Another Story for Moms

I remember when I was a new mom, so many emotions and changes come with it that are unexpected and talked little about. Maybe they aren't the norm, but I'm trying to learn how to speak out about how I feel, even if it means I'm the only one who feels that way or will be looked down on or, whatever....

I remember holding my sweet new little baby, knowing I was in the right place but, at the same time, feeling like I had no identity and that I...the "me" in Me...was somehow lost. It's hard to explain. Anyhow, I still occasionally feel it, but the liked the following story. It's kinda long but hopefully you can hang in there to read it.....

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 theDisney 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 homemadepies, 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!