It was one of those graham-cracker cookies made by spreading icing between two crackers. But it was more than that. It promised not just good taste but delicious memories as well.

It was an icon of another time.

Of Saturday afternoons, in the kitchen watching as Mom baked an apple-spice cake and praying that there would be oodles of extra brown sugar frosting to spread on graham-crackers. The cookie I held spoke of a lifetime of sensual awakenings and moments of grace that are safely stored deep, deep in my soul.

I suspect it is more than coincidence that baseball season always begins right around Easter. In spite of monumental salaries and mega-monumental egos, America's game hints, in its worldly way, of resurrection, of death and re-birth, of failure and forgiveness. Loyalty. Hope.

This, of course, is the language of Cubs fans. As foolish as the saint who believes in what he has yet to see.

The call from Christ to become a child evokes more than the footloose memories in a photo album. There are graham-cracker cookies and baseball games and Sunday morning church made special not for hymns that were sung of sermons shouted but time as family.

Belonging.

Bonding together in an uncomfortable pew and the backseat of a '51 Chevy wagon, green with wood trim. With a natural rhythm, we drove to church and were reminded of who we were.

I've been a parent for nearly three decades now and yet there are frequent times when my own childhood seems only just past that last corner. A taste, a smell, a closed-eyes remembrance of another time. These are the whispers of God that call me toward the kingdom. It is a kingdom of Spring where each morning promises something new, something wonderful. A hand to hold. A hummingbird's nest. A graham-cracker cookie. Blessed baseball games.