It started to happen gradually.
One day I was walking my son Jake to school. I was
holding his hand and we were about to cross the
street when the crossing guard said to him, "Who is
that with you, young fella?"
Nobody," he shrugged.
Nobody? The crossing guard and I laughed. My son
is only 5, but as we crossed the street I thought,
Oh my goodness, nobody?"
I would walk into a room and no one would notice. I
would say something to my family - like "Turn the TV
down, please" - and nothing would happen. Nobody
would get up, or even make a move for the remote.
I would stand there for a minute, and then I would
say again, a little louder, "Would someone turn the TV down?"
Nothing.
Just the other night my husband and I were out at a
party. We'd been there for about three hours and I
was ready to leave. I noticed he was talking to a
friend from work. So I walked over, and when there
was a break in the conversation, I whispered, "I'm
ready to go when you are." He just kept right on talking.
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.
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. I t 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 banana 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 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.
