Invisible Moms

I'm exhausted and couldn't think of anything original to write today and can't remember anything about today except want, want, want, and need, need, need... But this wonderful thing was in my inbox and almost made me cry at how true it is sometimes:

The INVISIBLE MOMS

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 at 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 Carol , 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.' And 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
daughter to tell the friend she'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 her to
want to come home. And then, if there is anything
more to say to her friend, 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. And one day,
it is very possible that the world will marvel, not
only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has
been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible
women.