Focusing on the Next Seventy-Two Years

My dad, he can remember things. He's one of those people who says things like... I remember the flood of 1953 when the river completely washed out the low-water bridge... One time when Heidi was three, she put her feet in the cherry yum-yum (oh wait, that's EVERYONE -- they all think that story is hilarious). Well, anyway, you get the picture. He remembers stuff. Me, on the other hand, I'm more like my crazy mama. She calls me up today and says, "Heidi, when did your dad and I get married? What year?" Um... I wasn't there, Mom, but I heard it was 1975.

I've said it before. Memories to me are pictures. Photos. Snapshots. Literally and figuratively. If it weren't for pictures, I probably wouldn't remember much at all. And, in my head, there are only little snapshots of rememberance. When I get to heaven, I hope God lets me watch the whole thing over again so I can remember it all.

Sometimes I think I don't remember because I'm just not paying attention. Perhaps I should make an effort to start paying attention... see if I could bring any of these into clearer focus... you know, the next time they're taken.