembering Who had carried them through it.

As she readied for bed and turned out the lights, she folded her aching hands once more in prayer, not because she needed another miracle, but because she never wanted to stop thanking the One who had already given so many:

Precious Lord, thank You for the life You spared, the years You carried us through, and the miracle I held in my arms today. Thank You for every answered prayer… even the ones that came wrapped in waiting and fear. As my strength fades, let my gratitude grow, resting fully in Your faithfulness and promises. Amen

The Long Way Home

 “Love endures all things.” ~ 1 Corinthians 13:7

When twenty-something Samuel left town, he didn’t say goodbye.

He was young, restless, and certain of being misunderstood. Every conversation with his father felt like a quiet correction, well-meant, but heavy to a son desperate to be his own man.

Henry, his father, believed in patience, in steady, proven paths. Samuel burned for motion, for risk, for a life he could claim as his own. What Henry called wisdom, Samuel heard as doubt.

Their argument hadn’t been loud, which almost made it worse. It ended in unfinished sentences and a long silence. With pride clenching his heart, Samuel walked out. He told himself that leaving was necessary; that distance would prove his strength. Success would justify any wounds he caused.

What Samuel never admitted, not even to himself, was that he left out of fear. Fear of failing beneath his father’s expectations. Fear that if he stayed, he would never discover who he was apart from the man who raised him.

So he chose the road instead of his father’s table, independence instead of reconciliation. There would be time later, he reasoned, after the anger cooled, after he proved he was right. But years passed, and by the time he learned that pride was a poor substitute for peace, the silence had grown heavier than the apology he spoke out loud.

Henry had always kept Samuel’s room unchanged. Not because he expected his son to return, but because love, once given, doesn’t know how to revoke itself.

Years later, a letter arrived in his son’s handwriting. “Dad, I don’t know how to come home. I just know I should never have left like that.”

Henry read it twice, hands untroubled and relieved. Its postmark came from the next town over, the one whose bus arrived just before dusk. Waiting had taught him to notice such things.

He folded the letter, checked the clock, whispered a prayer, and put on his coat. There was a chance, just a chance, that Samuel would be on the evening bus. Hope rarely offers certainty.

That night, Samuel stepped off the bus, eyes lowered, rehearsing apologies he feared would never be enough. When he looked up, he saw his Dad - breathless from the walk, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I don’t deserve this,” Samuel said.

Henry shook his head gently. “Forgiveness isn’t something you earn,” he replied. “It’s something I chose long before you asked.”

They walked home together, slowly. Not everything was repaired that night. Trust would take time. But the greatest distance, that space between resentment and mercy, had already been crossed.

Later, Samuel noticed his bedroom light glowing. “You left it on for me?” he asked. Henry smiled. “No,” he said. “I left it on for myself. Hope needs light, too.”

Father God,  You see the roads chosen and the tables left behind. Teach us to choose love over pride, patience over distance, and hope over fear. Give us hearts that forgive before requested and the courage to return when Grace calls. Amen

His Thawing Heart

 “This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be grateful for it.” ~ Psalm 118:24

Everyone on Front Street knew Leo Pike as the guy who hated January almost as much as he loathed cheerfulness. He complained about the cold. He scoffed at resolutions. He muttered at neighbors who dared to wish him “Happy New Year.” January, to him, was just a long sigh between Christmas glitter and the first crocus of spring.

On the third Tuesday in January, one of those slate-colored days where the sky seemed to have misplaced the sun, Leo trudged outside to collect his mail, wrapped in an old wool coat that wreaked of pipe tobacco and stubborn resolve. He grumbled as usual. The sidewalk was icy. The wind blew steadily. Even the birds seemed to have given up.

Then he saw it… and something inside him hesitated.

Two young girls were putting the final touches on a snowman in Mrs. Delaney’s yard. With his carrot nose tilted skyward, charcoal eyes sparkling, and a grin bursting with delight, he seemed to glow with the fearless joy of childhood itself.

Underneath it stood a little sign on a popsicle stick: “Please smile at him. He’s doing his best.” Leo snorted! Ridiculous he thought, while a small grin snuck onto his face before he could stop it.

On his way back inside, he noticed children dragging sleds up the hill, rosy-cheeked and laughing. Their joy wasn’t loud or flashy; it simply existed, persistent as an ocean tide. One waved at him. He lifted two fingers in return, then realized waving wasn’t really his thing.

The next day, he found a flyer taped to his door - “January Warmth in a Bowl,” the village’s monthly soup night. Normally he’d toss it away. He read it twice, then he muttered, “Ridiculous!” and set his alarm anyway.

So he went. Leo sat at a long table among strangers. He tasted potato soup far better than expected. He listened. He chuckled cautiously, like laughter might crack if pressed too hard. Someone asked if he would come back. He surprised himself by saying, “Maybe I will.”

By the last week of January, the weather was still. He still believed the sky could try harder. But now, from his window, he noticed warm lights glowing in nearby homes. He felt the rhythm of life around him. The snowman stared back at him, leaning more, but still smiling as if hopeful.

Leo smiled back. January had not changed. He had. The month that once felt endless now felt quietly blessed, alive with God’s presence, a reminder that joy can be found even in grayest days. For the first time in years, he felt lighter, freer, and grateful for the everyday miracles around him.

Heavenly Father, thank You for seasons that teach us to notice Your goodness, even in quiet and ordinary days. Melt what has grown cold in us. Help us see warmth, hope, and joy wherever You place it. May our hearts awaken to Your presence. Amen

The Town Under One Roof

 “Just as each body part has a distinct function, every believer has a specific role.” ~ Romans 12:4-5

Nestled along the cold, steel-blue edge of Prince William Sound, Whittier, Alaska, looks like the kind of place you might miss if you blinked. An hour south of Anchorage, it serves as a gateway to glaciers, fjords, and breaching whales. But the spectacular setting has its peculiarities and lives by rules all its own.

There is only one way in or out: a single-lane tunnel bored through solid rock, opening in alternating directions every half hour. When it closes at night (10 p.m. in summer, 5 p.m. in winter), Whittier is tucked in, sealed off from the world. No exceptions.

Most of Whittier’s 214 full-time residents live together in Begich Towers, a fourteen-story concrete giant originally built for military families. Today, it functions like a vertical village.

The complex offers a convenient and secure place for people to live and access essential services under one roof. In addition to apartments, there’s a school, post office, medical clinic, café, grocery store, church, and municipal offices.

Rush hour isn’t measured by traffic lights, but by how long you wait for an elevator.

Begich is actually three connected towers, separated by narrow gaps, allowing them to sway during fierce winds or earthquakes. Bears sometimes wander into the maze of tunnels below. Yet the residents stay.

Even when snow piles nine feet high and wind chills plunge toward forty below, Mayor Daniels walks to work in sandals and a short-sleeved shirt. His apartment, decorated in cheerful Hawaiian style, overlooks the bay and the Chugach Mountains. “We keep binoculars by the window,” he says, smiling. “You can watch the whales breach.”

Locals like Traci wouldn’t trade this place for anything. “God’s little acre,” she calls it. “We live really close together, but we’re warm with one another. We look out for each other. I’ve learned they need me… and I need them.”

Whether sharing coffee downstairs or gathering for community meetings, the “Whittiots,” as they call themselves, have learned something essential: life works better together.

Scripture echoes that truth. We need each other! Just as a body depends on many parts working in harmony, the church is formed by believers united in Christ. It’s within community that our gifts are nurtured, our faith is renewed, and Christ’s love is reflected to the world.

God forms His church not from isolated parts, but from hearts united in Him. He never intended for us to walk alone. Alone, we weaken. Together, we thrive.

We become what none of us could be apart – many members, one body, sustained by grace and guided by Christ. It’s within community that our gifts find purpose, our faith deepens, and Christ’s love becomes visible - one life, one role, one body at a time.

Father God, thank You for allowing me to be a part of something dynamic, powerful, and eternal. Please help me find and use my special gifts and abilities for the good of Your people and to glorify Jesus, in whose name I pray. Amen