In a book I recently read, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, Don Miller talks about a guy he knows who keeps a notebook with him and writes down everything that he can remember. All the time. He wants to record his memories because otherwise he’d forget, he says, and I get that. Because although it might not be so bad to forget that time you waited at the DMV for an hour with nothing to do but listen to the sounds of the security guards urging you to please stay in line! and then next! to the person who is unfortunately 50 paces in front of you, it could be sad to forget that time you first met your little niece exactly eleven years ago. And when you walked outside from the birth center to the car that night it looked like the stars had been polished and buffed to the point where God could see his face in them, the newness of that little girl in your life was so radiant.

And I guess that’s why pictures are nice too.

They are memories in colors and stills.

Like, I hardly ever think about Japan. I mean, I do occasionally use the emoji app on my iphone, but that’s about as much mental energy as I give to anything Japanese lately. Call me present minded, I guess.

But I look at this picture and suddenly I cannot deny that I’ve been there.
Walking in a bamboo forrest that dwarfed me.

I remember the way the light was barely lasting, the sun was setting and couldn’t quite reach around the bend in the road anymore.

And no matter what it feels like sometimes, it’s good to remember that there are some things that are true. It’s good to write them down, to take pictures of the love you’ve shared and the places you’ve walked.

I’ve been to Japan.

I’ve swam with manatees.

But more than anything else, I love and I am loved and I have so many memories that can be given as conclusive evidence to support this theory.

But I’ll still keep writing it down, because I don’t want to forget.