There is a time for labor and a time for rest, a time to toil in the fields and a time to savor the fruit of patience. And lo, there is a time to sit in the quiet of evening, a fine cigar in hand, and reflect upon the goodness of life. Such is the moment granted by the Foundation Tabernacle Havana Seed, a cigar not merely rolled but crafted, not merely smoked but experienced.

O mighty Havana seed, nurtured in the bosom of the earth, your presence graces my hands, and I partake of thee as a man beholds the vastness of the world in a single breath. You are of the soil, the sun, the laborer’s toil, and the fire’s embrace. Your wrapper, dark as the cedars of Lebanon, gleams in the glow of lamplight. Each draw rises like incense in the temple, offering flavors of rich cocoa, espresso, and a whisper of spice that lingers like the final line of a well-loved story.

Ah, but a fine cigar is not merely about the leaf—it is about the moment it creates, the stillness it invites. This one does not rush, does not push, and does not demand. It just sits there in your fingers like an old friend telling you stories of lands far and wide, of hands that have nurtured it, of fires that have refined it. The draw is effortless, smooth and steady, with just enough kick to remind you you’re alive.

Some cigars are smoked, and some are lived. This one is worthy of a king’s wisdom, a poet’s wonder, and a theologian’s meditation. In that moment when the ember finally kisses your fingertips, you don’t mourn its passing—you simply smile, knowing you have tasted something true.

-MJHarvell (Michael Joe Harvell)

You ever notice how life has a way of making us think we need to do something big and flashy to make a difference? We assume if we’re not building orphanages or curing diseases, we’re just spinning our wheels. But Hebrews 13:16 offers a different perspective. It says, “And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.”

Now, that doesn’t mean you have to sell everything and move to some remote village—unless you just really enjoy mosquito bites. It means that the everyday kindness you show—the way you stop to listen when someone’s having a rough day, or the way you share your time, your talents, or even a piece of your heart—those things matter.

God doesn’t weigh the size of your good deed—He weighs the heart behind it. Holding the door for someone, making that phone call you’ve been meaning to, or just sitting with someone in their sorrow—those are holy acts. When you share from your soul, whether it’s a meal, a smile, or simply your presence, you’re building something far bigger than you realize: you’re building the kingdom of God, one small sacrifice at a time.

So, don’t get caught up in trying to do something grand. Just do something good. And then do it again. Because when you do, you’ll discover that sometimes the smallest kindness makes the biggest difference.