On being invisible!

I'm Invisible by Anon.

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 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 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 dresses 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!