The Invisible Mom

A friend from church sent this to me and I know I have read it before but for some reason today when I read this story, it really touched me so I wanted to share it with all of you.

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, and 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 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." 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 my self 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. And then, if there is anything more to
say to his 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.
Great Job, MOM!