Jamie Janosz

Remember those thick, crusty scabs you would get as a kid? My skin-the-knee-years were in the early 70s, and I would often return from a wobbly bike ride with my knee scraped and bloody. Tears streaming down my face, I would park my purple, banana seat bike – with its white flower-covered plastic basket, in the driveway and burst into our ranch-style suburban house in search of my mom. She would get the “cure-all” basket out of our bathroom, wipe the dirt off of my injured knee, and apply Merthiolate (the pinkish liquid applied with a dropper) to my cut, blowing on it to soothe the sting. But the days afterward weren’t pretty either. The scrape would scab over. And it was hard to resist picking at its itchy ugliness. Blood, I learned, was not my friend. Not only did I fear blood, I was terrified of any sort of injury. A safety first child, I dreaded gym class and even opted out of outings to the toboggan hill or roller skating rink. Blood and fear were forever linke...

When I was in grade school, a young couple, Rich and Cheri, were hired to pastor the youth at our little First Baptist Church. They were students at Chicago's Moody Bible Institute, and in exchange for housing, they served part-time at our church. As a part of their job, they would hold a children's church service every Sunday morning in our slightly mildewed church basement. I don't remember if we were dismissed from the adult service entirely or were sent down just before the sermon, I do remember that we loved it. The group of about 30 kids, kindergarten to 6th grade, would rush down the linoleum steps as quickly as we could to take our place in the rows of metal folding chairs. They were arranged like a mini-sanctuary with a wobbly wooden podium front and center, the upright piano pushed to the right. We were squirmy and energetic, a hum of nervous energy in ruffled bobby socks and clip-on neckties. Cheri would get us started with the singing. We had plenty of...

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...

At five years old, I was a girly girl. I loved patent leather shoes and ruffled socks. My toys were the domestic sort – I had the cutest little pretend vacuum cleaner, a make-believe, well-stocked grocery store, and a baby doll with cradle and high chair. I was the perfect mother at 5-years-old, cleaning my messy home with a baby on my hip. Yet, in later years I never felt that domesticity was my sole destination. My mom was my hero and my example. She worked as a teacher. She was also a leader at church and in the community, yet she cooked and decorated with flair. Even with all these responsibilities, she was a wonderful mom and homemaker. She did it all. And, I wanted that too. I wanted everything: home, work, and Christian service. In that sense, I was (and still am) a feminist. While “doing it all” may be an impossible dream, I refuse to be labeled or limited by those who say I can’t or I shouldn’t. I want to be everything I can be, all that God calls me to be. ...

Mrs. DeYoung sat in the front right pew of our Baptist church.   The only other person who sat up front was my dad, who played the piano. Mrs. DeYoung, our organist, was tall and thin in an angular sort of way. She had soft brown curly hair and glasses that dangled from a pearl chain around her neck. Even as a little girl, I admired her meticulously composed outfits. She wore feminine suits and high heels, sometimes even a matching hat. My favorite of her outfits was purple - entirely purple. Mrs. DeYoung was a big believer in matching. She would wear a classic purple wool suit, matching purple pumps and a small purple hat. Even her earrings, necklace or pin would have flecks of purple among the gold. Best of all, her husband would dress to coordinate with her. This particular time he chose a grey suit with a purple shirt, purple tie, and purple socks. But while Mr. DeYoung dressed to match, he sat a few rows behind his wife. Why, I’m not sure, other than ...

  My dad, Neil Storms, was the piano player at the First Baptist Church of South Holland. He played the glossy black grand piano wedged into the front left corner near the pulpit. When he was not at the piano, my dad always sat in the first pew. At First Baptist, no one else sat in the front row, except for the organist, who also sat in the front pew on the right side. The first three pews were always empty. Baptists are known for sitting in the back of the church. Our church sanctuary was one long rectangular room with an unfashionable suspended ceiling. On each side of the auditorium were long pews upholstered in nubby red fabric. The carpet was also red, and the church walls were covered in brown paneling. The red pews and carpet, which looked rather festive at Christmastime, was often a problem for other occasions. I knew of many brides who moved their wedding ceremonies to another church because the red theme clashed with their chosen colors. The piano and o...