It Heals Me

When I was a young mother, a long time ago now, I used to take my four daughters to visit my maternal grandmother.


She was a character (You might enjoy two former posts Mad-e-lyn and Too Big for My Britches )




Madelyn, my grandmother and her youngest daughter, my Aunt Lana.

Granny was full of spit and vinegar. Opinionated. And believe me she thought her opinions were the gospel truth. Her point of view was the plumb line for everyone and everything around her and sometimes my choices and decisions didn’t match hers. Did I ever feel her heat then!

Granny was widowed early in life. Never married again and lived quite a bit of her widowed life alone. She maintained and ran the farm by herself—leasing land for crops and selling cattle. Granny didn’t drive, but she was fiercely independent in such an odd and unconventional manner.

Years ago I would pack the van and my girls and we would make the long and winding drive to her house. The girls often got carsick, and felt quite green by the time we reached my grandmother’s road. We would see the house before we got there: an old white farm house with black shutters and a wide, deep front porch. It sat on a low, rolling hill, and her yard was full of trees and flowers. Granny’s house was always immaculate, and of course the kitchen was the center and the hub regardless of who her company was. Perhaps that is why my own home tends to be that way now (not immaculate, mind you. I have never been able to manage that particular skill).

We all have idiosyncrasies. We have quirks and funny habits that our families tease us for and sometimes even playfully mimic. My grandmother had several. For some reason I just couldn’t get my mind wrapped around her idioms and her language and what she meant by either. My girls and I would tolerate this. Much to my dismay I now realize that I encouraged the tolerance rather than set an example for acceptance and respect. But I was young too. And in reality I was convinced I knew a great deal more than my Granny.

Oh, that’s a funny thought now.

When we would arrive she would throw her arms and hands up in the air and a smile would break out on her face. And she would exclaim, “Lord! Lord, have mercy. My children. My children. Oh, my children.” And then she would grab each one of us and squeeze and pat really hard, almost as if she couldn’t contain herself. My girls would smile politely and endure the whole greeting episode because, of course this was Mom’s eastern Kentucky grandmother.

But there was one thing she said and did that has remained with me all these years. Granny would pull us to herself and press her cheek against ours and her voice would lower, almost to a whisper, and she would say,

“Oh, it heals me. It heals me.”

I didn’t understand. I wasn’t exactly sure what or whom she was addressing. And my girls were even more confused than I was.

This would happen several times in the course of our visit. Random times. Then we would leave; we would say our goodbyes and she would stand on the cement back porch and then follow us to the end of the sidewalk. Always as I backed the van out of the driveway there would be tears in her eyes and she waved until we were far down the road.

Through the years that phrase has haunted me. Yes, that is the correct word. At random times, in unexpected places I have remembered my grandmother’s words and tone and gestures. And instead of tolerance I now remember them with a deep fondness.

God tends to bring all things full circle.

I am no longer a young mother. I am a grandmother now. I am called Noni (long o). I have two grandsons: Elijah and Judah. They are the beautiful sons of my two oldest daughters. They were born in September thirteen days apart. They are at wonderfully delightful ages. I see them at least once a week, and I often get to keep them overnight.



Elijah, on left. Judah, on right.


They reach for people now. They take your face in their hands and give open mouth cheek-plant kisses. They talk and gurgle and coo. They laugh and smile. They play peek-a-boo and high-five and pull hair and climb up your body when you hold them. They are alive, warm and real.

Several weeks ago my grandmother’s words came back to me. I spent time with both boys during the week snuggling and cuddling with them. Both boys pressed their little faces up against mine and then put their heads down on my shoulder and fell asleep—heavy, warm and solid in my arms.

Oh my. I am blessed.

The feeling that flooded over and through me in those moments was startling in its clarity. Pure and deep. All the pressures and worries and concerns of the day just melted away. These little boys, who look and feel so much like my daughters, brought healing to all the rough and uneven places in me. All the ruffled feathers, all the whipping waves, all the untidy places in me were momentarily smoothed over.

And I understood my grandmother’s words. Or at least I gained a more profound comprehension of the idea of them. I am not sure she could have explained exactly what she meant. But that day I experienced with the boys the feeling she must have had when we came to see her and for a few brief moments she pressed her cheek against ours.

We brought her hope. And hope heals.

I even said it aloud to Elijah and Judah. I whispered it to my grandsons. I pressed the boys to my cheek and spoke my grandmother’s words—it heals me. It heals me. Finally, I understood. I thought I would be embarrassed. Briefly it crossed my mind that my girls would think their mama had reached way too deep into her roots. But they didn’t, or at least they had the grace not to comment aloud. I realized it didn’t matter if they did.

God offers hope and healing in the most unexpected and unorthodox ways.

In Elijah and Judah I feel the movement and expansion of our family. A new generation—full of promise, potential and purity. And this hope often brings a healing balm to the rough and wounded places in a family’s DNA.

All things encompassed in these compact little boys cries hope. Their birth and growth signals that the family is beginning yet again. They offer another chance. Another beginning.

Another time to get more right. Another time to be more intentional. Another time to make more time. Another time to be patient. Another time to offer grace. Another time to laugh. Another time to forgive. Another time to set chores aside. Another time to enjoy. Another time to choose. Another time to love.

And all these other times lend to healing.

God is so good. I bless him for bringing idiosyncrasies full circle.

Lord! Lord, have mercy. My children. My children.

Someday, I am quite sure, Elijah and Judah will tolerate their Noni’s idiosyncrasies. They will just shake their heads and whisper to each other, Here she comes. She’s going to hug us and not let go. She’s going to say things that seem like a different language. She’s going to do that funny little dance.

And I am going to laugh because God will bring it all full circle.

Granny would have loved these little boys—her great, great grandsons. She probably would have squeezed too hard and too long, but it would have been deeply rooted in love. The boys would have wiggled and tried to get away, but my grandmother would have had her momentary healing.

I certainly have.






**Photos of Elijah and Judah taken by Rae Rector Photography. The photographer and owner of this company is my daughter, Katherine. She is Elijah's mama.

Miracles Beget Miracles

My brother will be a guest blogger on this site in the near future. Certainly he has a story to share of God’s grace and redemption, and it is his to tell. And he tells the story far better than me.

You see there’s a principle in God’s kingdom—one of many—miracle gives birth to miracle. There’s life in a miracle. Abundant and frothing it spills over and feeds the birth of other miracles.

On July 16, 2012 two little miracles arrived in this world. They entered after their mama and daddy spent a month living in the hospital. They arrived after weeks of medical intervention to delay their arrival. They arrived after bed rest and lack of iron. They arrived after sleepless nights and confinement. They arrived after much prayer and weeping. They arrived after much longing and yearning.

Aiden Seth* and Allie Jo* were born. They arrived seven weeks before their expected date. Thirty-three weeks and one day after their conception.

Twins. My brother’s children. My niece and nephew.

My youngest daughter and I were there. We packed our bags and readied the car for a road trip and drove two hours to the hospital. There had been many false starts as we awaited their arrival. Near calls of when we thought they were going to be born—all times that would have been far too soon. But that morning the inevitable was finally happening. We got there at noon and late in the afternoon the medical staff wheeled Mama to the delivery room and we began our vigil. We were told if we waited in the hall in front of the elevator we would get to see the babies briefly as they were transported to the NICU. It was not a long wait. Less than forty-five minutes after she left us we saw the babies only minutes after they were born—swaddled in hospital blankets and carried by masked nurses.



Aiden Seth

 Aiden first. He was seven minutes older than his tiny sister. And he looked exactly like his Daddy did twenty-nine years ago. I know; I was there. Allie next. The little sister—the youngest of four siblings. God love her heart she has three older brothers.

Allie Jo



My step-father wept. My mother cried. I looked at my step-father, one of the dearest men in the world, and asked him how it felt to have his legacy continue? His pale blue eyes were milky with tears and he had no words. He just held his hand over his face. His stooped and slumped shoulders shook with his weeping. My mother simply wanted to know if they were healthy. Would they survive? Would they be ok? Abby and I just stood in awe. In awe, both for the tiny babies in front of us and for the miracle God had wrought in my brother. There was no way we could look at Aiden and Allie and not remember the place from which God had pulled their Daddy.

Five years ago my brother, Courtney, was near death, (not figuratively, but literally) because of drug addiction. And that’s his story to tell, but through a series of events and interventions and prayers he went to rehab a third time. He fought. He fought hard. And he survived.

His account will stun you. Courtney’s story will soften the hard places in your heart. His Damascus Road was long and rough and narrow. But like Paul scales were removed from his eyes. And like Paul his heart was changed from stone to flesh. The phrase it’s a miracle is tossed so frequently and flippantly that it seems cliche; therefore, miracles often become invisible and commonplace and we forget to stand in awe. But my brother’s life is a miracle—a testimony to the intervention and grace and provision of our Almighty God.


During the entire month that Courtney and his precious wife, Angela**, were in the hospital we texted every morning. The messages evolved into mini bible studies. They were born out of daily reading and immersion in the Word. He would send me a passage or verse of Scripture to read. Then a volley of discussion would occur. Church happened on my sanctuary couch almost every morning.

Several times there were intense scares with the babies, but I witnessed Courtney and Angela working through each crisis. Their tools? Prayer, the Word, encouragement from the people who love them and especially each other. Courtney plastered Scripture on the bulletin boards of their hospital room. He shared the Truth with the doctors and nurses and the staff. Courtney had no qualms and no hesitations telling what the Good Lord had done in his and Angela’s life.

Now we were seeing what the Good Lord had done.

The NICU staff explained to Courtney that after an hour and a half he could come to the NICU to see his children—his daughter, his son. He would be allowed to bring two people.

The time passed. The labor room clock read 6:20 p.m. The staff rang the phone in the room and told Courtney he could come. We thought our mom and dad would go with Courtney, but he turned to Abby and me and said, “Let’s go.”

I hesitated. I felt awkward. I struggled with usurping a place that wasn’t mine. I didn’t want to go ahead of the others. I voiced my thoughts.

My brother looked at me. Without wavering he held my gaze, “I want you to go with me.” My heart became too big for my chest. And I had to work really hard to keep the puddle of moisture in my eyes from becoming tears and running down my face. I was so honored, so touched by this unexpected privilege.


A NICU can be a frightening place. There are so many machines and medical paraphernalia. There is a lot of noise and the hum of contraptions that I had to ask for the names and often an explanation too. There seemed to be way too many nurses standing outside the small room pouring over charts comparing and assessing the recorded information. Aiden and Allie’s nurse was a young man named Zach; he was incredibly strong and sure. He deftly, but gently handled Courtney’s babies. I was touched and impressed. God knew what Courtney needed.



Abby and Uncle Courtney



Zach, Courtney and Allie.




Big Sister and Little Brother

Abby and I were not allowed to touch Aiden and Allie. We remained about two feet from them. Sometimes we would lean in and peer through the glass wall of their beds to memorize their little faces. We could only look and watch, but it was enough for us because we were peering at miracles.

Tiny, perfect miracles.

Abby stood at the end of Allie’s bed. She looked at me and these words came from her, “That’s a little person. A little person who will grow into this.” She said as she pointed to herself. I looked from Allie to Abby. Seventeen years. Abby is almost as old as I was when Courtney was born.




Courtney, age 3--Tamera, age 20

 Zach helped Courtney change Allie. I watched Courtney touch his little daughter—his hands, so large, cradled her miniature body. His dark head bent towards her. Adoration already vivid in his face. Tears puddled in my eyes again.

Courtney, Zach and Allie

Later Zach would allow several more people in the room. Our mother, Courtney’s father. A couple of very close family friends. Zach seemed to understand that we all needed to be reassured. We needed confirmation that they were here: alive and relatively strong and healthy considering their prematurity. A hum of excitement and joy hovered in the room.

We were allowed to stay for over an hour. I snapped photographs as fast as I could. I am not a photographer, but I wanted so much to record this for Courtney and Angela. I wanted them to have images as reminders of the early moments and hours of the miracles who came readily from the hand of God.

The last photograph I took is my favorite. Courtney was standing beside Aiden’s bed. Quietly I lifted my camera. Could I manage to capture what I saw there in this new daddy, my brother? Could it be pressed into the digital pixels and become a visual memoir of the moment? Immediately after I clicked the photo Courtney turned and disappeared.



Courtney--blessed man


























His absence was noticed and everyone began to look for him. Worried. Concerned. I knew where my brother had gone. I knew what he was doing not because he told me, but because I knew what he wanted and needed to do.


He went to find a quiet, solitary place. He went to be alone. He went away from the crowd. He went to tell the God who had saved him thank you. He went to praise the One who had changed him and given him a second chance. He went to bless Him who had called him out of darkness into his marvelous light.



This week Aiden and Allie are five weeks old. They have been home for three weeks. I have held and kissed them. I have prayed over them. I have rocked them. I have put them against my cheek and breathed I love you in their tiny ears. And I have blessed the Lord for their Daddy over and over and over and over.




Tamera and Allie



Miracles beget miracles.



Aiden Seth and Allie Jo***



* Aiden Seth is named for his older brother and his Daddy. I gave Courtney his middle name and he passed it to Aiden.

* Allie Jo is named for our maternal grandmother and Courtney's paternal aunt: Madelyn Allie and LaVinia Jo. See archives Mad-e-lyn and White Cadillac.

**I am sad that Angela is not in any of these photos, but laboring mothers are not interested in having their photos taken. Angela is a blessing sent by God to my brother. She is his helpmeet. She loves and encourages him. She makes him laugh. She does life with him. She prays and believes with him. She has given him a family. I bless God for her. I thank God for her. And we are going to keep her!

***This incredible photograph was taken by my daughter Katherine Rector with Rae Rector Studios. See archives A String of Pearls

Mad-e-lyn

Recently I was talking to a lady about the titles of Southern Ladies’ literature:

Being Dead is No Excuse by Metcalfe/Hayes

Someday You’ll Thank Me for This by Metcalfe

Suck Your Stomach In and Put Some Color On by Tomlinson

The last title brought a whole cache of memories to break open. There I sat, with all those memories of my maternal grandmother (Too big for My Britches). They were poured out on my lap like a mess of green beans (only white half-runners) on a tea towel.

How I loved her. I realize this more now than then. There were times her expectations and behavior annoyed me. Certainly she had an opinion about how things should be done, and for the most part she believed her way was right with little exception. As always in retrospection I understand more now. Being forty-something has given me a new perspective, and I realize she influenced me—especially in forming my definition of a strong woman.

Her name was Madelyn. And she was quite particular about the pronunciation—not Mad-lene, not Mad-e-line, not Mad-lyn. No, it was Mad-e-lyn (short e in the middle). Perhaps that is one of the reasons I tend to be so fussy about my name too; the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Mad-e-lyn had her own antidotes and she often doled them out with brutal candor.

Inevitably every time I visited her she would say the same thing to me. This phrase was quintessential Mad-e-lyn.

Hold your shoulders back and put some lipstick on.

Sometimes these two phrases were combined and sometimes they were used separately depending on her assessment of the situation. I managed to get both of them—often.

And both phrases rubbed me the wrong way. They caused my prideful defenses to kick in and my rebellious hackles to rise. I took them as criticism. Perhaps there was a smidgen of criticalness in both the words and the tone, but I understand, now, that she meant them to be constructive. She intended them to prod and motivate and maybe they did.

I have thought a lot about these two phrases, and I have developed new interpretations

Hold Your Shoulders Back.

Concern for my posture only partly fueled this command. And that is what it was: a command. Certainly not a suggestion. She, in later years, had a very rounded back and to compensate she held her shoulders up and back. Mad-e-lyn thought posture improved a woman’s appearance. She also wanted to see confidence in a woman. Slumped shoulders indicated defeat and lack of assurance.

Have a little pride in yourself, she would say.

Back then I thought all pride was bad. Hubris is the tap root of a bitter and ugly kind of plant. But this wasn’t Mad-e-lyn’s kind of pride. She didn’t want to see me (or any of her children) act like a victim. I wish I had understood this lesson far sooner than I did. Heeding her advice might have saved me some heartache. When a woman acts like a victim, they often get treated like one.

There is nothing good in me to cause me to hold my shoulders back. I look at myself, my past, my mistakes, my failures, my wiring and I understand this.

But I have every reason to hold my shoulders back because of who Jesus is.

With him I am an heir (Romans 8:17), a part of a royal priesthood, a treasure (I Peter 2:9) and more than a conqueror (Romans 8:37). Because of these truths I can hold my shoulders back. With Paul, I can boast in the cross of Christ (Galatians 6:14).

Put Some Lipstick On.

Mad-e-lyn’s hair could be askew, her clothing could be her everyday work clothes, but if she had her lipstick on she could face the world. She believed a woman ought to fix herself up. She didn’t like it when a woman (especially her only granddaughter) let herself go. She thought it was just plum awful when a woman allowed her appearance to deteriorate. A woman should take care of herself. She thought a woman should be able to turn a few heads. She did. More than a few before she married my grandfather.

When I was young I thought this mind-set was conceited and self-absorbed. And in my young self-righteous attitude I often dismissed her advice. I regret not sifting it and keeping part of it now. Once again, my own advancement in age has put new perspective on this mentality.

Lipstick was Mad-e-lyn’s soft-armor—a defense against an exacting world. For her to put lipstick on was to use every available means to improve what others saw. I realize too, this was another confidence booster. Today, I understand this and I keep my lip armor at the ready in the outside pocket of my purse. Most likely the hue would not be bright enough for my grandmother (I’m sure she would have a comment about that), but I have followed her example.

In more ways than one.

My soft armor is prayer. The best defense in the world, for me, is to be engaged in constant prayer—that slight whispering under my breath—prayer that intertwines with the rhythm of my breathing.

In Ephesians 6 Paul tells us to put on our armor, and the last piece of that armor is to pray in the Spirit on all occasions. Praying is my defense against an exacting world.

My grandmother was a wise woman. And it is never too late to heed good advice. I believe she would be pleased with my reevaluations and interpretations.

So, today I will hold my shoulders back and put my lipstick on.