I was calling my folks last night. Before I thought about it I had dialed the
number. I looked back to double check that I had even typed it in correctly. I
had. It made me think about the fact that my “home” number has been the same
since I was two when my parents moved back to the area my Daddy had grown up in.
We moved when I was nine to where my folks live now. The telephone serviceman
asked if they wanted to keep the same number. Why not? And so for forty years of
my life, that number has been a constant.
I thought about that. This number that I can type faster than I can think it is
the one I learned in school. The one when asked by the school secretary–double
checking before calling home when I wasn’t feeling well, how can I get your
Mama–that I slowly, digit by digit, called out to her. The one I filled out on
school forms, on job applications, on college applications, and now on emergency
contact spaces on various forms.
I know it’s a little thing. My fifteen year old has memorized more “home” phone numbers than I
can count, and I don’t think she thinks anything about it. But lately my six
year old has started proudly spouting off the seven numbers that will “phone
home” for her. It got me to thinking about the seven digits I first learned well
when I was around her age. The numbers I immediately dial when I have a funny
story to share or when I have a cooking question or a “my car is making this
sound” question or a “what do you think I should do?” The numbers I
instinctively dial when I’m hurting or sad. Those numbers have never
Oh I know it’s not about the numbers.
It’s really about the folks who answer when I do punch in those numbers. And I
think that’s what my fifteen year old gets. It’s not about whether the number
changes–it’s that the folks who pick up don’t. They always answer and they
always listen and they always love us…..no matter
And that’s where we’re blessed.