It was hard to remember my life before Pentecost. Some memories stood out—like the time I broke my nose playing jump rope, the ‘D’ my third-grade teacher gave me for cursive, and the merciless teasing we inflicted on our fourth-grade teacher. But everything else faded. One day, we were just a family. The next, we were Pentecostal. And everything changed.

At first, life seemed better. My dad was nicer. We went to church—a lot. But I didn’t mind because I had new friends. My parents let me spend Sundays at their homes, though I wasn’t allowed at my old friends’ houses anymore. My mom was afraid something bad would happen. Life before Pentecost almost faded away in my mind.

Sixth grade was already hard, but adding Pentecost to the mix made it even harder. My friends didn’t understand the whole Pentecostal thing, and I didn’t know how to explain it to them. One day, I wore pants to school. The next, I wore skirts—every day after that.

A few weeks before Pentecost, my great-grandmother had bought me a pair of pink pants with Holly Hobbie on the lower right flared pant leg. I adored those pants. They were my favorite, and I wore them as often as possible. But after Pentecost, my mom told me I couldn’t wear them anymore.

I cried. I moped. But I didn’t scream at her, because that would have gotten me a spanking.

That day, I hated Pentecost.

A few weeks later, my mom called me into the dining room. It wasn’t really a dining room—just an extension of the kitchen with a big window that let in lots of sunlight. My mom set up her sewing machine there so she could see better while she worked. She was a good seamstress. She made all our clothes. It wasn’t until I was a senior in high school that I owned a store-bought dress and realized how many sacrifices she had made throughout the years.

I figured she needed to measure me or make me try on something. I didn’t like trying things on while she sewed. The needles always stuck me. But when I walked in, she held up a bright pink skirt—with Holly Hobbie on the right front side.

I stared. My mom had worked and worked, taking those pants apart, detaching the waistband, and reshaping them into a skirt. I was speechless. I hugged the skirt tightly, rubbing my face against the fabric. My smile stretched so wide it almost swallowed my face.

I should have hugged my mom. But I didn’t. Like most children, I was too focused on myself. I couldn’t wait for school the next day so I could wear my Holly Hobbie skirt.

That day, I loved Pentecost.

The next morning, I laid out my outfit: a white top and my pink Holly Hobbie skirt. I couldn’t stop smiling. As I waited for the school bus, I ran my hand over Holly Hobbie again and again, feeling the smooth print under my fingertips.

On the ride to school, my excitement grew. I was one of the last kids picked up and one of the first off the bus. I practically skipped on the way to my classroom. Outside the door, my friends gathered, waiting for it to open. I flounced over to them, swishing my skirt around my knees, twisting back and forth to make it move.

At first, Darla’s eyes landed on my skirt, and she tilted her head.

“Hey, Vicky’s mom turned her pants into a skirt!” she said, her voice full of disbelief.

My smile faltered. I had expected excitement, maybe even a little envy. Instead, her words felt off—like she was pointing out something strange, not something special.

A few other girls came over, running their hands over Holly Hobbie.

“Wow… it really used to be pants,” one of them said.

“I liked it better as pants,” another girl muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

I stood there, gripping my books to my chest, my heart sinking. I had been so proud that morning, so excited to show off what my mom had made. But now, all I could hear was what it wasn’t.

I was crushed. I hated Pentecost.

I rode the bus home in silence. I had church that night, but my excitement over the Holly Hobbie skirt was gone. It had become a joke at school, and I didn’t want to wear it to church either. But I couldn’t say that to my mom after she had worked so hard to surprise me. . Complaining would get me in trouble or worse, I would hurt her feelings. So I said nothing.

Wednesday nights had strict rules. When I got home from school, I had to do my homework at the dining table while my mom cooked supper. Normally, I got a snack before starting, but on church nights, there wasn’t time. We had to be ready to leave the moment my dad finished eating, showering, and dressing.

The ride to church was quiet. I read a book to pass the time. If I wasn’t talking, I wasn’t getting in trouble.

When we arrived, I dragged my feet all the way to my seat. I wasn’t swishing my skirt. I wasn’t hopping up and down, eager for my friends to notice. I just wanted to disappear.

And then, I heard it—squeals, laughter.

“That’s so cute!” my best friend said.

I blinked. Just that morning, the skirt had been a joke. Now, it was something to admire.

I started smiling. And smiling. My heart swelled with pride.

I had the only Holly Hobbie skirt in the world.

And the other girls wanted one just like it.

That night, I loved Pentecost.

Originally written in 2017- Revised 2025