First Day

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

Really, it is.

Normally I scoff at such tidbits of folk wisdom. Even though I’m a dad and thus prone to say all manner of things I once swore would never come out of my mouth, I generally steer clear of anything that feels reductive or trite. My philosophical mantra, if I had one, would probably be, “It’s complicated.”

But this little first-day nugget of optimism rings true for me—partly because it’s complicated, and partly because it’s not complicated at all.

After spending fifteen years in only two jobs—a rarity, in my chosen field—I had a whopping five in 2023, including the tail end of my campus ministry gig, three interim pastorates, and one online church plant. The upshot is that I’ve had a lot of recent experience with first days.

Hi, my name is…

I like to…

My family consists of…

And so on and so forth. I give my info and listen while other people give theirs. I ask about what has been done in the past, what I’m expected to do, what’s on the priority list. It’s not that hard, theoretically.

But none of last year’s first days carried much risk. The work was important, but it didn’t change a lot for me. I still worked near the town I’ve called home for a decade among people I’ve come to understand (as much as any outsider could be said to understand the Upper Midwest). My address changed only once, and my workdays looked similar from one to the next. These were jobs that came about because both I and those I served needed a short-term match to help build a bridge to what was next. It required attention, but not actual courage.

Not so for my first first day of 2024.

Yesterday, I arrived at Camp Loucon in Leitchfield, KY, for my first week on site as director. I began working remotely last week, but today I came into the office for the first time to try to learn people and processes and budgets and a million other things.  It’s all new enough that my Monday blog is posting on Tuesday because I couldn’t find the wifi password until this morning.

This first day is of a different order than my 2023 ones. It’s a move across the country, away from our kids and from friends we have come to cherish like family. I’ve had analogous experience, but I’ve never been a camping professional before. After spending months working remotely, I’m thrust into a role that is decidedly site-specific, tasked with leading people who have a history with the camp that I lack. It all feels very complicated.

But complicated, in this case, is good. There’s an element of challenge to this work that I haven’t experienced in a long time. We have incredible supporters who respect the history of the camp, but also want to move into something new. I’m excited to help lead that effort, overwhelming as it feels right now. Taking on this role feels like going back to the gym after a long layoff. I know I’m going to have to work to get back into shape, but being sore again kind of feels good.

Yet this move is also much simpler than it feels. A door opened for us, and we said yes to entering. We know a lot of what to expect. After all, we’ve been in this position before.

When we moved to the Dakotas ten years ago, it was like jumping off the high-dive without knowing if there was water in the pool. It felt a bit desperate, even at the time. But with hindsight I can see that there was a profound courage at work within me and my family. We didn’t know what lay on the other side of that move, but we knew we had to find out, and so we went. Taken all together, it turned out to be a beautiful road.

During those years, our students sang “Hold Us Together” by Matt Maher at the last gathering of every spring, reminding our seniors of the love and community they’d experienced and encouraging our underclassmen to make the most of the time they had together. We usually put on a brave face through the verses. By the time we got to the bridge, though, I’d dare you to fine a dry eye in the house.

This is the first day of the rest of my life.
This is the first day of the rest of my life.
‘Cause even in the dark you can still see the light.
It’s gonna be all right.
It’s gonna be all right.

Moving on is hard. I watched so many young adults do it over the years. All totaled, I have even more experience with last days than with first days. It’s sad and exciting and terrifying, all at once. But leaving one thing behind for another is part of life, and a good part at that. That’s just the way time is set up. It seems to be the way we humans are set up, too.

So on what feels like my true first day on the job in a new and wonderful setting, I’m leaning into courage and hope and the love of friends who have reminded me, as I so often did them, that I am not alone. That love will hold us together. That it’s gonna be all right.

This is the first day of the rest of my life. Again.

Onward.