When I completed my interviews with inmates and staff at Matsqui Institution, plus a good deal of reading, I wrote the paper detailing my findings concerning inmate culture. As requested at the outset, I gave prison Superintendent Doug McGregor a copy. He was at his desk when I entered his office, his white shirt open at the top button as usual. I told him about M2W2 and inquired about bringing the program into Matsqui. He asked, “do you consider this to be the answer to recidivism?”

I’d had several discussions with Doug over the past three months and felt he was genuinely open to new approaches. Almost certainly he wanted also to assess the level of understanding our organization had concerning prisoners and their rehabilitation. “At the beginning of my experience at Oakalla,” I replied, “I naively thought that surely friendship with a reputable citizen would persuade a man that life offers a much richer experience than crime and prison.

I thought it might be pretty straight forward and simple. Now I’m beginning to understand that in most cases releasing a man from prison doesn’t also release him from his criminal thinking.” Doug leaned forward, listening intently, not interrupting.

“Our sponsors do offer friendship,” I continued. “We consider it a critical component in rebuilding anyone’s life, whether in prison or in the community. We assign a trustworthy man to sponsor one inmate. The sponsor typically visits the inmate once every two weeks, more often if he chooses to. When the man becomes eligible for passes to the community, the sponsor may invite him to his home to meet his family and enjoy a meal. He will also introduce the man to people in the community. This helps him feel more at ease with law abiding citizens when he is released. We do recognize, however, that our approach is only one aspect of the solution.”

About a week later Ray Coles, the M2W2 executive director at that time, met with Doug and several senior prison staff. At this meeting we were given the green light to bring the program to Matsqui Institution.

Ray Coles asked me to develop the Matsqui program. This was a volunteer position and I continued operating a front end loader and driving a dump truck, as I had on a part time basis during the SFU years. Working with the prison’s community liaison director, I scheduled a “get acquainted” meeting, which was attended by 21 inmates.

When I entered the room, my attention was immediately drawn to a squat, burly man sitting at the rear of the room. With thick arms folded tightly across his barrel chest, and a skeptical frown on his face, his appearance was intimidating. Had he come to disrupt?

In spite of my apprehensions, the meeting produced no fireworks, only a lot of questions. None from the burly dour man in the back row. When I received a stack of eleven applications for a sponsor, I was surprised to see that this man, Roy, had applied. I was pleased but not surprised to note that Albert, the grey haired man in the hobby shop also wanted a friend from outside the fences.

I immediately began searching for men with a track record of integrity. Men who would commit irrevocably to a relationship and follow through. The inmates we’d be working with had been deceived and lied to much of their lives. We wanted to show them another, more fulfilling way to live.

Often I approached a man individually, explained the program and invited him to visit an inmate with me. The men I hoped to enlist usually already had a full schedule, but almost without exception, they accompanied me and I introduced them to a man not receiving visits. Among the community men were Andy, a top selling realtor, Rudy, a senior secondary school teacher and coach, and Reinhart, a successful entrepreneur. There were also tradesmen, farmers, laborers and retirees. After visiting a man behind bars with me, they were almost invariably hooked. Sponsoring an inmate seemingly provided them with a sense of mission.

It would prove to be a challenging mission. For young inmates especially, life in prison was a boot camp in crime that indoctrinated them with criminal thinking and attitudes. These had become deeply lodged in their subconscious and governed their responses to knotty life issues. The men we sent into prison would need to learn patience, seek wisdom and discernment, and exercise resolve. When it became extra tough, some sponsors elected to look up and request a divine spark of inspiration and guidance.

Inmates at Matsqui Institution were doing federal time (sentences of two years or more). Often this longer time span enabled inmates and sponsors to develop relationships where there was a measure of trust. We found that when these caged men grasped that their sponsor was a friend, they considered this an opportunity to divulge long hidden secrets from what was almost invariably a sordid past.

Accounts of turbulent family dynamics frequently dismayed us. They also helped us understand why their history was so cluttered with bitterness, anger and despair. Turmoil in their home had denied them an opportunity to lay the foundation for a stable future. Because I interviewed each inmate who applied for a sponsor, I heard chilling stories sufficient to crush a man’s spirit.

Listening to these men, I realized my childhood home had been a safe haven. I was sustained by an abundance of encouragement, love and a tranquil atmosphere. I never returned home knowing my dad would give me a beating for being out too late. Realizing that most sponsors had been blessed with a similarly peaceful upbringing, I wondered how we could possibly bridge the emotional and psychological chasm that stretched like a minefield between us.

Roy, who had sat at the back of the room with arms crossed in the first meeting, had not fared well from his earliest days. His father had been a small time crook, shunted from one prison to another, just bumping purposelessly through life. He had married a second time and the step mother developed an immediate and intense dislike for Roy. She hounded his father relentlessly to disown him. The lack of constructive attention by his father, who couldn’t stay out of prison, and the toxic harassment by his step mother convinced Roy he was worthless. Unwise decisions and actions had persuaded him all he could look forward to was more painful, demoralizing stumbles. He had come to view life through a bleak distorted prism.

It was the hope of our organization that by providing an inmate with a friend in the local community, he would begin to believe life offered more than a series of failures. To this end I matched Roy with Walter, a successful poultry farmer. Walter and Helen immediately began including Roy in their family activities.

Like most men we sponsored, Roy became surprisingly protective of our organization. He didn’t want to besmirch our reputation by escaping while on a pass with Walter. Recognizing this, Matsqui decision makers granted him a number of passes. Walter and family took him along to social events, community functions, church services, and more. Roy especially enjoyed Helen’s invitations to dinner in their home.

In a conversation with Walter and myself, Roy referred to the step mother’s attempts to dislodge him from the family. “My father was in the slammer too much to ever get around to disowning me,” he recalled, “but my stepmother was a determined scheming woman. She made life unbearable for me. When I was eleven I started running away and stealing. I was placed in one detention centre after another.”

He paused a moment as though trying to decide if he should say more. Then, with a rueful grin he added, “I guess you could say that in the end she did get what she wanted.”

Roy’s life trajectory was similar to that of many inmates, although the details often differed. As a child and youth his spirit had been crushed repeatedly by rejection, neglect and failure. Now in an adult body, in many ways he was still just a confused kid. The years behind bars and fences had given him the mental and emotional tools to survive and thrive in confinement, but not in the larger society. He was desperately attempting to claw his way out of the fog that engulfed him. He craved the freedom and sense of fulfillment he recognized in people beyond the fences.

As sponsors we knew this would be a journey with many pitfalls. We would have to grow in maturity and inner strength, so that in us the men we sponsored would have a credible example of how to achieve a fulfilling life.

Prior to beginning my final semester at SFU I asked Doug McGregor, Superintendent at Matsqui Institution, for permission to do research into inmate culture in the prison. An innovator with a keen, inquisitive intellect, he was putting his reputation on the line by experimenting with Temporary Absences. He asked a series of penetrating questions and I realized that without the Oakalla experience, I might have seemed totally naive. For me it was a lesson in the importance of preparation. Doug agreed to my request and once I had gained credibility, I was given access to most areas of the prison.

For three months I interviewed men doing time for serious crimes including murder, drug trafficking, fraud and armed robbery. Knowing my life experiences differed substantively from theirs, I was concerned initially the inmates might view me with suspicion, possibly as a spy for the Administration. I was gratified to learn that most welcomed the opportunity to dialogue with someone from outside the confining perimeter fences. They seemed to consider me non-threatening, a diversion from the stultifying prison routines. Also important to me was the tolerance of the guards, especially once they were convinced I wouldn’t aid inmates in circumventing regulations.

I did most of the interviews in a small, sparsely furnished office that was also occasionally used by attorneys. One exception was several conversations with Albert, a chain smoking, grey haired inmate doing time for heroin possession and trafficking. About age 65, he had seen the uninspiring insides of prisons across Canada. Having mellowed over many years of soul numbing incarceration, he was now trusted with running the prison hobby shop. It was here I came upon him alone, sitting on a stool at his work table, a meticulously rolled cigarette tightly clenched between his lips. Tailor made smokes were beyond his financial means, but guards at times slipped him one when they entered his realm for a cup of strong brewed coffee.

In my first encounter with Albert he readily agreed to talk, but kept me waiting while he removed the nearly spent cigarette dangling between his lips and carefully selected a fresh one. The passing of time apparently meant little to him. I sensed he was using these brief moments to study me. His years in prisons had taught him there were pitfalls in too easily trusting strangers. He felt no urgency to hurry.

After chatting casually a few minutes, his face and voice indicated he felt at ease with me. Toward the end of this initial conversation I asked him about the impact of prisons on his life. He had not yet lit the smoke and the question seemed to have diverted his awareness of its presence between his lips. When he spoke after a lengthy silence, I sensed he was reflecting not only his own inner rancor and regret but also that harboured by most inmates. His voice conveyed remorse at the lost years in the unyielding system holding him in its iron fisted clutches.

“Often when I’m lying in my drum at night waiting for sleep,” he said, “I think about the relationships I once had. The family and friends who became impatient with visiting in prison, frequently through a glass or screen partition.” There was a gnawing despair in his voice and his face seemed to age as he reflected on the wasted years.

“I’ve done a little reading about how the penitentiary system got started,” he said. Pausing to consider, he remembered the unlit cigarette and struck a match to light it. “Prisons were meant to provide law breakers with a quiet place to reflect, away from temptation,” he continued. “A place to think about the direction of their lives, and make changes. But the present system only warehouses us. It doesn’t give us the understanding or ability to live successfully outside the fences. In prison there is nothing worth striving for. We exist but we have no purpose. They want us to change so we’ll think like them. In my case it’s too late. Prisons have molded my mind to think like a con. The fences and regulations have shrunk my inner world so it’s all I know.”

Albert paused to take a protracted drag from the cigarette, then said, “I’ve had opportunities for work, even for marriage, but heroin has a strangle hold on my brain. Prisons haven’t helped me fight it. When I’m released,” he mused, “I’ll catch a bus to ‘the corner’ in Vancouver and get a fix. If I’m lucky, I might have a year before I’m back. It’s the only life I know. Until they let me out I’ll just sit on this stool, roll cigarettes and smoke one after the other.”

I didn’t know it yet but our lives would intersect again before long.

I have come to have enormous regard for the power of “first steps,” especially decisions and actions that propel us into unfamiliar, challenging territory. In novels the protagonist is often faced at the outset with a decision that will require courage, possibly combat with unsavoury characters. Linda and I had taken an important first step when we purchased a home and five acres just prior to getting married. This ensured that we would always have a home, but after that there had been a dearth of inspiring decisions or actions.

This began to change when we left our jobs and lived in a tent in Cariboo wilderness for three months. For us this was another venture into the unknown. Deciding I should attend university was also a first step. To this time we had focused on paying off the mortgage, certainly not on contemplating exciting adventures.

At SFU my thinking began to expand. A quote by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe nudged me to attempt more.

He said, “Whatever you can do or dream, you can begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.”

I received further inspiration from the words of William Hutchison Murray. He wrote, “the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would otherwise never have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamt would have come his way.”

For me, here was magic and although I didn’t fully grasp its power or significance, I wanted to explore it. In my first year at SFU, I learned that a recently minted organization was looking for volunteers to visit prisoners in Oakalla. Intrigued, I attended an introductory meeting in the prison. Dick Simmons, an American, had already launched M2/W2 (Man to Man, Woman to Woman), in a Seattle prison. He was at this meeting and explained that a citizen from the community would be matched with an inmate on a one to one basis. The “sponsor” would visit every two weeks with the goal of developing a relationship of trust.

Most of the prisoners accepted into the program were not not receiving visits and did not have support in the community. The sponsor would become the inmate’s connection to the world outside prison and would help with finding work and making the difficult adjustment to life in the community.

I had always regarded Oakalla as austere and forbidding. Our tour of Westgate B didn’t change my thinking. When that large solid metal door clanged shut behind us I felt we had entered an alien world. Disconsolate grey clad men were wandering about on the tier, with no discernible purpose. Some were in their cell, surrounded by steel bars. I wasn’t at all confident I had the experience or wisdom to find a common ground with these listless men existing like animals in this barren environment. Even so, I signed on.

Sponsoring at Oakalla would be another first step. I found that these men suffered from a deficit of interests and knowledge. Many had dropped out of school before graduating. Often after numerous stints in prison, relationships with family and friends had disintegrated. They complained about the food, being hassled by guards, the regulations, the unfairness of their confinement. They had learned to be distrustful, even of each other. Interactions with the “bulls”, as the inmates frequently referred to them, were not uplifting. The guards viewed their charges as devious and not to be believed or trusted.

I didn’t know it yet but there would be other prisons and other prisoners in my future. Oakalla provided me with some understanding of what I could expect from prisoners and from those hired to ensure they did not escape. By taking the first step of sponsoring men at Oakalla I gained experience and understandings that would give me a measure of credibility with those doing time and also with those in positions of authority. I didn’t realize yet that taking this first step would open doors to other prisons and to other opportunities to help men catch a more positive vision of who they could become.

Some of my fellow students at SFU were working toward a fairly precise goal. They wanted to be teachers, doctors, corporate leaders, etc. For them university was a preparation for a specific profession. For me SFU was also a time of preparation, I just didn’t yet know where it would lead. Because of this, I still could not entirely shake a gnawing sense of uncertainty, much like a man with a blindfold shooting a a target he knows is there, but cannot see. I knew only I could not turn back. I must have faith that there would be a positive outcome. Not having a specific occupational objective, I hoped the courses I enrolled in would provide a solid basis for future employment.

I enjoyed courses like English, history and psychology, but it was PSA (political science, sociology and anthropology) that captivated my interest. Several radical left wing professors were particularly influential. Their personalities, lectures, passion and commitment persuaded me to re-examine and re-evaluate what I had learned in elementary and high school.

There had been a preponderance of emphasis given to British history, values, political systems, societal structures and much more. Beginning with King John signing the Magna Carta under duress from Barons at Runnymede in 1215, I had learned about the slow march to the achievement of voting rights and what we now think of as democracy. Only much later did I learn that after the Barons departed, the King persuaded the Pope to declare the agreement invalid. It was a case of those in positions of power collaborating to ensure their authority remained intact .

I was raised in a conservative culture. My parents and most of their friends were staunch supporters of W.A.C. Bennett, leader of the B.C. Social Credit Party and premier from 1952-1972. As a teen I at times attended political meetings and rallies with my father. When I was old enough to vote I faithfully followed my parents’ example.

A variety of societal influences had engendered in me an implicit trust in our national and provincial governments, but now I was becoming vaguely aware of what appeared to be a lack of integrity at higher echelons of Canadian society. I had been attracted to SFU in part because of its reputation for challenging embedded ideas. Upon arriving on campus I quickly became immersed in a cauldron of restless dissatisfaction. The radical professors espoused unflattering views of the political and societal universe. Lectures and also books on the reading lists began expanding my awareness and understanding of social and political dynamics.

C Wright Mills, for many years a professor at Columbia University, very effectively challenged my thinking in “The Power Elite” (1956). He contended that military, economic and political leaders share deeply interwoven interests. He suggested that ordinary citizens are relatively powerless and subject to manipulation. Mills argued for public and political engagement rather than complacent observation.

I was also influenced by sociologist John Porter’s “The Vertical Mosaic” (1965), the first comprehensive study of the national structure of class and power in Canada. Prior to this time, conventional wisdom had been that Canada was an egalitarian society where people from all backgrounds could succeed. Porter presented statistical data regarding enormous inequities of income, wealth and occupational opportunities in Canada.

My perspective on life in Canada changed in that first year at SFU. The change was tempered by the fact I had grown up in a stable home and culture. Men gravitated to trades, farming, teaching, business etc. It was a time when many women stayed at home, raising children, preparing meals, participating in a club or church. Some held jobs like teaching, nursing or secretarial work. People reached out to those in need.

As a teen the most significant influence on my thinking was my father. He owned a large bulldozer and in summers I went to work with him. At that time the Fraser Valley was still largely covered by trees and he did a lot of land clearing. He taught me how to blow large stumps out of the ground with 20 per cent dynamite, set effective fires to large stump piles, run a change saw, operate the cat, and much more. His honesty, diligence, patience and skill with equipment captured my respect. I never referred to him as “the old man.”

Looking back now I highly value the academic education I received at SFU. I also value the life education Linda and I received from our parents and their friends. It was a combination that provided essential ingredients for a fulfilling life.

After living in a tent on the shore of Sheridan Lake for about three months, Linda and I began dismantling our camp. The timing was fortuitous. I had assembled a pole fence around the tent to prevent curious free range cattle from trampling on us at night while we were sleeping. A couple of days prior to our departure, a black bear leapt over the corral into our supposedly safe enclosure. We were away at the time and were surprised to find our tent in tatters. For a few nights we slept on the floor of an abandoned cabin. After tidying our campsite and loading the chevy van, we bumped along a rock strewn trail to a road back to civilization.

I had applied to UBC and SFU, and was accepted by both. The latter was new and smaller and would present fewer challenges navigating my way to classes. Also, UBC required math classes. I had barely passed grade 10 math. For me SFU was a logical and easy choice.

When I arrived at the university parking lot for registration, I was greeted by a graffiti message declaring, “Registration is Hell.” Entering the gym, where registration was already in full swing, I was immediately conscious of frenzied, anxious voices. Hundreds of students were scrambling to sign up for courses. When a course was full it was no longer available. I was a small town boy and having had virtually no contact with people while at Sheridan Lake, I found this scene intimidating. In spite of the seemingly chaotic atmosphere though, I was able to acquire most of the courses I needed for a history major.

Linda and I had rented a small basement suite in Burnaby from 80 year old Mrs Johnson. This arrangement would provide us with a brief education in human psychology. We quickly learned that our landlady possessed a suspicious streak. When we were away she entered our suite and snooped, even opening the fridge door to see what we were eating. When my parents visited, she just happened to select this day to tend a window flower box, which provided an unimpeded view of the livingroom where we were visiting.

Mrs. Johnson had turned off the heat downstairs and we dressed warmly at all times. When another tenant moved into the basement, she instructed me to turn on the heat. I frequently stayed up late working on assignments and I later wondered if she considered this a profligate use of hydro. Among her various disconcerting misdemeanors, she demanded we submit to an interrogation by her son. We complied willingly and discovered that he seemed as mystified by his mother’s complaints and accusations as we were. Except that she left clues, at a younger age her suspicious nature might have made her an ideal candidate for CSIS.

Maybe her vigilant surveillance was to keep us on a short leash. After three months we decided this would likely not end well and we gave notice. “Good,” she said with evident satisfaction, “then I won’t have to evict you.” For her it seemed a sweet victory.

We rented a two room suite in the former B.C. Tel office in Abbotsford, directly across the street from busy railway tracks. Our landlords, who lived in the other part of the building were surprisingly congenial. I carpooled to SFU with several fellow students.

My interest in history had been sparked while I was an early teen. My father had a volume of world history in his basement study. It predated the Babylonian Empire and traced events to the end of World War 1. I was mesmerized and returned to the book many times.

Part way through the first semester, I began questioning the value of a history major. I decided that the PSA department (political science, sociology and anthropology) offered a better preparation and foundation for whatever I hoped to accomplish after university. I switched majors and found that several radical left leaning profs wielded considerable influence in the department. Students dissatisfied with what they considered shortcomings in our society flocked to their courses. I had grown up in a fairly conservative Mennonite culture which actively emphasized service to those in need. The left leaning profs sought to indoctrinate us with a belief that our society had been corrupted by greedy political and corporate leaders. They were skilled at pointing out the ills, but other than collapsing the system, they offered few practical answers.

Some profs shunned the teaching of the lefties and I managed to acquire a pretty balanced education. After graduation there would be plenty to figure out on my own, but SFU still provided some basic understandings that would open doors for me later.

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.