I am not big on first days and new things.  The first day of first grade, I cried when The Mom dropped me off at my classroom door.  The next day, when she waited with me for the bus, I cried again.  Then the bus pulled up and she told me to get on it.  I remained planted on the sidewalk despite her persistent urging.  Eventually, she had to pick me up , carry me up the bus steps, and put me on the green vinyl seat herself, where I refused to bend my legs and sit down.  I think she ended up driving me to school on day two.  (Later that day, I would find it hard to sit down for other reasons.)

This week I visited the office where I’ll be practicing.  First days now don’t allow for tears, unless they are the kind produced quietly in a bathroom stall.  But beginnings still provoke anxiety and sleepless nights for me, because that is apparently who I will always be: the girl who struggles with the unknown.  I turned off the radio and turned on the prayer line for the ride in, and as I expressed (to the one who made me, flaws and all) my nervousness and my frustration with my nervousness at the age of THIRTY-TWO, for His sake, I felt the responsive truth descend upon my heart in its familiar conversational tone. Reminders about my fear of incompetence and how that comes from a self-imbued need to prove myself, to perform according to others’ expectations.  Re-realizations that my competence comes from a deeper place than board scores or handiness with a drill. And the inevitable worst-case-scenario-follow-through: that I’m protected beyond what any job can provide.

So I felt better.  Enough to turn on the radio and listen to people talk about the oil that is slowly creeping up to the section of beach where I’ll get married, at which point I had to smile at yet another reminder of how little I ultimately control, and how little that fact matters when I trust the one who does run the show.  I pulled up to the office and wandered (ARGH!) around the parking lot until I found a spot, then walked in.

The day went well.  Although I had to pull back on my own reins a few times, like when my boss conducted the morning meeting, orchestrating the efforts of a room full of women, and I freaked out that I would be doing that one day.  But not today, jeez! I told myself, and I think I heard God laugh.

Later that night The Sis called to get the First Day Update and, to her credit, listened to my glowing report in full.  Then I asked how her day went.  “I hate my job.  I want to quit.”  Hers had not been a first day, but it did involve tears, and she is ready to get on up out of that place.  When I reminded her that my niece will soon be her ticket to ride, she made a jump that sounded like my move at the office meeting: expressing her uneasiness for the day when the nurse hands her the baby and sends the new family home, and she won’t have any idea what to do.  “Just like everyone else who goes home with a baby for the first time,” I said, because no matter how few people are brave enough to admit it, there is not enough literature to read or intelligence to possess that makes you ready for a tiny life in your hands.  “And also, let’s just stick to today for now,” I added–for both of us.

I’m not out of First Days yet.  I’ve got one down, but a few big events approach beyond it.  No matter how much I try to prepare, though, most of what matters in life is learned on the job, in the day-to-day.  And all of those days have to have a first day.  I can think of a particular period of time that looked devastatingly different on Day One than it did on Day Three.  There’s always a square one–every friend starts out as a stranger; every epic begins with a word.  So call me Ishmael, and let’s do this thing.