For The MOMS!

Two years ago on Mother's Day I was in Paris---Notre Dame, Saint Sulpice, Sacre Coeur, Sainte Chapelle(the DaVinci Code trail, as it were). Then on to great and even some very primitive Cathedrals in Bordeaux, Dordogne, Saint Jean du Lac, and so on. The obscure ones in ruins all the more appealing to me. The luminosity of the colors of the breathtaking stained glass windows, the elaborate wood carving inside, and stone carving outside. The intricacies, elegance and genius of the touches not even generally apparent, or even at all visible to man. Simply for the glory of God, and His Eye only. Indicative of such craftmanship, such artistry, such caring. And it all came together on another level a few months ago when I received this email:

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 that I'm on the phone, or cooking, or vacuuming 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, 'Can you
pick me up at 5:30?'

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, 4 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 about. 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 daughter to tell the friend
she'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 her to want to come
home. And then, if there is anything more to say to her friend, to add,
'You're gonna love it there.'

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot see 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.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO THE ULTIMATE INVISIBLE MOM---MINE!