Celebrating our anniversary in NYC was fun and entertaining. We toured iconic buildings, saw the Statue of Liberty, tasted flavors ranging from fine dining to street vendors, zipped every direction on subways, and marveled at amazing skylines. The city sported parks, shopping, museums, and amusements of every kind, and just as enthralling was the diversity of people. On a street corner waiting for the crosswalk sign's signal, I stood within a cluster of humanity consisting of white-skinned internationals who conversed in various languages, dark-hued locals with Jamaican accents, a Jewish gentleman with his yarmulke and side curls, an Arabic man wearing a turbine and traditional dishdasha, and a group of Japanese tourists carrying cameras. That little square of sidewalk was inclusive, a common ground for those of us headed the same direction. In that moment, New York City painted the perfect picture of the Church. People of all ethnic backgrounds and cultural differences gathered together, unified by a singular walk of faith and a continued obedience of following the signals of God's Word. Together we march, shoulder to shoulder, and just as surely as the group scurrying across the street, we will safely reach our destination.
Tip/Tidbit: Remember there is safety in numbers. Set aside differences and find a team of true Bible believers with whom you can share your faith journey.

She had just traded the bar stool for a church pew when I met her. Prickly as a pear cactus, she would have been more comfortable cast in Burr Singer's "Dock Workers" painting than in Duccio's "Madonna and Child." Still, she assumed the role of mother to 16 know-everything college students who needed a place to rent. She ran what was fondly called, Mercy House, like any good captain mans his ship: no-nonsense, practical, stern, and with a heart of love that provoked respect and obedience. That was who she was, through and through, to all who called her friend or acquaintance, and the Kingdom of God was richer because she didn't flinch, didn't compromise, and didn't withhold her real self from those in her world. Natured thus, she could accept both the warts and beauty marks in others. Countless lives were enriched by her willingness to share, to give, and to be steadfast. I was one of them. 
Raised much like an only child, I did not want to rent from her. The spaces were dormitory style with private quarters shared among four students and communal living/kitchen/dining areas. I wanted freedom, and everything about this arrangement screamed captivity to me. But God knew what I needed. And WHO I needed. So, when all my renting options dwindled to nothing, I plastered on a fake smile and suitcase in hand, moved in with the queen of authentic. Her unrelenting care didn't coddle; it forced me to strip away the facade, even the deceit, and take a firm hold on truth. In the process, delusions that had taken me away from God were corrected, allowing complete restoration with my loving Savior. When all was said and done, I was convinced God had urged her to open Mercy House just for me. I told her so. "It wasn't you kids needing me," she'd always reply. "It was me needing each of you." And that's often the way of God's work: mutually benefiting. Even so, she was the purest testimony of just how someone without means, money, or distinction can influence a life, and lives, too numerous to count, were touched by her in a way that left an eternal imprint. 
Through her genuine, unadorned investment in people, she's  been accumulating spiritual treasure for a long time. Today, she's enjoying some of those treasures while we participate in her memorial service. Like the atmosphere she generated in the Mercy House, the air is stirred with challenge. I take another honest look at myself to see if I"m being the purest me, the one through whom Heaven is introduced to others' hearts.
Tip/Tidbit: Challenge any mindset that keeps you from serving others in a way that lifts their spirits to God.