Janell Butler Wojtowicz, born and raised on an Iowa farm, was one of those kids who loved to write the dreaded “What I did on summer vacation” essay. It’s no surprise that she has spent her entire 30-year career in writing, including journalism, Christian higher education public relations, and local government public information. She is a freelance writer/editor, and a member of American Christian Fiction Writers. Janell and her husband, Frank, live in New Brighton, Minnesota. She has two step-sons and three step-granddaughters.
Drew dropped into the overstuffed mauve sofa in a darkened corner of the lobby and pulled his black suit jacket tighter around him. The snow raged horizontally outside the picture window, obscuring the parking lot, and even the street lights. He swallowed the lump of sadness, noticing his throat was sore. He felt his forehead. A little warmer than usual. His mind swirled like the snow.
I endured another funeral. I plowed through drifts and blinding snow. I kept my eyes on the road to out-run reality, but I can’t. Kendra is gone and she’s not coming back. I’ve accepted that, so why does it still hurt? God, where is the hope everyone keeps talking about? What is hope? I’m not even sure anymore. Show me hope, or at least a little something to hang on to.
“Drew?” The dim hallway light cast a halo around Allison’s head. He couldn’t see her face, but the white blouse accenting the black suit was luminous in the semi-darkness.