Tammy Faye

“Glory, Glory, Hallelujah.”

She showed me that resurrection can be televised.

That you can cry on cue and mean it.

That glitz doesn’t cancel out sincerity.

That stage lights and salvation can coexist.

That you can love Jesus, wear too much mascara, and still be the most honest person in the room.

Tammy didn’t shrink for anyone.

She made rhinestones holy.

She turned TV time into altar calls.

She praised with her whole chest, and when they called her too much, she got louder.

She sang to God like she was singing to every woman who’d ever been miscast, misjudged, or misunderstood.

She wasn’t having an affair.

She was having a becoming.

And when they told her to confess, she confessed her need to be seen in her glory.

Not diminished. Not redeemed. Just witnessed.

Even when her audience was small, she’d sing like it was a stadium.

And I watched, mascara-streaked myself, and understood:

Sometimes the ones who feel the most are the ones who survive the longest.

Sometimes praise is the only protest.

And sometimes sequins are a spiritual defense mechanism.

Tammy didn’t just survive the fire.

She made it look fabulous.

She loved big.

She forgave fast.

She glittered on purpose.

She’s my patron saint of rhinestoned resilience.

My spirit guide for emotional extravagance.

The voice in my head that says:

“Let them call you dramatic - then hand them a mic.”

She gave us love so big it echoed. Praise so pure it couldn’t be faked. Light that never asked for permission.

And for anyone who’s ever wept through a hymn and still found their spotlight. If this finds the right eyes - hallelujah.