Taken from the Sisterchicks novels by Robin Jones Gunn. |
Sadly, I have no recollection of the first time I
ever saw my husband. But I have very early memories of meeting another
significant person in my life.
When I was in the 6th grade, I remember
spotting a round-faced girl who was wearing hot pink stretch-waist stirrup
pants; they were so pink that I saw blue spots when I blinked. She had a big
smile and a nervous giggle, and that giggle was so high-pitched that I’m sure I
heard at least one dog whimpering. I thought she was silly. She thought I was
prissy. Two years later, in the soprano section of the 8th grade
chorus, we started a friendship.
Twenty-eight years later, it’s hard for me to think
of a term that describes my kinship with this girl. We have clocked thousands
of hours on the phone. (When we were teens, my father would pick up the phone
after one of our marathon chatfests and say, “OW! It’s still hot!”) We made fun
of each other’s crushes. We prayed for each other’s future husbands and wore
dorky dresses in each other’s weddings. I was in the room when her first child
was born. We rocked each other’s babies and put each other down as their
emergency contacts on school forms. We each think of the other’s husband as a brother.
I went to my knees when her father died; she returned the favor when my mother
died. We’ve pondered the Bible together, and we’ve held each other accountable
when we don’t turn to it quickly enough or often enough. Honestly, I can't quickly recall too many memories that don't include her. We’re each a witness
to the other’s life. We’re sisters in Christ.
If you have a daughter—whether she’s a newborn or
blowing out 50 candles on her birthday cake—pray that she will have a friend
like this one. BE a friend like this one.
Girls, we need each other.
“By
definition, a 'Sisterchick' is a 'friend who shares the deepest wonders of your
heart, loves you like a sister, and gives you a reality check when you're being
a brat.” --Robin Jones Gunn
Happy birthday to my Sisterchick!
--Andrea
Well, goodness ... there goes my mascara! Ditto to all of it! Love you!! (And for the love of everything holy and good, please NEVER let me wear hot pink stretch waist stirrup pants again.)
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