Are you there God? It’s me, Tamra.

When I think about where my faith began, I don’t start with a sermon or a youth group or even a big spiritual moment. I start with my grandma, Dovie.

Her Bible was the most well-loved book I’ve ever seen. The cover worn soft from years of handling, the pages marked with underlines and notes, her handwriting curling in the margins. It wasn’t a decoration on a shelf — it was alive in her hands. She didn’t just read it. She lived it.

Sitting in church with her was always a mix of comfort and discipline. If we couldn’t stop giggling, we got “the look,” and that was all it took. My grandma didn’t need to raise her voice — she carried authority with her love.

The church in Beebe, Arkansas, was Pentecostal, and speaking in tongues was just part of the service. To me, as a child, it was confusing. I felt like I was missing some secret language, some deeper connection that I couldn’t reach. And yet, even with the confusion, there was peace. There was belonging. The smell of that little church, the sound of her voice singing Jesus Loves the Little Children — those memories are still stitched into me.

Of course, as a teenager, I thought some of her beliefs were too extreme. Dresses only, no makeup, hair a certain way — that was her way of honoring God. She never enforced those rules on us, but I knew that’s what she believed. And as a teenager, I just wanted to be a teenager. I prayed my cousin would make the trip at the same time we did, because when she was there, everything felt more fun. We’d hang out in my Aunt Reta’s room, trying on clothes, giggling about boys, and talking for hours. Those visits were our little slice of joy tucked into the rhythm of church weekends.

Looking back, I realize now that my grandma gave me more than rules or traditions. She gave me a foundation. She gave me the sound of old hymns echoing in my ears, the sight of underlined scripture, and the steady reminder that I was loved by both her and by God.