I once went a year without eating bread. It wasn’t a fast or a health kick or anything noble like that. I’m allergic to gluten and moved overseas to work in a country without gluten-free anything. It also happened to be a country without unlimited internet. Each month I would save up my data to Skype family back home or stream a movie. One month I used all my data spending seven hours downloading Rogue One, which never made it to the theater in the town where I lived.
I’d been in my new country for four months when my mom sent over some DVDs. Mixed in amongst some new releases I’d been excited to see was a random movie my mom saw and thought I would like called Kubo and the Two Strings. It looked interesting, but I set it to the side because it also looked dangerous. I was three months into the deep grief of the death of a cherished friend, and Kubo and the Two Strings looked like it could be just honest enough to send me back into the darkness I thought I had crawled my way out of. So, I stuck the DVD on my desk and forgot it existed until months later, as monsoon rains pounded outside. Slipping the DVD into my laptop, surrounded by the cool, rainy air, I was only hoping for something entertaining to pass the time. Instead, what I discovered was a work of art my imagination would use to change my life.
Kubo: If you must blink, do it now. Pay careful attention to everything you see and hear, no matter how unusual it may seem. And please be warned: If you fidget, if you look away, if you forget any part of what I tell you—even for an instant—then our hero will surely perish.—Kubo and the Two Strings
The above lines are spoken by a young boy named Kubo, the protagonist of Kubo and the Two Strings, as the movie opens. From the moment I heard these words, my heart slowed in my chest. Something about them rang true, but what they meant I was yet unsure. As the movie progressed, I learned that Kubo is a storyteller full of joy and imagination, but one who is familiar with suffering and grief in his young life. Throughout the movie, he is hunted by one who seeks to steal his joy, imagination, suffering, and grief—one who seeks to steal his humanity. As Kubo flees his pursuer, he is forced to reckon both with the anguish of loss and what it means to be the one still living. I walked away from this movie with a tiny part of myself healed, but I was back home in America before I was able to give voice as to why. My imagination latched onto an exchange between Kubo and his pursuer that made everything fall into place.
Moon King: Everything you loved is GONE! Everything you knew has been TAKEN from you!
Kubo: No… it’s in my memories. The most powerful kind of magic there is. It makes us stronger than you’ll ever be. These are the memories of those we have loved and lost. And if we hold their stories deep in our hearts…then you will never take them away from us.—Kubo and the Two Strings
I had been angry since my friend died. Not so much that she had died, but that so many people only seemed to want me to feel better about it. They wanted me to be glad she was no longer suffering. They wanted me to only remember the good times with her and forget the bad. Forget the ache of knowing she was dying for over a year. Forget the utter wrongness of her death. For months I had been raging over it and could not figure out why…until my imagination showed me.
God does not forget, even for an instant, the stories of every single person who is gone.Hannah Mitchell
The memories of my friend are carved deep into my heart, and the stories held there are the only thing not even death can take away from me. But if I blink or look away, if I choose to forget any part of those stories, then my hero will surely perish. To choose to only remember the good like so many wanted would mean forgetting the fullness of my friend’s story. All of her life was precious, not just the parts that hurt less than others. I won’t let my desire for a little less pain loosen my hold on the memories of my friend nestled safely in my heart. Because these memories, they’re a magic stronger than death. And as I live on, they do nothing but make me strong.
Even as my anger soothed and my soul’s wounds began to heal, I still had a problem: God. For months after my friend died, people had been telling me all the peace God wanted to offer me or what great things God would do through this part of my story—how great my testimony would be. Somewhere deep inside me, I felt like maybe God wanted me to forget the pain too. And that was something I just couldn’t do. But as my imagination continued to do its work with Kubo’s story, i