My stepmom sent me this beautiful story today. If anyone knows who wrote it, please let me know so I can credit them.
Happy Mother's Day to all of you wonderful, hardworking, and often invisible moms!
"I'm Invisible"
It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of
response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room
while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store.
Inside I'm thinking, "Can't you see I'm on the phone?"
Obviously not. No one can see if I'm on the phone, or
cooking, or sweeping the floor or even standing on my
head in the corner because no one can see me at all.
I'm invisible. The invisible Mom.
Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more:
Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?
Some days I'm not a pair of hands, I'm not even a human
being, I'm a clock to ask, "What time is it?" I'm a satellite
guide to answer, "What number is the Disney channel?"
I'm a car to order, "Right around 5:30, please."
I was certain that these were the hands that once held
books and the eyes that studied history and the mind
that graduated summa cum laude -- but now they had
disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again.
She's going, she's going, she's gone!
One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating
the return of a friend from England. Janice had just gotten
back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on
about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking
around at the others all put together so well. It was hard
not to compare and feel sorry for myself as I looked down a
t my out-of-style dress; it was the only thing I could find that
was clean. My unwashed hair was pulled up in a hair clip
and I was afraid I could actually smell peanut butter in it. I
was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with
a beautifully wrapped package, and said, "I brought you this."
It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn't
exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription:
"To Charlotte, with admiration for the greatness of what you
are building when no one sees."
In the days ahead I would read -- no devour -- the book. And
I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing
truths, after which I could pattern my work: No one can say
who built the great cathedrals -- we have no record of their
names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work
they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices
and expected no credit. The passion of their building was
fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.
A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came
to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw
a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He
was puzzled and asked the man, "Why are you spending
so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered
by the roof? No one will ever see it." The workman replied,
"Because God sees."
I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It
was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, "I see you,
Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when
no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no
sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small
for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great
cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become."
At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction, but it is not a
disease that is erasing my life, it is the cure for the disease
of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong,
stubborn pride. I keep the right perspective when I see myself
as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job
that they will never see finished, to work on something that
their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so
far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our
lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice
to that degree.
When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend
he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, "My mom
gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and
then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses
all the linens for the table." That would mean I'd built a shrine
or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come
home. Then, if there is anything more to say to his friend,
I'd like him to add, "You're gonna love it there."
As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be
seen if we're doing it right. One day, it is very possible that the
world will marvel, not only at what we built, but at the beauty
that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible
women.
