Firsts

My brother’s first word was “rrr-rrr” for railroad.  According to my baby book, mine was more predictable (“mama”).   We remember some special firsts.  That first kiss (George), first car (Ladybug, a red beetle), first plane ride (a propeller plane from Buffalo to Schenectady for my first all summer job at Camp Pinnacle).   For some reason I recall not my first day of school but my first punishment although I do not remember the infraction.  In kindergarten, Mrs. Engel made me sit in the kneehole of her desk during story time.

Many of us are at a time in our lives for a different type of firsts. This weekend I returned to Wheaton College for a holiday concert and entered Edmund Chapel for the first time in more than four decades.  Now, I’ve been on the campus several times over the years, driven through and seen new structures and the new crop of students, but had not been inside any of the familiar buildings. As I sat on a blue cushioned seat close to the front on the right side, snippets of memories of being in that majestic space played in my mind.  

I recalled orientation week and marching with all new students in the Parade of the World – me with people from New York, my roommate with those from Illinois and future friends under banners of Canada or Africa.  As I looked at the grand piano I remembered playing a Mozart concerto on it (well, more likely, a predecessor).  As the choirs marched down the aisles, I could summon up what it felt like to be walking up the stairs and settling on to the risers on stage and looking out at the audience.   

Going to Wheaton had been my first major step of faith based on what became of lifelong philosophy that continues to ground me today – if you do what you’re supposed to be doing, things work out.  I didn’t know anyone at Wheaton, but it felt right at the time to go there.  Three years later it felt right to leave.  It was a painful parting. I didn’t have the words then, but I sought social justice and, while others found it there, I no longer did.  There was also the practical issue of not wanting to take out another student loan when I didn’t know what I wanted to do after graduation.  So I stepped out on my own again and began my professional life.

While a ‘first’ may open a new door, it is how we handle what is behind that door that defines us.  Yes, there was a first piano lesson at age six, but it was the years of practice that led to being able to perform on that stage.  Yes, there was the audition the first week of college that led to a notice in the mailbox inviting me to be one voice among the selected many. Yes, Wheaton had been the right place for a portion of my journey.

So my trip to a Christmas concert turned out to be a pilgrimage. Walking through the big white door into the foyer and then the double doors into the chapel after all these years was healing.  In this Advent time of waiting, I encourage you to think about any firsts that may call to you.  Whether it is the first time you’ve jumped rope since you were eight, or the first time you’ve reached out to your best friend in high school since you parted ways, or the first time you tried to replicate grandma’s recipe for latkes, make a pilgrimage of your own.  Even if you trip on the rope, don’t hear back from your friend, or burn the potatoes, these ‘first time since…’ moments really can open a new door.

Marilyn