What child hasn’t threatened to run away when the rules of the house seemed just too demanding? Who hasn’t wished, even as an adult, to run away from a worry when it appears too overwhelming?

Recently, wishing to get distance from a personal problem, I told Mom, “I wish I could just run away from it!”

She laughed affectionately and said, “Don’t forget to pack a peanut butter and jelly sandwich!”

I had to laugh. That’s because she called to mind a summer day in my childhood when, feeling life was unfair in some now long-forgotten way, I marched into the kitchen and told my mother, “I’m running away!”

To this day, I remember her reaction.

“That’s nice, dear,” she said. “Would you like me to pack you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”

Aghast that she could do without me, horrified that she would actually help me to leave, I stood there speechless.

Apparently, I did not even have to say “Yes” to have the sandwich made for me. In her everyday, superefficient way, she took out the bread, the peanut butter and the grape jelly. She actually hummed while spreading the peanut butter.

It was shocking.

“Triangles or rectangles?” she inquired, her voice cool and sweet as a fudge pop.

“Triangles, please,” I said, cursing myself for my politeness.

She cut the sandwich from corner to corner instead of straight across, the way I liked it.

I looked down at the doll case I was carrying. I knew it contained everything I needed for my journey. My “Pinkie” ball for bouncing along the journey. A small magnifying glass for starting a cooking fire in a pinch. A pencil and a memo pad for recording my adventures. My favorite Ginny doll – the one with the ratty hair that was nevertheless beautiful because it was red and different.

The case and its contents restored my belligerence. But only briefly. Squaring my chin, I looked up. And there were my mother’s hands at work on the kitchen countertop, wrapping that blasted sandwich in waxed paper with her usual incredible skill. She handed the perfectly wrapped thing to me with a smile on her face.

Turning my back on her smile, I opened my doll case, jammed in the sandwich, slammed the case shut and strode through the house. I flung the front door open and stood there, looking at the two flights of stairs, separated by a stretch of sidewalk, leading to the street. I paraded down the first flight of steps. I hopped and skipped down the sidewalk, avoiding the cracks. I started down the second flight of stairs.

On the next-to-last step, I stopped. I sat down. I ate that blasted peanut butter and jelly sandwich down to the last crumb. It was sweet and nutty. I sat there for a long time. I never took a single step into the street.

Now, of course, I also know it wasn’t just the sandwich that kept me home and sustained me then and now. In making that sandwich, Mom took away the power and distraction of my threat, so I could face my problem. And she was absolutely certain I could do it.