Perhaps a few readers will recognize the title of this post at the last two lines of Robert Frost’s poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”. It was a poem I hated all through secondary school, as a progression of English teachers tried to convince us it was a suicide poem. I just couldn’t see it.

Still can’t.

But I can see how it is a near-end-of-life poem, as the poet-narrator contemplates he has miles to go yet that snowy evening, and miles yet to go in his life, yet is tired, both physically and socially tired.

I’m feeling that tiredness. No, I’m not suicidal nor am I longing for the end of life. But I know I have many fewer miles to go than I used to, especially after the health challenges of the last year and a half.

Two things brought this home to me recently. One is related to our ongoing efforts to decumulate. When we returned from our road trip to the East, I contacted a nearby cousin to whom I promised to give the old shadow box (pictured above) handed down to me from my paternal grandmother and dad. It displays photos of my great-grandparents, their five children who lived to adulthood, and a hairpiece, perhaps from the gr-grandparents wedding day. If so, the hairpiece is about 140 years old, and the shadow box was put together around 1905.

This has been in our possession since 1997 and displayed on our wall since 2002. I think it looks good there, but it’s time to pass it down to someone who will enjoy it for many more years than I have left.

The second thing that made me once again realize the miles I have to go before I sleep are many fewer now than they once were happened in church Sunday. It was a special service with our English and Hispanic churches combined, and with elementary-aged kids in adult church with us. We took in new members, dedicated babies, and baptized new believers. I sat in the second row, and five elementary aged girls sat right in front of me.

Two families joined the church, people I haven’t met yet. Two families, each with two children who looked to be pre-school age. Seeing that made me think: these are the upcoming leaders of the church. Then I looked at the girls in front of me and thought: and these girls will be in the next group of leaders. That gave me both happiness and sadness. It’s kind of difficult to explain.

I withdrew from church leadership over twenty years ago, deciding it was time to allow others to step forward. In the ensuing years, I’ve refused a couple of invitations to step back in to leadership. At the same time, in the world at large, I more or less withdrew from modern culture. I watch almost no modern TV, don’t go to modern movies or listen to modern music. Don’t know the current stars of either except a few, by name and sight but not by performance, who are too ubiquitous to miss.

Out of church leadership. Out of modern culture. Both by choice. There’s a bit of sadness that brings, but also relief. It’s sad to get rid of that 120-year-old shadow box, but also a relief to be unburdened from one family heirloom, knowing it’s going to someone who will likely cherish it.

These two things made me think of the fewer miles I have to go. I suppose I’m a little sad about that but now awfully so. Time to enjoy the woods filling up with snow, and not worry about the miles.