Dear Aslan,

I don’t remember how old I was when I got you. I know that I’d read all of the Narnia books, obviously. I know that I was old enough to feel lonely. To need something physical to associate with the kind God my parents were always talking about.

You protected me at night by leading a hoard of other stuffies on guard duty. All of you, lined up along the edges of my bed like a fluffy fence. Most of you were on the ground by morning, and I liked to pretend that it was the result of furiously defending me against some dire enemy, rather than my own restless sleep punting you off the side.

And, of course you remember, my ever so thrilling venture into stealth on your behalf. I was at some sort of camp – God knows I don’t remember now. I didn’t know anyone, and if I did, I certainly didn’t have any friends among the people there. There was one girl though. I often gave my things away to other kids. Presents. I wasn’t about to give you away for good, of course, but I let her borrow you.

And immediately regretted it.

Getting you back was a masterclass in diversion, lies, sneaking around buildings, entering rooms through basement windows… all of that to snatch you away from where she’d put you in her dorm room for the week.

The closest I’ll ever get to spy craft.

College marked a bit of a decline, and potentially some humiliation. With you, I didn’t need a second pillow to hook my leg around as I slept. From defending me from bad things at night to making me more comfortable as I slept. It could be considered a downgrade, I suppose.

Well. You were getting older too, weren’t you? Your mane had already lost its fluffiness, but yes, it was the weight of my leg that eventually squished the stuffing out of your middle.

My foldable stuffed lion.

I’m old now. Maybe if I propped you up in my bed or cuddled you, you could still defend me from the things that come in the middle of the night. But, they don’t stop there anymore. Regret, grief, fear – these things aren’t polite enough to wait for the dark hours but haunt the light ones as well.

Maybe I should put you in my office. Have your slumping head lazily peer over my computer monitor. At the very least it might be fun to see your black bead eyes and bent whiskers looking at me inquisitively when my boss feeds into my imposter syndrome.

Imagining God’s words of confidence in me, of love for me, of pride for who and what I’ve become … or maybe just imagining forgiveness for who and what I’ve become… is beyond me. I can’t.

Imagining Aslan’s words, however…

I can do that.

Of course, I don’t.

I’m old, after all. The only time I see you now a days is when I am putting my daughter’s stuffed animals away for her, or when I look to your place at the top of her stuffy pile. You sit there, somewhat out of reach, not only because I told her to be careful with you, but also because she’s not quite as enamored with you as I was at her age.

That’s fine. Maybe you’ll never be anything but a slightly ratty lion with bent whiskers and a matted mane to her. But, although it gets less likely every day, maybe she’ll come to see you the way that I did.

As something that reminds her that she is loved. She is accepted. That every tear she cries counts for something.

As a reassurance that her pain does not go out into the universe unanswered. The answer can be found in the turn of a yarn stitched mouth silently promising, “It matters.”

You matter.

When she does take you down to play, it’s mommy who inevitably has to pick you up and put you back again.

Well. I don’t begrudge that. You don’t guard my dreams anymore. You don’t help me sleep.

But I can still hug you close as I walk across the room. I can still drop my chin to rest against your fur for a moment.

And you still make me feel better.

Every time.