Ignominious Retreat — It Sounds Better All the Time

Posted on June 29, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

Oh sure, I'm smiling NOW -- only four miles in...

Sometimes you get out there on the bike and you just have no legs. Such was the case two Saturdays ago, when I rode in the Tour d’Italia bike rally in Italy, Texas. I had not had enough sleep, what with southerly winds howling all night long and rattling everything that wasn’t nailed down. That never bodes well.

That morning we all lined up behind the start: 62-mile riders up front, then the shorter distances in descending order. Everyone around me was chatting, stretching, and so forth. It was so windy we didn’t even hear the young lady singing the National Anthem over the PA system until a reproachful “S-h-h-h!” spread back from the staging area to where we lowly 30-milers waited.

Finally we got underway. As always, the first five or six miles went by with little effort: hundreds of riders pedaling northeast (away from the wind) over State Highway 34, which offers a nice wide shoulder. Eventually, though, we had to turn south. That’s when my troubles started. The headwind slowed me down so much I caught myself looking down to make sure I didn’t have a flat tire. It got ridiculously hot, too.

I battled the headwind and hills for a few miles, often being passed, but unable to draft off anyone. I could not match anyone else’s pace. My left hand grew numb, then my right. My legs, supposedly fortified by three days of hiking around at 6400 feet, forgot all their “altitude training” and whined like a couple of overextended preschoolers. Around the nine-mile mark I was getting desperate for a rest stop, which I hate to admit because I normally just blast right by the first stop. Finally I saw a sign: “Rest Stop 1 Mile.”

I can do this, I thought, despite the light-headedness I had begun to notice. A faint nausea crept in too, so that I was almost counting the yards. I’m not sure where I had gone wrong; I probably did not hydrate enough. Between the wind and the other riders, I was afraid to take my hands off the bars long enough to eat and drink.

Finally I coasted in to the rest stop and started looking around for the SAG Wagon. (I just recently learned that “SAG” is an acronym for “Support And Gear.” I had always thought it was a verb. As in, “The Wagon picks up riders after they sag.”)

“There is no shame in sagging,” I told myself.
“You have nothing to prove.”
“When it isn’t fun any more, it’s time to stop.”
“You’ll live to ride another day.”

I offered these encouraging remarks to myself while knocking back Gatorade, cookies and bananas. The feeling came back into my hands, now un-clenched from their death grip on the handlebars. Dizziness? Nausea? Why, I don’t know what you’re talking about. My outlook ratcheted up with every bite. After an unprecedented 20 minutes at the rest stop, I got back on my bike and kept going.

Only the next mile or so was into the wind, then it got easier. Feeling like myself again, I blasted right by the second rest stop and rolled in to the finish with a fairly decent time (decent for me; it’s all relative.) I felt very glad that I had pushed through and finished.

But then came the next Saturday, and the “Cow Creek Classic” out of Waxahachie. Our kids had been visiting, and the route goes right by our neighborhood, so we just jumped into one of the packs that streamed past. It was somewhat less windy, but I had no chance for a proper warmup. Once again, I struggled for every southbound yard. My left hand grew numb, then my right. By the time we reached the first rest stop, the light-headedness and nausea had come back to haunt me. I ate and drank, but this time I had to put my head down for a few minutes.

“I quit,” I announced to Brent, who had been kind enough to ride with me. We were going for the 36-mile route, with some customizing due to not having started with the others. I didn’t quite need to sag, but I had no intention of riding another mile into that stupid south wind. So we got back on the route but turned off within a block or so, to head toward home.

Despite the ignominious retreat, I still put in over 25 miles. I also learned once again that…

There is no shame in sagging.
I have nothing to prove.
When it isn’t fun any more, it’s time to stop.
I’ll live to ride another day.

Thanks for reading! And a big Welcome to my Company Girl friends!
Tailwinds,
Jan

Posted in Thoughts on Two Wheels | 8 Comments

I’m Off Guest Posting…

Posted on June 27, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

I would like to introduce you to Mary DeMuth, a wonderful writer who is also extremely generous, as evidenced by her letting me guest post on her blog. Moving Bluebonnets first appeared here on October 18, 2010. Mary ran it as a guest post this past Saturday, June 25, 2011.

Mary DeMuth pours herself into other people’s lives with everything she writes, from fiction to her riveting memoir (my current read) to her mentoring books. I hope you will visit her site and look around.

Thanks for reading,
Jan

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

What Hatched in the Eagle’s Nest

Posted on June 21, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

I sprawled on the grass under a tree, defacing a legal pad with scribbles and arguing with myself about the character I had created that morning. “I know — her bully of an ex-husband can have her framed for something… maybe embezzlement…? But where could she work…?” I checked the time and groaned. Just 45 minutes to go before the next session, and this plot structure exercise was fighting me every step of the way.

As I mentioned last week, I just attended the 2011 Christian Writers’ Workshop at Glen Eyrie Conference Center in Colorado Springs. I learned from Dictionary.com that the word glen means “narrow, secluded valley” and an eyrie is “the nest of an eagle or other bird of prey, built in a high, inaccessible place.” If you look at the photos… well, let’s just say that the name fits the setting. In this secluded place of shelter and nurturing, how did I grow? What new ideas did I learn? Well, I’m glad you asked. Here, in simplified/paraphrased form and filtered by my attempts at processing, are my Top Seven Things that Hatched in the Eagle’s Nest…

1. Find out Who You Are – as an author, or in any other endeavor, authenticity goes much further toward genuine success than trying to catch onto the latest trend or gimmick.

2. Show Up Every Day – Whether you are writing, shopkeeping, ranching or parenting, consistency is essential. Set a schedule and some measurable productivity goals. If you write, remember that (as Kathy Mackel eloquently put it) what you are writing has no life until you build it, word by word.

Hey, what are you guys doing on this terrace?


3. Trash-talk Your Discouragement – Doubts plague even the most successful and established professionals. If you find doubt hindering you from working, try asking yourself exactly what you’re afraid of. Write it down and laugh at it. Or set a match to the paper and watch your discouragement go up in smoke. Then get back to work.

Oh. --Well, if it has your NAME on it...



.
4. Don’t Micro-Manage Yourself – When I write, I’m prone to look back every other sentence and try to revise as I go. Every time I do that, I lose my train of thought and forget where the piece was going. But things will run more smoothly if I can get in the habit of writing a draft all the way through before going back to make changes. Or at least, write a large chunk and then read it back, flagging any obvious trouble spots with marginal notes so I won’t forget to fix them later. In other kinds of work, it helps to have a plan or checklist, so I don’t ricochet from task to task and end up leaving them all unfinished.

5. Embrace Who You Are, and Where, and When – Whether you write or not, don’t cocoon yourself to avoid those whose lives are different from yours. If you are trying to influence your world, you’ll have to use some of its cultural reference points to gain a hearing. On the other hand, remember your purpose… don’t try to be just like your culture, and don’t be afraid to stand out. As Angela Hunt encouraged us, “God chose this time out of all history for you to be writing, for His holy purpose.”


6. Share Yourself and Don’t Give Up, Because You Never Know Whom You’ll Touch – Building on the earlier comments about authenticity, Nancy Rue admonished us to write what we live, to share ourselves rather than just our “work.” On the flip side is the need to live what we write. That is, hypocrisy can only hinder your influence.

7. Be the Book – Bill Myers closed the Workshop with a memorable talk, not so much about writing a book as about being a book. God is not done writing stories, he pointed out, and each of our lives is like a book. It is my function and privilege to glorify the Author of my life, who loves me far more than I can imagine.

Today I am linking up with my Soli Deo Gloria friends AND my Company Girls over at Home Sanctuary. Many of these ladies are amazing writers. I do hope these snippets of my notes will benefit you … maybe even give you wings!

Thanks for reading!
Jan

Posted in A Page From My Journal | 13 Comments

Deployment

Posted on June 16, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

I hear myself say it a lot: “I’m going…”
I’m going to the store.
I’m going to lunch.
I’m going to the beach.

Usually there’s some reason for me to go where I’m going, but often it’s an everyday errand or just for fun. I spend minimal time preparing, then hop in the car and just… go.

But sometimes the “going” has a greater significance.

Our older son Eric, a Second Lieutenant in the US Army, will go to Iraq before long. He has — or will have — orders to perform a specific mission for our country. They call this “deployment.” The very word carries more weight than “going,” as does “mission” compared to “errand.” As Eric’s deployment approaches, the sight of a young man in digital camo can tighten my throat from fifty yards away.

But deployment is not just for the military. While Eric is overseas, his wife Heather will spend several weeks in Europe, teaching English under the auspices of a Christian university. She will have lesson plans and structure to guide her through the course. Heather could have simply stayed home or perhaps gone to visit her parents. Using her time intentionally to serve others in this way, however, elevates her trip to a deployment.

Then there’s Heather’s younger brother Brynn. An International Studies major at Texas A&M University, he studies under a US Marine contract. Brynn left for Morocco last month to spend the summer with a host family, learning Arabic. Very little classroom time for him; mostly he operates in full language immersion, which gives me the heebie-jeebies just to think about. It’s an adventure and he is having a good time, but he remains serious about the higher purpose behind the adventure. Brynn did not just go; he was deployed.

Brent and our younger son Greg went to Oklahoma last week to play paintball in the Oklahoma D-Day reenactment game. Not your ordinary paintball game, this annual week-long event normally pulls in around 3000 players. Brent has been taking both boys (as they are available) to participate for ten years in a row. Yes, they go for recreation, and they always come home with happy smiles—not to mention fatigue, bug bites and some impressive paintball welts.

Even as they play, though, they cannot help hearing echoes of those heroic voices from nearly 70 years ago. Besides, they get to interact with a real D-Day veteran. These experiences have given our sons a great appreciation for the sacrifices that soldiers are prepared to make. More importantly, perhaps, the years of tradition have built increasingly strong father/son bonds. Enough purpose has developed during these trips that, in their own way, they count as deployments.

What about me? Well, surely you don’t think I have just been sitting around. This week I attended the 2011 Christian Writers’ Workshop at Glen Eyrie Conference Center in Colorado Springs. The scenery and atmosphere alone would have made the trip worthwhile as a vacation. But I was looking for more. My family responsibilities and my writing have butted heads a lot lately, and I find myself at a crossroads. I came to the Workshop without orders, without a lesson plan, without a program to immerse myself in. No manuscript in progress, no specific writing goals, no idea which direction to go next. All I could bring was a sense of calling and a willingness to gain further guidance.

That appears to have been enough. I listened to other people who have a calling but must still depend on God to guide them step by step into specific projects. I received godly counsel that helped me make a couple of major decisions about my career. The faculty gave us clear principles and tools not only for storytelling, but for living and writing with faith and purpose. As I had hoped, I made some new friends. We already love and support each other, a community scattered in many directions but, at the same time, as close as the Internet. And all those things are just what I needed right now. I came here with a purpose, however vague it may have seemed to me when I packed my bag.

I deployed myself, too.

As near as I can figure, if I approach each day by looking for the purpose it holds, the Lord can change more of my “going” into “deploying.”

Thanks for reading!
Jan

Woo hoo, this is the 100th post I have deployed! I hope each one has served its purpose of bringing you a laugh, a bit of hope, or just a sense of being understood. Thank you for reading.

Really.
jj

Posted in A Page From My Journal, Near As I Can Figure... | 14 Comments

Me and the HOV Lane (a Guest Post)

Posted on June 10, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

Today I am happy to introduce to you my friend Steve Bato, a fellow member of the Dallas Area Writing Group (“DAWG”). If, like me, you are NOT a fan of urban freeway driving, I think you’ll relate to this post which he kindly agreed to share. It appeared on his blog Steve Bato: The Stuff of Life on October 18, 2010 (and I have been snickering ever since). I hope you will visit Steve for more of his adventures.

“Me and the HOV Lane”
by Steve Bato

As I shoot through the High Occupancy Vehicle (HOV) lane three days each week, I wonder how many people in the regular lanes curse my luck. Perhaps they wish they had a friend like Franessa, whose presence authorizes my Ford Taurus for such coveted access. Taking the HOV is like riding on an enclosed, accelerated escalator, which runs beside a long marble staircase. I’m the envy of the sad, solitary staircase travelers, unless an accident halts my progress. Trapped, it’s my turn for sadness as they pass me — smiling. I’m grateful for the speedy trip to work; nevertheless each excursion fills me with trepidation.

The HOV lane and I do not yet have an understanding. Like a wary boxer, it bobs and weaves, exploring my weaknesses. One of the HOV’s favorite weapons is its cement side walls. Simple white lines designate many sections of the HOV, but others have ominous, low sides, trapping its transitory residents. The HOV lane senses my claustrophobia. I stiffen as the space between walls narrows, then widens, then narrows again.

Another weapon is its merge lanes. Some are where my lane merges with another HOV. Others are where I merge out of the HOV into regular traffic in the twenty-two feet allowed for the task. Either case involves encounters with cars at speeds that make me feel like a lemming frantic to exit the crowd before it carries him over the cliff.

What tricks do I throw at the HOV lane? None. I’m like Rocky Balboa in the first eight rounds—I am bludgeoned but still get up and take more. My defense: not giving up. Offense may come later.

But the HOV’s weapon of choice against me is a giant—a Bridge Of Unusual Torture (BOUT). I have a bout with the BOUT each trip home from the office. Each time I exit the tollway, the BOUT looms before me. It smells my fear of heights and merging cars and instantly gets taller and curvier. I start the car up the ramp, which is a bridge in its own right. A curved bridge. A merge lies in wait at the top of the curve. A merge with traffic from the left. As I crest the hill, every hair on my neck stands on tiptoe to see better and look for impending doom. Now I am on a bridge, up a hill, around a corner, merging with traffic, and headed to the bridge-proper, which has cement walls within inches of both the driver and passenger doors. As I reach the other side of the bridge, though I am still caged between menacing cement walls, the hairs on my neck collapse from exhaustion. I breathe a sigh of relief—I survived yet again, and realize I haven’t taken a breath since the on-ramp first appeared on the horizon.

So, I am grateful I can speed to work in the HOV, and am gaining an appreciation for facing fears. With God’s help, nothing is impossible, even a daily bout with the BOUT.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steve Bato earns his daily bread as an analyst/programmer (computer stuff). He enjoys cooking (daily bread, eggs, bacon, and anything not green), as well as watching movies and playing games with his wife and two daughters. Although most of his words are trapped in his head in a ferocious battle with his heart and funny bone, through God’s grace some of them leak out for others to enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

And now I am commuting over to visit my Company Girls for a nice, relaxing cup of coffee. Join me?

Thanks for reading!
Jan

Posted in Everybody Has a Story | 5 Comments

Beyond Survival

Posted on June 6, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

“Don’t worry; I’ll take care of it.”

I had said this to my mom so many times it had become a reflex. My normal response, almost my theme song. Mom was overwhelmed by Dad’s death and not completely oriented to her new apartment. Whatever came up, whether it was…
…Dad’s life insurance claims to file
…getting the car title transferred
…confusion about the dining-room schedule
…mislaid tax forms
…checks payable to Dad that had to be re-issued
…unpaid bills found on the table the same day they were due…

my reaction was the same. Don’t worry; I’ll take care of it.

I had made calls, gathered information, set up automatic bill paying, started monitoring the checking account. A legal pad held my growing mass of notes, phone numbers, account numbers, instructions from banks, dates that I had filed or faxed documents, and so forth.

Outwardly cheerful and matter-of-fact around Mom, I felt an enormous burden of responsibility. She lives two hours away from me; I just cannot monitor everything. What if I overlooked some important papers or missed a deadline? What if I made a mistake? I joked about trying to keep my mom and myself out of jail. At least… I hoped I was joking.

Then my sister died. As executor of her estate, I met with her attorney, went to probate court, filed for her life insurance and other benefits, set up bank accounts. Another legal pad; more emergencies.

Without my realizing it, a grim desperation crept into my normally optimistic attitude. I could not get over to Mom’s as often. When I did, efficiency was my watchword — I felt pressured to accomplish as much as possible at each visit. During errands I almost hyperventilated trying to keep pace with Mom’s slower step. In short, I had become thoroughly “wrapped around the axle.”

Finally I realized that I was treating my own mother almost as if she were more of a job than a person. I was coping with my grief (or just pushing it aside) by doing all those errands. How was Mom coping with her grief? I didn’t even know. But now, at least her affairs were starting to run more smoothly. She needed less help.

We began to relax and talk more, including sharing our feelings about Sis. Mom still got confused, but did not seem so lost. She subscribed to the local paper, made some pretty good friends among her neighbors and started playing bridge with a foursome. She’s a diehard Dallas Mavericks basketball fan, but added baseball to her TV repertoire because most of her neighbors are Texas Rangers fans.

During a recent visit, I saw flyers posted around, announcing “Mismatched Day.” Mom, usually very shy, actually planned to wear two different colors of shoes. We giggled about some other possible mismatches, like plaid with floral. That’s when I saw the bulletin-board calendar. Thursday of the following week would be “Hawaiian Day.” I asked Mom about it; she said she had a black-and-white caftan that’s as close to Hawaiian as she could get. My wheels started turning. Mom was going to “Go Hawaiian” the next Thursday if I had anything to say about it.

“I’ll see you next Wednesday,” I told her as I left. Over the weekend I scouted the craft store and sure enough, they had silk-flower leis. Unlike the little plastic worm-like ones, these boasted spacers between the petals and a hibiscus blossom accented with a little fern leaf. I bought four, all different colors — including orange, which Mom does not like. I figured this would encourage her to give at least one lei to someone else.

She laughed when I pulled the leis out of my bag the next Wednesday. I held them up to her caftan and pointed out that any of the colors would look good with it. “Well, I’m not wearing the orange one,” she insisted.

“I didn’t expect you to. You can give some of them away,” I said.

She later told me she had worn the red and the pink leis herself, and had given the green and orange ones to her close friend because they went with her green shirt.

It was just a little thing, bringing those leis. But what a difference it made to both of us. It was so good to drop the seriousness for once; to surprise my mom; to hear her laugh and see her interested enough to join in with the community like that. If you are in “survival mode” and bogged down with burdensome tasks, I would encourage you to go beyond survival and take a little break for just plain fun. As near as I can figure, we all need that balance.

I hope this perspective will be helpful to my Soli Deo Gloria friends and to everyone else, as well.

Thanks for reading!
Jan

Posted in I Remember When... (my OWN stories), Near As I Can Figure... | 13 Comments