I am away at the Oregon Christian Writer’s conference and call home every day to talk to my family. I need to hear the sweet voices of my precious boys at home.

My 7-year-old over the phone, his darling pitched voiced, “Hi Mommy,” melts my heart. I can picture him there in our home, with his part-toothless and part grown-up-teeth smile and his piercing deep brown eyes and his brown somewhat sun-bleached hair,  uttering those most beautiful words in the world, ”Mommy.“ I  think about returning home  tomorrow and opening the front door and my brown-eyed almost second grader melting into my arms saying, “Mommy’s home. Mommy’s home!”

I think about that little voice, that voice that changes at some point in the growing up process of our children. There is a certain moment, and you cannot pinpoint when that will happen, but one day you just realize that the voice is not so little any more. It has altered. It is more grown up. It is not a little 7-year-old anymore. Maybe it is at the same time that they do not dash as quickly to the door when you return home as they used to.

My kids leave me messages on my voicemail on my cell phone, and I just do not have the heart to erase their sweet little voices. So, I keep their little messages on my voicemail, and when my cell phone asks me if I want to save the messages in the archives or erase them, I always press the number 9, which means to save it. I do not have the heart to erase their sweet voices. And I will hear again, over and over, the most beautiful word, “Mommy.”

It is a reminder that indeed, right now, I am their world.

And they are mine.

And it is a record of the gift of motherhood and parenting.

And I am blessed.

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