On Growing Up in a Pentecostal Church

I grew up on an orange pew in a small Pentecostal church.

I grew up with tongues-speaking and large women running aisles whenever the Spirit fell. We called each other brother and sister. I looked forward to my weekly welcome from Brother Sid who always had a smile and a Werther’s Original to share.

My mom made sure we were at church every time the doors were open which happened to be twice on Sunday, Wednesday evening, and Tuesday mornings for prayer.

My pastor was a gentle man. He was a Missouri boy who loved down-home cooking and blue-grass music. Everyone knew biscuits and gravy was his favorite meal.  He frequently mentioned his favorite singer: his wife. I think I heard the story of how he met her at church and how he kept going to that church so he could date her no less than 198 times in my childhood. If I am honest, I don’t think I remember a single one of his sermons, but I do remember how he would tell me every chance he got: “Amanda, you know God loves you? There isn’t anyone that He loves more than you.”

My pastor’s wife was an adamant woman. She was adamant about my worth, she was adamant about purity, she was adamant about making a way for me. I remember her confessing to me that she had a sharp-tongue, and maybe it was true, but she also knew how to wield her words as a sharp sword against the enemy. I probably had a healthy dose of the holy fear of God and of my pastor’s wife. She played the piano and sang with a big voice that could fill a room all by itself. She battled her weight and lost it and gained it a few times, and maybe this sounds funny, but I can’t even tell you how much I appreciated that she gave the softest hugs… I probably couldn’t count how many times I buried my face right into her shoulder and cried. I might not have been her daughter, but I always felt important to her.

I remember being 10 and desperate to go to summer camp. My pastor’s wife might not have wanted to sleep in an un-insulated cabin on a cot, but she wanted to be there for “her kids.” So she volunteered to run the camp store.  I remember being shy, not knowing anyone, not quite fitting… but I could always escape to the camp store. She was a safe place. She went every year that our church sent kids up.

One night at that camp when I was 14 or so, I had a really bad asthma attack that led to a really bad panic attack. I started to go into shock. I was laid out on a bench, head in my pastor’s wife’s lap, terrified, tears streaming and the talk of calling for a helicopter to fly me to the hospital in the background. My pastor’s wife prayed down the heavens. Her voice was loud and full of authority. She fought for me till the airways opened. Honestly, if I was asthma, or even God for that matter, I don’t think I’d bother with contradicting her.

I remember having church in a tent for almost a year. I had wanted to sing so badly. The first night in that tent, she called me to the front before service started and told me and another girl she wanted us to stand next to her and sing. We did almost every week. Church shoes on a dirt floor, under canvas before metal folding chairs, we learned to lead worship. She always made a way for people. I remember going and visiting that church years later and enduring a sweet older lady doing a special song. I don’t know how else to put this other than to say it was terrible. My pastor’s wife smiled big and warm the whole time. She knew it was worship.

(And for the record, there is a very strong possibility I sang that terrible.)

In my adult years I can say that I am really glad God has been bringing down denominational walls in my heart. If you believe Jesus Christ is the Son of God who came and died on the cross for our sins and rose again… you are my brother and my sister—Pentecostal or not, Baptist, Evangelical, Episcopalian, Catholic, or Seventh Day Adventist… Really, all other matters pale in comparison to the salvation we have been freely offered.

But still, I am proud of my Pentecostal upbringing. This woman, now the wife of a cop, knows spiritual warfare. I know how to pray down the heavens. I desired to speak in tongues before I knew how weird or controversial it was. I’m glad. I love my prayer language, and like Paul, I use it daily. I know what it is to have the joy of the Lord bubble up and out uncontainable, to be undignified and dance before my God… before I knew about things like “order in service.”

My church might be a good deal more "conservative" now, but I can’t even put into words how grateful I am for that small Pentecostal church and the pastors that served it.

I so appreciate you, Pastor and Sister (we’ll keep your last name between us, but you know who you are).

Thank you for giving and giving, for making a way and a place for me, for praying, for loving.

You are so dear to me and so very loved.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

I'd love to hear if you grew up in church? What was one outstanding memory from it?

Since I brought up some Christian topics that have historically brought controversy (and no doubt, still do), I would just like to make mention of Shawn Grove’s article. It gives an analogy about similarities and differences between Christians that I do believe encourages unity in spite of doctrinal difference.

Oh and here's another hint of what's coming next week: 

I am really excited for Monday's kick-off post. I do believe it is a message God is burning on my heart for me and women everywhere. Maybe grab your girlfriends?

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