Janelle Evans

Without a running partner this week, I spent my early morning workouts in a pool rather than carving a path on the surrounding streets where I live.  Most of the time, the pool was a quiet escape from the stress of the unknown pressing on our family with my husband trying to find another job—since most people don’t want to take a dip at four o’clock in the morning.  However, on one of those days, I walked in to find a man barking orders to a small group of adults who were learning to swim. 

From my view in the neighboring lane, I watched the chaotic struggle of those poor folks splashing their way across the pool.  My heart went out to them listening to the man on the deck beller out commands on body rolls, glides, and cycle breathing—technical terms they clearly didn’t understand so they couldn’t execute. 

At one point, in his growing frustration, the man on the deck pushed his arms out in front of him.  He shook them back and forth, pretending they were legs, but talked about contracting and releasing muscle groups rather than the simple mechanics of kicking in a language his swimmers could grasp.  I ducked under the water, concealing my groan.  I couldn’t correct this man, even though I had coached a junior swim team for several years, it wasn’t my place.  A perfect, laughable, blaring example of how communication, a key component in all relationships, can lead to frustration and misunderstandings.   

Another one of those pesky side notes, but I’ve involved you this far I might as well keep going.  The phone interview has turned into a physical one.  My husband and I are flying to meet with the company this week.  I wonder how much longer my fingers and toes can stay crossed before they stay that way?

This week, I have tried hard to focus on the positives in my life.  Yes, my husband is still losing his job in fifty days or so.  And no, we still haven’t found one to replace it.  But the constant anxiety eating away at my insides was hindering my ability to function as a mommy, writer, and the gazillion other hats I wear.  The day-to-day tasks seemed insurmountable, and I had very little patience for my children.  How silly is that.  It’s times like these when they need me the most.  So, I gave my brain a mental slap and re-directed my thoughts.  (See, here’s another example of choice)

In a few short days, my quest for gratitude enveloped me in a blanket of peace I hadn’t thought possible.  Suddenly, I could see past the coming destruction the out-of-work tsunami would bring, and realized I had a lot to be thankful for. 

My husband’s job had given us a sixty-day notice.  Most people don’t even get a one-day notice.  I have incredibly healthy children.  I can think of many people who would give anything for this.  And after almost thirteen years, I still feel like I’m married to the man of my dreams.  Something some women never get to experience.

All of these things, and more, have reaffirmed to me the importance of keeping a grateful outlook, no matter how murky the future may seem.  Better than any pill with their many side effects, a heart filled with gratitude is a source of strength we can lean on to help up us endure the many challenges we face.

This week my husband was informed his job will be ending in sixty days.  This will be the second time we will experience life without employment in less than three and half years.  The second time we will be thrown into what feels like vast, deep, and freezing waters.  Where you frantically kick, doing all you can to find a way to hold your children and obligations above the crashing swells, but the frigid numbness of hopelessness grows.  The desire to simply succumb is strong, and it increases with every passing day.  Having already experienced it once, the knot in my stomach right now is twice as large as before.  And I’m not even in the water yet. 

I bounce between a calm inevitability, “Okay, we have sixty…fifty-nine…fifty-eight…fifty-seven days”, to sheer panic, “There are so many people out of work.  What are we doing to do?”  I smile for my children and tell them, “Everything’s going to be fine.”  The younger two are pacified, but my ten-year-old is not buying it.  It’s difficult to watch him sit by himself, his forehead furrowed in concern (He’s too young for wrinkles like that).  He keeps asking, “How?  What’s going to happen?”  He wants specifics.  Specifics I can’t give him, because I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!  Then I check my computer for job postings for the fiftieth time that day.  “We have a plan,” I remind my husband.  A plan that won’t last long I’m afraid, since we still haven’t fully recovered financially from the last time.  We’re both trying to be strong, but I can see the worry in his eyes.  And no doubt he can see the moments of desperation in mine.

Abraham Lincoln once said, “I have been driven many times to my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go. My own wisdom, and that of all about me, seemed insufficient for the day.”

That is where I am—driven to my knees.

This week my oldest son took part in his last Pinewood Derby race.  For those unfamiliar with the Boy Scout program, the Pinewood Derby is a challenge done in the Cub Scout years (Boys from 8-10) where a small car is cut out from a block of pine and raced down a track. 

Now I might as well be upfront with you and let you know this race is my least favorite thing about the Cub Scout program.  And it’s not because I don’t like competition— please, I live and breathe on the stuff—it’s because the cars are supposed to be made by the boys but very few of them are.  You have grown men, fathers, carefully plotting their designs for perfect balance and aerodynamics.  Doing all they can to dominate this race, and beat the man standing next to them in the gym.  Seeing the over-the-top creations they bring, I doubt most of the boys even touched the block of wood.  This is something my husband and I refuse to do.  It called the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby not the “Daddy” Pinewood Derby.

Every year, my son designed the car he submitted for the race, and it looked like it.  The paint jobs weren’t perfect and they were far from aerodynamic, but they were his.  I was proud of that.  But unfortunately, every year he lost.  In fact, he had never won a race.

This year he planned for weeks—drawing up dozens of possibilities.  “I just need to win one race,” he told me as we readied to leave our house the night of the Derby.

“I’m sure you will,” I reassured him as every mom does.  But, I was wrong.  Like a one-two knockout punch, he lost both of his double elimination races that night. 

After the second one, he ran from the gym.  I chased him into the hall, ready with my consoling-mommy-words-of-comfort, but like catching the tail of a viper, he turned on me and struck.

“Just one race,” he said with bitter tears running down his face.  “If you would have made my car, I could have won one race.”  

The fangs of his words pierced my heart.  As a parent, we want our children to be happy.  Yet, here he was accusing me of intentionally sabotaging him.  In that moment, I wanted to march back into the gym and smack the crap out of every father hovering over the racetrack.  But it would have been a waste of energy, they do not believe making the cars for their sons is wrong.  And I couldn’t tell my son the race didn’t matter, because to him it had, it’s why he was there.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and put my arm around my son.  “Maybe you’re right.  Maybe if Daddy and I had made your car it might have won a race, but you still wouldn’t have won anything, because the car wouldn’t have been yours.  I know loosing sucks…” sucks so bad, it’s the suckiest thing we experience in life if you ask me “…But win or lose what really matters is the how.  You did it right.  You played by the rules.  That’s the most important part.”  Though, sometimes, it’s the hardest lesson to accept when all you’re asking for is ‘Just one race’—even for me.

You’ll never believe what happened after posting my blog last week, the post for January 2nd popped up.  I laughed and wanted to poke my finger into my computer’s eye at the same time (if only computers had them).  On closer study, I realized the problem, I had posted this for January 2nd 2011.  Yep, excuse me while I poke myself in the eye for being such a dork…Ouch!  I’m sooo glad I didn’t overreact when it went missing 😉

Improve the “you” this year

The New Year is a very special time—a time to reflect on the past, but also an opportunity to consider a course for your future.  Maybe you like the direction your life is going, but if you don’t, it’s never too late to change.  Okay, let’s face it, we all have things we’d like to fix about ourselves, so this post is for all of us. 

Start by setting a goal—a realistic goal—you’ll only frustrate yourself if you pick near impossible feats like climbing Mount Everest, or losing 100 pounds in six months.  Once you have a goal in mind do more than just write it down—tell someone.  The buddy system makes you accountable to more than yourself, and is a great way to keep you motivated.

I find breaking goals down into daily requirements works best.  I don’t just say I’m going to write another novel this year.  Even thinking about the hundreds, and hundreds of pages I will have to write to do this gives me a headache, so I simplify.  I will write at least two pages every day—except Sunday—even crazies like me need a break every once and while.  Two pages a day isn’t nearly as scary.  And is something I can easily accomplish, which gives me the daily boost of encouragement I need to keep going.

Anything you want to be or do is possible—even Mount Everest if you want.    All the little goals you chip away at are building you closer to greater things.  Just believe in yourself.  The only one standing in your way is you.

Unfortunately, this year began with a huge stumble for me.  My blog for Monday January 2^nd not only didn’t post, but was gone.  Technology and I have never been close.  It’s more like a grudging working-relationship out of necessity.  But on that day, technology might as well have bit me on the butt and ran away laughing.  I sat on my mother’s floor, since I was on vacation, and cried.   

When I attended a seminar on self-promotion, I learned the most important thing about blogging was content.  “Content is king,” he said, “you need to create something interesting and worth reading.”  The second most important thing was consistency.  “It shows you’re audience that you care about them and what you’re creating.” 

Well, there I was with the big fat “F” of failure hanging over my head.  I don’t save my blog entries to my hard drive since it is already bogged down with all the novels and children’s stories I have written.  So, I had a choice, I could either pack up my husband and kids, cutting our vacation short, and drive like a crazy woman back to Las Vegas.  Then make them all go in a room somewhere and be quiet so “Mommy” could frantically pound out a few more hours to re-write what I had painstakingly wrote before I left.  Or, suck up my disappointment, before I ruined what was left of our vacation.  As you can see, I choose the latter, though it wasn’t easy.  When I set goals, I do not like to deviate or fall short.

For me the lack of entry on January 2^nd 2012 will stand as a blaring mistake—a moment when my world stopped spinning.  I’m sure you’ve had moments like these in your life as well.  Moments we can’t change or really fix, unless someone has a time machine I don’t know about.  So here I am, throwing myself at the feet of my readers, saying, “I’m sorry I let you down.  I do care about you.” 

I know any success I achieve in the publishing industry hinges on your loyalty.  And that power should never be overlooked or minimized.  On the bright side, after such a disappointing start—it can only go up from here, right?  So, stick with me. I promise 2012 will be a year filled with fun post and uplifting insights.

Recently, I went to a store to buy batteries.  When the checker rang me up she said something like, “six dollars please.” 

Immediately I said, “That can’t be right.”  I had bought two packages of batteries, and the larger one alone cost more than ten dollars.

The tired looking checker shrugged.  “It says six dollars.” 

I’m sure she had endured a long day on her feet and just wanted to move on to the next person in line, but I couldn’t let this go.  “I’m sorry, but I’m sure that’s not right.”

She rolled her eyes and hit a button on the computer screen behind her.  When the checkout history popped up, sure enough, the larger package of batteries somehow hadn’t been scanned. 

Rather than be pleased with my honesty, when the checker held out her hand for the corrected amount of over twenty dollars she said, “I guess you must have money to burn.”

If only.  The six-dollar payment would have been so much better on my pocketbook, but stealing would’ve caused far worse damaged to my integrity.

When the checker handed me back my change, I noticed a teenage girl who stood next in line, watching me.  The woman behind the counter may not have cared, but maybe my actions had affected this young girl for the better.  I smiled and said, “It wouldn’t have been worth the blessings I would have lost.”

The girl simply nodded, but I walked away feeling like I was floating, grateful for the opportunity to be an example for good.  You just never know who’s watching.

Cooked and ready for delivery

Christmas Tree Bread is an annual tradition in my home.  Every day, from December 1^st to Christmas Eve, dough is raised, cut in half, rolled out, a pecan filling added, shaped into the iconic tree, cooked,  and shipped out to our neighbors and friends by twos.  The idea behind this insane tradition of mine is not for accolades.  Nor do I want anything in return.  I do it, for my children. 

Typically, Christmas is a time when kids make lists, then plot around the tree, hoping the latest and greatest toys are wrapped underneath.  And while my children are no different in this aspect, I desire for them to understand an important element of the holiday season taught to me throughout my youth—the power of giving.

Raised by a family of givers, I had countless examples of charity.  Not just parents, but aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins, I was surrounded by people who gave their all to those they met.  These trees of breaded-bliss are a continuation of that tradition—a way for my family to thank those who have served us throughout the year.  So with clean hands kneading away and noses powered with flour, I show my children what I truly believe.  It is better to give than receive.  And the greatest gift we can give is ourselves. 

If only I had the resources and the time to thank all those who support my endeavor as a writer with a tree of your own, but that would literally take months.  So unfortunately, the picture will have to do.  But from the bottom of heart to my floured covered nose have a very merry Christmas!