The library in the township I grew up in was on the same road on which I lived. This is not the same as saying that it was close by. It wasn’t. But it was on the same road. To my father, reading was a complete waste of time unless it was reading the manual for a piece of equipment. But for me, reading was what mattered. I would go to the library as often as I could, usually when it was raining and we couldn’t get into a field, or during the time between harvest and planting. I could go as long as I had all my chores done. Then, if I wanted to waste my time, I could walk down to the library.

          I would leave the house fairly early so I could get there when they opened. If it was raining and I was returning books, I would wrap them in some kind of plastic. I might be drenched, but the books would be safe. I would go in, return the books and then head for the shelves. Anything about baseball or the Navy or flying was fair game to take and check out. But I also loved biographies. I wouldn’t check those out. It was quite a walk and those were heavy, so I would read those there. I would read for an hour or so and then put a small piece of paper in the book to mark my spot, and then I would return it to the shelf. When I came back in a couple of weeks, it would still be there. No one seemed to enjoy biographies. I read about presidents and war heroes and people like Harriet Tubman. Amazing people.

          And I would also pick out a book of poems. I never checked those out. If I was caught reading poetry at home, I would be accused of being a girly boy, whatever that was in my father’s mind. Actually, if any of my friends saw me reading poetry, it would have been rough. But I really enjoyed the cadence and the flow of poetry. Often, I would sit there with a dictionary and read some of the great works. But never for long. I had to get back. Maybe the rain would quit or the snow ease off. I had to go.

          It was during one of those poetry times that I picked up a book of one of my favorite poets. Mostly because he was an American, but I also really liked his stuff. In that thin, little book I found a poem that has always stayed with me. I read it and for the first time in my life I fully realized that I had choices for my life. If I didn’t want to be a farmer (and I didn’t, no offense to you farmers), I didn’t have to be. I could go my own path. It was a liberating feeling, but it was also kind of scary. Anyway, this is the poem;

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

          I could take another path! I could do whatever I wanted to do!

          But what did I want to do? Well, of course, I wanted to be a major league baseball player. Obviously. And I wanted to play for the Cleveland Indians. Again, obviously. But, even at a very young age, I knew that playing baseball for a living was probably not going to happen. But something was out there! Whatever I wanted to do!

          I put the book back on the shelf and then gathered up the books I wanted to check out. When I got up to the desk, the librarian went through the process of checking out in silence. An older lady, she was always quiet. It was a library, for heaven’s sake. When she was done, she held up a finger. “You need a book mark and I have one that would be perfect for you.” She got in a cabinet and rummaged around and came back with a worn book mark and handed it to me. “Keep it,” she said. On the bookmark was the poem I had been reading. The old lady’s eyes were twinkling.

          I got older and settled on my life’s work. I decided I wanted to teach and coach. I wanted to teach history and coach either baseball or football, or both. I really wanted to impact young lives. I accepted Christ during the summer between my junior and senior year in high school and I decided that when I went to college, it would be a Christian college. I would major in history but also have a Christian emphasis in my life. My high school football coach had done that and it was his witness that brought me to Christ.

          So, I went to college with a plan. I also thought I might even preach some. Again, my high school coach preached quite a bit. I could do that. So, I did a double major. History and Theology.

          But I was unsettled. One night I lay on my bed in my dorm room trying to study. My mind wouldn’t focus. Marsha and I had decided to get married that summer and that was on my mind a lot, but that night getting married was not bothering me. I couldn’t figure it out. I took up my Bible, hoping the Lord would deliver me an answer in the Scripture. My battered, old book mark fell out. I picked it up and was going to put it back in the Bible, but I stopped to read the poem again. “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,” I remembered how I had felt that day when I read that. Strange I would recall that. As I thought about it, I wondered if the Lord was telling me something. Was He telling me that I couldn’t combine the two callings? That wasn’t what He wanted for me? Was He giving me a choice of two paths? “And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood” Hold on here, buddy! This isn’t Scripture! I don’t have to listen to this! But, wait, isn’t the Lord able to speak to us in any fashion? Can you do these two things?

          I began to pray. In my mind I saw that split in the woods. Two trails. One, the one I was headed for, was well traveled. Many others had passed through these woods and had chosen the obvious path. But here was another. The grass was getting high and was catching the blowing leaves. It wasn’t where I wanted originally, but there was unknown adventure there. I decided on my one path that night. I would take the less traveled road.

          The end of the poem says, “I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.” Today, I feel like those ages have passed. Oh, the trail goes on. I cannot see its end just yet. But I feel I am getting near the end of the trail. I have wondered about the other trail from time to time, but I have never regretted the trail I took. It has been an adventure.

          God bless you all.