It was in an English course in high school that I first read Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken.” He wrote, “two roads diverged in the woods, and I – I took the road less travelled by.” When I now mentally review some of the roads Linda and I have travelled on over the years, I realize these words became active behind the scenes in my subconscious, shaping my decisions and choices. I knew I very much wanted my life to have meaning beyond just a job and an income. I was vaguely aware of the danger I might slip mindlessly into a comfortable, complacent existence. At the outset I had little understanding of what I did want. I had no grand vision to guide me.

Now, in my eighth decade, I’m much more conscious of the power decisions wield in our lives, especially when they help us find the courage to avoid safe paths. I’m aware that at times Linda and I somewhat inadvertently opted for the road not taken. And, as Frost says, “this has made all the difference.”

Early in our years together, we made a decision that, when I consider the possible ramifications, still stirs up a sense of unease within me. It placed an indelible stamp on our lives and subsequently set in motion further decisions and actions that have shaped how we think and live to this day.

When we were married in 1965, Linda had a secure position with the Royal Bank (RBC). I was a heavy equipment operator. Independently we both knew that although our income was adequate, our jobs held little excitement or meaning for us. We felt unfulfilled and stymied, trapped in mental quicksand. Only a radical decision would change this.

To this time we had not been risk takers, but we resigned from our jobs and on a Saturday morning in May, loaded our sturdy old Chevy van with camping essentials. Then, with very limited funds and having no sense of what our destination should be, we rather naively set out on the Trans Canada Highway. It wasn’t a prudent decision but reflecting on it now, I realize only by severing ties to our uncomplicated, complacent, pretty safe lives could we extricate ourselves from the mental quicksand.

Our decision to embark on a financially uncertain path soon led to another life altering choice. It came while we were sitting around our campfire on the shore of Sheridan Lake in central B.C. At the time this was open range for grazing cattle and we were quite alone. One evening after a simple dinner of brown rice and peas from a can, we were reading a Madame Marie Curie biography. Deeply moved by her commitment to scientific research, I felt the beginnings of an inner stirring. Uncertain as to how Linda would react I said, “I’ve been thinking I’d like to go to university, but I know we don’t have the money.” Without hesitation, Linda said, “I could work.”

I had not seriously considered university to this time because I realized the extensive reading would be a challenge. My vision for close up reading had long been limited. I knew university would require all the creativity and perseverance I could muster. Even so, Madame Curie’s commitment had kindled within me a desire to accomplish something of value.

Knowing I’d need further sources of inspiration and encouragement, I began seeking other individuals who had done what was considered impossible. I became especially impressed by the daring of Andrew Van der Bilj, familiarly known as Brother Andrew, and also as God’s smuggler. Although it was strictly forbidden and carried harsh penalties, Brother Andrew smuggled suitcases of Bibles into the Soviet Union. He asked, “why tiptoe through life only to arrive safely at death?”

Having grown up in Abbotsford, I had only limited knowledge of the world beyond what was then very much a rural community. By registering as a student at Simon Fraser University that fall, I was exposing myself and Linda to an unfamiliar world. In our thinking and actions, we would need to go where we had not been before.

In Annie Proulx’s Pulitzer Prize winning book, “The Shipping News”, a minor character makes a statement that has for decades been lodged somewhere in the inner recesses of my mind. Cousin Nolan is in an institution, near the end of his days. Looking back, he experiences deep angst and regret at how little he has accomplished in the years bequeathed to him. “I always knowed I was meant for something big,” he laments, “but I didn’t know how to get started. I never had no luck.”

It was during my four years at SFU that I encountered these words. Young and restless, I was grappling with the issue of how I should invest my life. My understanding concerning this question was somewhat murky but I knew I didn’t want to conclude at the end of my time that I had chosen an inconsequential path, a path that descended into the remorse and despair experienced by the hapless Cousin Nolan. Even then I already knew that for me such an outcome would be a tragic waste of life.

When I turned 81 recently, I decided to mentally walk back along the path I had chosen so many years ago. I wondered what I would discover.

I began with a memory from my high school days. I was in grade 12 when Jake Toews, a pragmatic and respected teacher posed the question, “Why would you not commit suicide?” My response was, “I’m curious about what will happen tomorrow, actually the entire future.” I didn’t want my life to end with a sigh of regret.

During high school I worked with my Dad in summer, operating a large bulldozer, driving a dump truck, blowing stumps from the ground with dynamite, and more. There were times when I had opportunity to reflect, consider and evaluate while working. I began to understand I needed to choose between a variety of strategies and approaches, some of which might be alluring but deceptive. If my life was not to terminate with a sigh and a whimper, I would need to choose wisely.

Cousin Nolan may never have consciously struggled with questions that would determine the direction of his life. Possibly he didn’t heed the counsel of those who wanted him to prosper. He seemed to have drifted, much like the Monarch butterflies I admired as a child on sun drenched summer days. He had waited for life to open doors to achievement and meaning. In the end he seemed to conclude that life had not accepted its responsibility to him. He felt deceived.

Leo Tolstoy’s “How Much Land Does a Man Need?” depicts another equally unfruitful way of thinking. Pakhom, a character in this book, is told that for one thousand roubles he can acquire as much land as he is able to walk around in a day. Elated at the prospect of acquiring immense wealth, he starts walking early in the morning, eager to take complete advantage of this unanticipated offer. Striding briskly he sees a lake from which he’d be able to obtain water for cattle and crops. Tempted, he alters his course to encompass this magnificent body of water. Further along he notices a choice plot of land he knows will produce an abundant harvest of flax. Again he cannot resist and skirts around this section of rich soil. Late in the afternoon he realizes his acquisitive thinking has prompted him to be overly grasping.

Concerned at seeing the sun sinking toward the horizon and fearing he will lose all he has gained, Pakhom begins to run. This brings him to where he had set out in the morning, just in time. Unfortunately for him, his unrestrained, foolish reaching for more has taxed his body unmercifully. Exhausted, he collapses to the ground at the finish line and dies. He is buried there in a grave a mere six feet long. That, Tolstoy suggests, is all the land a man needs when he dies.

Pondering on the life trajectories of Cousin Nolan and Pakhom, I’m beginning to evaluate my own values and decisions over my many years. For Linda and me there have been challenges, adventures, opportunities, and certainly missteps. How have we dealt with our very generous allotment of time? Who and what has influenced us? Have we constructively participated in our community? What has been our response to people experiencing distress and heartache? In coming posts I propose to look back, in the hope of gaining understanding for the future.

In his 2005 commencement address to graduates at Stanford University, Steve Jobs said, “for 33 years I’ve looked in the mirror every day and asked myself ‘if today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?’”

In less than a week I’ll be marking 81 years on Planet Earth and somewhat like the renowned co-founder of Apple, I have begun asking myself a question. My question is “am I walking on a worthy path?” To this question I add, “am I making a positive difference in the lives of others, of my community? Would I select the same path again?”

I’m very aware there have been missteps I regret but cannot change. I also know I’ve been extraordinarily blessed with mentors who pointed me in a good direction. One such individual was Anna Braun, a resident at Menno Hospital when my father was there.

Anna was a short, slightly plump little lady, then in her eighties. Born in Ukraine of Mennonite parents, she had experienced Stalin’s starvation policies. Some in her village had died of hunger. Others had been sent to the Gulag, the USSR’s notorious prison system. Most of these had not been heard from again. Knowing they could expect only persecution, starvation and death, Anna and her mother fled with the German Wehrmacht when it was routed by the Soviet Red Army.

Known for their experience and skill in agriculture, many Mennonites were permitted entry into Canada. Anna and her mother were among them. They settled in Abbotsford, where they worked on a raspberry farm.

Anna was confined to a wheelchair when I met her. She had suffered a broken back and other injuries when she climbed into a cherry tree. The branch she was perched on broke.

Day after day she now sat in her wheelchair in the large common area of Menno Hospital. Often I crouched at her side and she spoke to me in her mother tongue, a Low German dialect. My forebears had emigrated from the same area in 1874 and Low German was my language until I began attending school. I still retained enough of the language to understand much of what she said. I was impressed that although she could do almost nothing for herself, she smiled often and refused to slip into a spirit of discontent. Her face and voice exuded joy. Although she knew the sands of time in her personal hour glass were flowing swiftly to the end, she continued to diligently plant positive, life changing seeds in those who entered her limited sphere of influence. After our brief chats, I invariably felt uplifted.

Having attained the eighth decade myself, I’m very aware that my own strength is ebbing. My vision has deteriorated to where I frequently need Linda’s help dealing with computer challenges. Others who are my age are also grappling with health and other issues. Parkinson’s recently took down a valued friend. Another friend has totally lost his eyesight. Dementia has stolen the understanding of several friends.

Like Steve Jobs who passed away October 5, 2011, I’m becoming increasingly aware that I must not fritter away my days. If I want to accomplish something important, I must do it today. Like Anna I want to invest my time not in accumulating wealth, but in enriching the lives of others. Even now, when I think of her I’m reminded of the African proverb which says, “you plant a tree so your grandchildren can sit in the shade.”

Although Anna was totally dependent on others, she left an indelible imprint on my life. One day after a visit with her, she grasped my hand firmly as I was about to leave. Drawing me close, she prayed for me in her mother tongue. I walked away deeply impacted, wondering what had prompted the prayer. Did she have a premonition that this would be our final visit?

When I returned two days later, Anna wasn’t at her usual station in the common area. I found her in her room, in a coma. A young granddaughter was sitting at her bedside. Anna was at the end of her sojourn on earth. We wouldn’t talk again, but her joy and wisdom had inspired me to think not only of how I can enrich my own life, but also the lives of others.