What does twelve days ago, George Washington, and this post all have in common? Firsts. Beginnings. There’s something unique about them, something bold. You can dread them, welcome them, or possibly both.
I was horrified the first time I jumped into a pool without the comfort of my hunters-orange arm floaties. This particular first took place at my grandparent’s house. My dad was standing in four feet of water; arms open wide, promising to catch me. I must have been convinced, because I jumped. Not without hesitancy though. It took about twenty minutes and eight of my other relatives to shout their encouragement in order for my feet to leave the ground. Point is, I jumped.
Do you see where I’m going with this?
Firsts require jumping. In some situations you leap with fearless abandon, and in some, shall we say, you are a tad more timid, if not downright terrified. Point is, you jump.