Don't ask me what's around the corner when I'm still walking down the street

For the past year, my mantra has been one step at a time.

With all of my commitments -- from classes to small group leading to Gospel Choir to The Echo to University Marketing and, this past semester, the Josh Larkin project -- that's all I've been able to handle. Anything more overwhelmed me and hurt my overall productivity.

Coming into the summer basically blind, not knowing what to expect, I've concluded that one step at a time will continue as my calm-down phrase. Whenever things begin to overwhelm me, I'm going to breathe deeply -- in, out -- clear my thoughts and focus on what single thing needs to be done right now.

I'm currently at point A, so we're not going to worry about point Z or W or even D. The next step is point B. I may have to walk a tightrope to get to it, but that's better than thinking of the rope over shark-filled waters that I have to cross in order to reach Z.

One step. And then I'll worry about the next one.

People have been asking me about my summer. A lot. What am I doing? Am I going to be home or am I only here for a little while? I hate these questions.

You don't know me. You don't know my life.

The innocent, unsuspecting outsider doesn't know what to do with answers like I don't know and We'll see.

It's like when you're asked how you're doing and you say something other than fine or good. All the sudden, things get awkward, they stiffen up and say, "Oh . . . okay," and search for the nearest exit.

Please. Outsiders. Understand.

I'm working on it. I know what I'm doing tomorrow and the next day. I just don't know about next week. I could make it sound cool and say I'm living life on the edge, but I chose to be straight with you: I don't know. We'll see.

I'm taking life one step at a time.

If you can't handle that, please don't ask. And if you're going to ask, don't get unnerved by my response.

It's pointless to ask me what's around the corner when I've yet to walk down the street.

Facing the future I can't anticipate

It's time to fix my attitude. For the past week, I've been wallowing in my disappointment in what my summer is shaping up to be.

This summer -- between my junior and senior years of college -- was supposed to be the summer of my dreams. I was going to set out on my own, test full independence, score an awesome internship, and be my own person.

Now it's looking like I'll be living at home, working where I always have, and gaining minimal experience, if any.

Grumpy and wallowing in it. That's how I've been for the past week.

It's time for me to get over it. Shape up and take my life into my own hands.

This summer -- whether I end up living at home or somewhere else -- I'm going to be as independent as possible.

• I will do my own laundry.
• Drive myself wherever I need to go.
• Get myself up in the morning.
• Set my own bedtime.
• Get back into shape.

All on my own. Even if I'm at home, the way I will be this week.

I'm not going to wallow in my disappointment. I will take what opportunities are available -- for writing and working. I will make the most of them. I will take care of myself and live well, despite the disappointments.

And I will write about my journey through it all. How I face the future I can't anticipate, and how I make the most of whatever comes my way will be recorded here.

Keep me accountable?

Well Done

Last Sunday night, I felt the presence of God.

Laying in bed, iPod on, trying to settle my brain down, I heard the first lines of the song, Well Done:

I just wanna make it to Heaven.

I thought about skipping it -- gospel music isn't the easiest to fall asleep to -- but I let it play.

I focused hard on the lyrics as my mind wandered.

About a third of the way through the song, I started crying. Buried my face in my pillow, let sobs break, and felt it hit.

I knew then that Pappy -- my grandpa, my mom's dad -- was gone.

Laying there, crying, music playing, I just knew. And I felt God's comfort.

Not in any tangible way, just in knowing it was okay to cry, it was time to cry, and here's a song speaking of where Pappy is, what he's experiencing now.

Late the following morning, after chapel, my dad called and gave me the news. I'd already cried.

Path to Pixar

I have a plan.

One of my dreams is to write a screenplay for Pixar or 2-D Disney. This week, I learned the likelihood I'll ever do that is incredibly low.

But this is one of those dreams (unlike going to the moon) that I'm not going to throw away.

It's possible to succeed. The question is, how?

Step One: Write a book or books, preferably. Write incredibly good books that excite people and get them talking.

Write solid stories that can't be ignored, with tangible settings and unforgettable characters.

Step Two: Get said books published. This shouldn't be hard if the books are well-written, the stories are interesting and entertaining, and the agent's awesome.

An awesome agent is crucial, especially for Step Four.

Step Three: Sell a lot of books. Making the New York Times Bestseller list would be nice. Definitely something to shoot for.

Step Four: Sell film rights to a studio or producer with the condition that I write the screenplay. I'll know my stories best -- their core themes, elements, characters, conflict, etc. -- I'll be the best option to write to 110-130 page screenplay.

Step Five: Build a reputation in "the industry." Be the Flavor-of-the-Hour and take advantage of it: get writing assignments, option material to adapt, become known for my expertise with story and words. Write scripts to several live-action films.

Step Six: Be called last-minute to write a script for Disney/Pixar. Because if I'm not called last-minute, my work will most likely be drastically and I want to actually see what I write put on screen in the mouths of funky, cartoonized characters with voices of bigshots I've only known (until now) through movies.

This is my plan. I like it.

Writing books and live-action film scripts were already on my to-do list. This plan makes sure I utilize them to their full capacity.

As someone who wants to write everything, that's pretty good.
(I can always work in magazine journalism as research for my stories.)

Shower Power

I love God moments that happen in the shower.

Last night, I was in there, water on hot, soaking it up with my eyes closed. I was thinking about writing (what else is new, right?) and about my profile which The Echo printed today.

Everyone who read it told me they liked it, but I wasn't sure--still really am unsure--and wasn't really satisfied with it.

I was thinking about that profile and how it really hasn't reached my standards, yet. And I was thinking about the project Kyla and I want to work on next semester.

I was focusing on negatives: writing not up to par, doubts of whether we'll be able to pull the project off or not, doubts of my ability to write something that makes a difference.

And then I was thinking about people's stories and how other people's lives are starting to make sense, while I really can't see any patterns in mine. Who am I to tell other people's stories if I can't even tell my own? How can I dare to ask others questions that I wouldn't be able to answer myself?

The sum of my thought process: I'm not worthy to tell others' stories.

But then the thought process continued.

Last night, I updated my portfolio, took all my Echo articles from this semester and stuck them in the three-ring binder I was given freshman year.

I wrote a lot this semester. I didn't have a piece in every edition, but what pieces I had, I put serious time into.

My work's been commended. I've been given a front page byline twice and almost had a lead article. People I wrote about complimented my writing--it didn't go unsung.

Yet, still, I feel this inadequacy about it. This hopelessness, like it will never improve, like it will never accomplish what I want it to accomplish. Why bother?

Last night, in the shower, I realized the source of these insecurities is not the Holy Spirit, but an enemy who fears what I could accomplish with my writing. Or, really, what God could accomplish.

Words are powerful. People's stories--once they've started to make sense--are powerful. My writing is powerful.

Once I realized this, the shower got a big more exciting. I started coming up with feature ideas (in case I become Features editor next semester [I can't remember any of those ideas now, but they were there]). Thinking in terms of the big picture, stories making sense, I came up with a resolution to my book (which I really want to work on).

And then, I just hung out in the wetness, thinking things over, soaking them up. It was great.

I want to write.

To Love, Not Judge

Friday night, I experienced a charismatic church. Charismatic, as in charisma.

Charisma (n): a quality which inspires great enthusiasm and devotion (World English Dictionary).

Gospel Choir left campus around 5:45 for Church of the Living God in Muncie. We were warned weeks beforehand that the worship at thing church might make us feel uncomfortable. Speaking in tongues wouldn't necessarily be strange there. My roommate told me things too.

I left fully prepared to critically observe and hug my Bible like a child hugs a teddy bear. These people, I was sure, would be wacko.

When we arrived, the place didn't seem anything to blink at. The building -- painted a faint shade of purple on the outside -- was a big box made from cement blocks. There was nothing impressive about it.

Except the people, who were the most friendly and welcoming people I've ever met.

At first, I was uncomfortable. I smiled and nodded with the rest, but I was wary, wondering what I'd see these people do in the next few hours.

All right, I thought, when's the speaking in tongues gonna start.

The cynic inside me was running the show.

Somewhere between soundcheck and singing, the cynic lost control.

The worship team opened the service with "Come, Now is the Time to Worship," the leading pastor followed with an incredibly long prayer, and then another church leader said some words.

I didn't completely understand the order or dynamics of the service, but as I sat with the rest of the choir and the congregation, and listened to the person at the podium, my critical mind experienced a breakthrough:

You're not here to judge these people, Meredith. You're here to love them, serve them, and be a blessing to them.

 I'd prayed that God would open my heart to whatever He had for me there, so I embraced this. When the pastor directed us to cross the aisle and hug our neighbors, I followed my friend Debby -- who calls the church wherever she is "family."

I hugged more strangers without feeling awkward than I ever have before.

From there, the evening only improved. When Gospel Choir sand, I genuinely worshiped with the body of Christ. When the speak preached, I took joy in the "amen"s and "yes, Lord"s that surrounded me. And when they segued into twenty minutes of intercessory prayer -- in which everyone present was invited to come forward and be prayed over -- I went forward without shame, and was blessed by two women praying over me simultaneously.

I have never experienced a more joy-filled and uplifting service. I left feeling more renewed than I've felt after any church service.

Charisma (n): a quality which inspires great enthusiasm and devotion (World English Dictionary).
 

Max Break

Every once in a while, I reach a max. I've been going too hard, too long, and there's no way I can keep going and sanely function.

This happens whether I'm working out, writing, or spending time with others regularly -- or not.

When this happens, I can't concentrate, my thoughts aren't clear, and I have little motivation to do anything -- whether it's something I love, or something I hate.

I need a change of pace, a change of scenery, a break from the routine.

Tonight, I reached that max.

My change of pace was leaving my checklist behind. My change of scenery was from my dorm to the music building. My break from the routine was prayer, meditation, Bible reading, journaling, and playing piano.

I didn't do homework. I didn't check anything off any list. And I don't regret it.

I needed a break. I needed to slow down.