Invisible Mother......
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 is 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. 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 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!
TIME GETS BETTER WITH AGE
Read it through to the end, it gets better as you go!
I've learned that I like my teacher because she cries when we sing "Silent Night".
Age 5
I've learned that our dog doesn't want to eat my broccoli either.
Age 7
I've learned that when I wave to people in the country, they stop what they are doing and wave back.
Age 9
I've learned that just when I get my room the way I like it, Mom makes me clean it up again.
Age 12
I've learned that if you want to cheer yourself up, you should try cheering someone else up.
Age 14
I've learned that although it's hard to admit it, I'm secretly glad my parents are strict with me.
Age 15
I've learned that silent company is often more healing than words of advice.
Age 24
I've learned that brushing my child's hair is one of life's great pleasures.
Age 26
I've learned that wherever I go, the world's worst drivers have followed me there.
Age 29
I've learned that if someone says something unkind about me, I must live so that no one will believe it.
Age 30
I've learned that there are people who love you dearly but just don't know how to show it.
Age 42
I've learned that you can make some one's day by simply sending them a little note.
Age 44
I've learned that the greater a person's sense of guilt, the greater his or her need to cast blame on others.
Age 46
I've learned that children and grandparents are natural allies.
Age 47
I've learned that no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow.
Age 48
I've learned that singing "Amazing Grace" can lift my spirits for hours.
Age 49
I've learned that motel mattresses are better on the side away from the phone.
Age 50
I've learned that you can tell a lot about a man by the way he handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.
Age 51
I've learned that keeping a vegetable garden is worth a medicine cabinet full of pills.
Age 52
I've learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you miss them terribly after they die.
Age 53
I've learned that making a living is not the same thing as making a life.
Age 58
I've learned that if you want to do something positive for your children, work to improve your marriage.
Age 61
I've learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance.
Age 62
I've learned that you shouldn't go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands. You need to be able to throw something back.
Age 64
I've learned that if you pursue happiness, it will elude you. But if you focus on your family, the needs of others, your work, meeting new people, and doing the very best you can, happiness will find you.
Age 65
I've learned that whenever I decide something with kindness, I usually make the right decision.
Age 66
I've learned that everyone can use a prayer.
Age 72
I've learned that even when I have pains, I don't have to be one.
Age 82
I've learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love that human touch-holding hands, a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back.
Age 90
I've learned that I still have a lot to learn.
Age 92
