In “Pentecost2017,” Stream editors share personal stories of the ways their fellow believers have changed their lives. Here staff writer Liberty McArtor writes about the girls she grew up with in her small country church.

Somewhere between Dallas and Oklahoma, a little church is tucked comfortably in the shade of north Texas’ Cross Timbers. I was lucky to have been brought up there, alongside a group of girls my own age.

I still remember my family’s first Sunday. After the sermon I was pulled out of my shell by a posse of girls who wanted to play. At 5-years-old, I was painfully shy and loath to introduce myself to strangers — so it was thrilling to be approached by people who wanted meet me.

Days later I broke my arm. The doctors wrapped it like a mummy and secured it close to my chest in a giant sling. Not very good for playing. I was scared to go back and face the girls I’d just met, worried they would laugh or lose interest in their new friend. But as we approached the Sunday school room door the next week, I heard them shout my name. They rushed over, concerned about my arm, and excited to see me. Still friends.

Little did I know they’d become lifelong sisters.

Bonding

I bonded with these girls over decades-old shared traditions, like singing in the Christmas Choir every year. Or getting into mischief on annual camp outs. Or swapping candy after our church’s community-famous “Praise the Lord” party every Halloween.

We were there through elementary adventures, middle school drama and high school hardships. We saw each other go through first crushes and first boyfriends. We played games. We argued. At least twice a week, we were together in Sunday school, in church, in youth group, on the farm-flanked playground after service.

We also grew up together spiritually. Exciting services in our non-denominational charismatic congregation were made even more exciting by experiencing them with good friends. We’d talk about them for weeks and months afterwards.

But just as important were the everyday spiritual lessons we learned together. The iron-sharpening-iron kind. The lessons of loving and being loved by a sister in Christ, mess-ups and all.

Through doing life with those girls in the shadow of our steeple, I learned how insensitive I could be. I learned to apologize. Like the time I purposefully teased one of my friends on the playground, because she’d unwittingly hurt my feelings. Later I found her in a back room of the church, forcefully bouncing a ball against the wall in angry silence.

Apologizing was difficult. But I’ll never forget my relief when we hugged and started laughing again. That exchange is one of my earliest memories of realizing how bad it felt to hurt someone I care about, and why seeking forgiveness mattered.

To our parents’ credit, they took us seriously as members in the church. Because of that, we took each other seriously. We considered ourselves fully a part of Christ’s body. We prayed over each other. We called each other out. We pondered, debated and discussed what we were learning about God. It didn’t matter that we were children. We were sisters in Christ. And that’s what sisters do.

Sisters’ Keeper

The summer after my high school graduation, our pastor called the students of my class to the front. The elders would pray over young adults before they embarked on the next stage of their journey. That year we all happened to be young women.

You are your sisters’ keeper, the pastor told us. He encouraged us to stay in touch. He admonished us to help each other keep the faith as we went our separate ways.

In college as I wrestled with my faith — as many Christians do — I remained grounded. I credit a large part of that to the foundation we built, the sturdy bonds forged in faith from early childhood. Today, if I need prayer or spiritual encouragement, I know who I can ask. My love for these sisters is, quite literally, eternal.