Jamie Janosz

Was there a woman in your life who nurtured you? A teacher who told you how great you were at math or writing? The Sunday School teacher who prayed and listened? Your aunt who took you to her workplace? Your grandmother who showed you how to make a recipe? It might be your mom, a best friend, a neighbor, a sister? What woman in your life would you like to honor? I'd like to giveaway two copies of my book, When Others Shuddered: Eight Women Who Refused to Give Up - one to you and one to the woman you admire. Write a comment below, or on my Facebook page , telling about this brave wonderful woman! Also, please share this post or my  Facebook page on social media! On Thursday, May 1st , I will draw a winner and send the book to both the winner and the honored nominee. Let's celebrate the important and wonderful women in our lives!

An 18-year-old sat in my freshman orientation class. She had wavy, light brown hair, stood about 5 feet tall, and wore her clothing in a pretty, but not flashy, conservative style. Her classmates were taking turns with introductions, talking about where they were from, why they came to Bible college, and where they saw God leading them in the future. Stephanie was agitated. I noticed she kept staring down at her desk, and that her socially-responsible Tom’s clad foot was wiggling back and forth. When it was her turn to speak, she looked up but cast her eyes down. “I’m not really called to anything,” she said quietly, shrugging her shoulders. “I just want to be a mom and a wife. Nothing else.” The group responded positively encouraging Stephanie that her vocation as wife and mother were appropriate and God-honoring. A few of the guys cast her admiring and speculative glances, wondering if perhaps they had just found the perfect wife to complement their pastoral callin

Good Friday Synchroblog with Convergent Books About five years ago, my family traveled to Japan. When the last day arrived, we were reluctant to leave the tropical island. Standing on the shore of the East China Sea, my husband urged me to take a long last look. “After all,” he insisted, “we will probably never return to this place.” That day, I stopped what I was doing and carefully examined the exotic scene: the green moss covered coral reefs, the grey blue water stretching as far as I could see, the sea shells littering the white sand. I took a deep breath and concentrated…this was my last glimpse of Okinawa. Last moments are meant to be savored because they may never happen again. But all too often last moments have a way of sneaking up on us. We don’t realize they are the “last” until they are gone. In 1998, my dad died of a heart attack at the age of 60. His death stunned my family. There were no last moments. No last chances to say good-bye, to tell him h

The yellow light on my car’s dashboard illuminated just as I was turning onto Route 30 for my Saturday morning grocery dash. My heart sank. This was not the first time that pesky glowing signal had appeared. I had already had our Kia Soul into the dealer’s repair shop three times. When I first saw that strangely shaped yellow light, I frantically dug the user manual out of the glove box, trying to decide what that little puzzle shape represented. Ahhhh. Check Engine. “This indicates a concern with the emission system. Take it to the dealer as soon as you are able.” May I just say that I hate having things go wrong with my car. It throws my life out of kilter. My husband gets all cranky and irritable, and my already-busy schedule has to be adjusted. Suburban moms depend on our vehicles. We shuttle kids to activities, load up groceries, head to work, or make our requisite stops at Target. I have absolutely no time for disruptions – yet, here it was. Later that day, the

Every other year, this wonderful, magical gathering of writers happens in a beautiful town called Grand Rapids, Michigan. This Festival of Faith & Writing brings some of our favorite authors together with those of us who enjoy trying to put our souls on paper. It is a chance for me to think about writing, to hear the writing of others, and to set aside the distractions of every day life. I enjoy spending time with old friends and making new ones. I like the diversity of spending one session listening to a woman who lost her parents to a bear attack in Alaska and the next one hearing from a graphic novelist who authored a book on China's Boxer Rebellion. All in all - this conference is nurturing to my soul and mind and heart, urging us to just do it: write. A few of my takeaways: 1) Precision in language helps us see and touch, feel and communicate. Good writers pay attention to details. Thanks for the lesson, Brett Lott. 2) Part of our task as writers and believer

My dad and Door County are forever intertwined in my heart and mind.  One of my earliest memories is unzipping the heavy canvas door of our tent in Peninsula State Park in Wisconsin , climbing out into the crisp morning air, pulling on my hooded sweatshirt, and seeing my dad crouching next to the campfire.  Wisps of smoke would come from the logs and kindling as the struggling fire tried to catch. The smell of sweet pine and musty canvas mingled with campfire smoke to create a scent only true campers can recognize. My parents were not wealthy. They were both public school teachers which meant they had lots of time to spend with us kids, but very little money. Hotel vacations were foreign. Most summers, we piled into our 60s station wagon, packed the camper and headed to state parks. Our favorite destination was always Door County, Wisconsin. The drive seemed like it took hours from our home in the south suburbs of Chicago . In those days no one worried about

My pastor once said that God often calls us in our area of weakness, asking us to do the things we most fear. I didn't want to believe that. Just days before, I was invited to speak at a conference. While I was flattered, I fretted about my decision for months since I was not comfortable with public speaking. Why would God ask me to do something that so clearly frightened me? That is the same question that plagued the heart of Amanda Berry Smith. Amanda was born into slavery in 1837. Married at 17, she all-too-quickly became a widow at age 26. She labored as domestic help for minimal wages, raising her children alone. She was so poor she couldn't afford medicine to heal her sick baby. Weeping bitterly when he died in her arms, she realized she had no money to bury him. Amanda Berry Smith Despite personal hardship, Amanda was a resolute believer. She felt that even while doing menial tasks like mending clothes or washing dishes, she was serving God. In her a

Wanting to know more people and become more “invested” in church at the age of 24, I reluctantly joined a small group. I was post-Bible college, living in Chicago, trying to establish my role as an adult. I joined a hip urban church that had gorgeous stone architecture, uncomfortable wooden pews with lumpy cushions, and stained glass windows. I loved the gritty mix of lawyers and street people who filled the pews each Sunday. The choir sang from the back of the sanctuary, providing an other-worldly sound. The acoustics, with all that wood and stone, were perfect. I longed to be a part of a church like this. It was a far cry from the plain Jane, suburban Baptist church of my childhood. This church was socially conscious and intellectually liturgical. This fit my identity – as a hip urban Christian. I wanted to belong to this church, to be a part of it. But I knew no one. Each Sunday I would slip, virtually unnoticed, into the pew. After the service, I would sneak q