It arrived in the mail one gray, Ohio day. A cardboard box, sealed with tape and love by my mother. A care package of sorts, filled with the sort of things a mother picks up and puts away when you're not looking.
     My baptismal dress and certificate were on top of an old, beat up fire truck. There were assorted birthday cards and a few postcards from my father, posted during the summer he spent in France. There were graduation pictures and a third grade project on airplanes. An athletic letter and a green and white 74 were in a plastic bag with a program from awards night. There was a small handprint captured by clay in 1961 with the name Phillip inscribed underneath and a framed picture of a smiling, blond haired boy. There were baby clothes and a blanket and a little bonnet I wore long before I was old enough to be embarrassed.
     The box invited me into an afternoon of adventure as I touched each object remembering things forgotten long ago, and, in some cases, quickly remembering why I had tried to forget them in the first place. But as I dug deeper, the adventure began to change. I don't know if it was my age, 30 something, the age of occasionally gloomy introspection, or my then recent divorce, or that perpetually gray Columbus sky, but I suddenly began to experience that deep regret you feel when you lose something precious and you don't know where you lost it and you haven't a clue where to look for it. I was almost ready to put the box away when I saw it lying at the very bottom. It was a well worn copy of Winnie-the-Pooh and it turned out to be the very best gift of all.
      In the end four things came out of the box that day, never to return. My baptismal certificate, that small handprint captured by clay in 61, the picture of the blond haired boy and, of course, Winnie-the-Pooh.
      "As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you," says the Lord.
                                                                                                       Isaiah 66:13a
      There was a time when all seemed right with the world, even when it wasn't. In fact, it was usually after the worst of times, that the best of times occurred. I no longer remember all the causes, but I do recall the cure. The gentle touch of her soft voice, my small world cradled in her arms, pressed close, safe and warm, as she lovingly caressed my fear, my sorrow, my pain, my anger, with Winnie-the-Pooh.