I was browsing traveling information when I came across Incredible Dad's blog. He had such great advice on road trips, I decided to peruse some of his archives when I discovered a true gem of a poem. No one seems to know who wrote it, but that's just as well because it adds to the profound feeling it eminates. As a Mother (or Father!) reading this was such a breath of fresh air. Not only does it tell us that we're not alone in this parenthood journey ... but that it's worth it ... they are worth it and more importantly, God is worth it. -
The 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'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. 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: 1)No one can say who
built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their
names.
2)These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see
finished.
3)They made great
sacrifices and expected no
credit.
4)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.
You are a great Mother. To all of my Mommy friends, I hope you can see this. (I know I didn't until now!) You.are. AMAZING.
