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Invisible Mothers...YOU MUST READ!
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<blockquote data-quote="tycjcj" data-source="post: 125471" data-attributes="member: 4687"><p>It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, </p><p>> the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the </p><p>> phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, "Can't </p><p>> you see I'm on the phone?" Obviously not. No one can see if I'm on </p><p>> the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on </p><p>my </p><p>> head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. </p><p>> </p><p>> I'm invisible. </p><p>> </p><p>> Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix </p><p>this? </p><p>> Can you tie this? Can you open this? </p><p>> </p><p>> Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm </p><p>a </p><p>> clock to ask, "What time is it?" I'm a satellite guide to </p><p>> answer, "What number is the Disney Channel?" I'm a car to </p><p>> order, "Right around 5:30, please." </p><p>> </p><p>> I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and </p><p>the </p><p>> eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated - but now </p><p>they </p><p>> had disappeared into the peanut butter, </p><p>> never to be seen again. </p><p>> </p><p>> She's going .. she's going .... she's gone! </p><p>> One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return </p><p>> of a friend from England . Janice had just gotten back from a </p><p>> fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the </p><p>> hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the </p><p>> others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and </p><p>feel </p><p>> sorry for myself as I looked down at my out-of-style </p><p>> dress; it was the only thing I could find that was clean.. My </p><p>> unwashed hair was pulled up in a banana clip and I was afraid I </p><p>could </p><p>> actually smell peanut butter in it. I was feeling pretty </p><p>> pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped </p><p>> package, and said, " I brought you this. " It was a book on the </p><p>great </p><p>> cathedrals of Europe . I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to </p><p>me </p><p>> until I read her inscription: "With admiration for the greatness of </p><p>> what you are building when no one sees." </p><p>> </p><p>> In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would </p><p>> discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after </p><p>> which I could pattern my work: </p><p>> * No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record </p><p>> of their names. </p><p>> * These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never </p><p>> see finished. </p><p>> * They made great sacrifices and expected no credit.. </p><p>> * The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the </p><p>> eyes of God saw everything. </p><p>> </p><p>> A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit </p><p>> the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman </p><p>carving </p><p>> a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the </p><p>> man, "Why are you spending s o much time carving that bird into a </p><p>> beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it." </p><p>> </p><p>> And the workman replied, "Because God sees." </p><p>> </p><p>> I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It </p><p>was </p><p>> almost as if I heard God whispering to me, "I see you. I see the </p><p>> sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No </p><p>> act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake </p><p>> you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are </p><p>> building a great cathedral, but you can't see ri ght now what it </p><p>will </p><p>> become." </p><p>> </p><p>> At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a </p><p>> disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of </p><p>my </p><p>> own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn </p><p>> pride. </p><p>> </p><p>> When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the </p><p>friend </p><p>> he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, "My mom gets up </p><p>at </p><p>> 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes </p><p>a </p><p>> turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table." </p><p>> That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just </p><p>> want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more </p><p>to </p><p>> say to his friend, to add, "You're gonna love it there." </p><p>> </p><p>> As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot see if </p><p>we're </p><p>> doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world </p><p>will </p><p>> marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has </p><p>> been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="tycjcj, post: 125471, member: 4687"] 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 - 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 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: "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 s o 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. 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 ri ght 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. > > 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 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. [/QUOTE]
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