My dad came to faith late in life. In a series of events only a gracious God could engineer, he told me he trusted Christ around lunchtime on a Tuesday before dying of a massive heart attack just three hours later.
Integral to his salvation was a decision to visit a small Baptist church. He’d visited a couple of others — unsure of what he was looking for in a church — before he came to one he felt was a fit. Honestly, I don’t know the name of that little church. I know my dad wandered into the sanctuary older, overweight, not “dressed for church” and clearly not looking like a faithful Sunday attender.