Tag: honor motherhood

A number of people left insightful, moving comments in response to the reprint of “The Invisible Woman” I ran on Monday. However, a select few decided to make violent and abusive comments on the piece. These comments have been removed, and the comments on that post have been closed.

Here is part of my explanation:

Unfortunately, it appears that a number of people, most of whom are not brave enough to make themselves actually ‘visible’ with a real name, email address or URL, have chosen to make this blog a platform to their own unhappiness and failure to accept the fact that scrubbing floors, changing diapers and making and enforcing rules is thankless work which will almost definitely go unnoticed by anyone but God himself. I’m sorry that so many people missed the point of this poignant essay (which I did not write, thank you).

. . . I actually write on the topic of finding fulfillment in motherhood, finding value in our own lives with or without the validation of outside sources (and yes, your kids and husbands are “outside sources”).

Consider this post an open invitation to discuss that topic, “finding fulfillment in motherhood, finding value in our own lives with or without the validation of outside sources (and yes, your kids and husbands are “outside sources”). Because while we do focus a lot on getting appreciation from our husbands and children on the one day of the year that they are almost required to demonstrate it, the fact remains that we will never be happy with the work of motherhood until we see it as intrinsically valuable and worthwhile in and of itself.

I’m sorry that so many people seem to think that the message of the story was that we should be content to be ignored. It is not. The message is that we have to value what we do ourselves (and recognize the value that God has placed upon this divine calling), because times come when no one else will.

Frankly, the abusive and violent comments which I received on that post simply reinforce my point that motherhood isn’t truly appreciated. When one insightful mother makes an attempt to find value in motherhood for herself, people jump on her to pull her down and tell her that she doesn’t have worth because she’s ignored.

Mothers will be ignored. I look with great skepticism at any person who claims otherwise. My husband has no idea what I do all day long (actually, I don’t have any idea how he passes his days at work either, and I’m pretty well acquainted with what he does). My son is far too young to possess the empathy required to understand that whining for food grates on my nerves, wears on my patience and requires me to get up (reminder: I’m six months pregnant, so this is a bit of a big deal), walk in the kitchen and prepare something for him. And as he gets older, frankly, I don’t anticipate him suddenly becoming self-aware—I know lots of kids of all ages and the maturity required to recognize and minimize the impact of your life on the life of your caregiver is virtually never acquired until adulthood. And sometimes not even then.

But I AM A MOTHER. That is how I proudly define myself. I do things like clean up after my son—heck, I even pick up trash on the street—and nurture my family—and strangers. I take care of the people around me. No one will thank me for changing my son’s diaper (unless I had assigned my husband to do it and did it myself instead), but it’s still gotta be done.

Motherhood isn’t like a regular job. As difficult as it is to continue without recognition, you can’t just quit being a mother because you don’t get a raise or a gold star or a trophy—or even a pat on the back. You can’t quit on the days you don’t think you can get out of bed. You can’t quit when you have the flu. You can try to get the people around you to notice and appreciate everything you do for them, but that won’t give you a sense of self-worth.

We each have to foster our own sense of self-worth as individuals—and as mothers. Because, like I said, we ain’t gettin’ out of that one any time soon.

I wish I could say I wrote this; I didn’t, but I found it moving enough to remember it six months later.

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 sum ma cum laud – 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: “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.

Author Unknown from The Invisible Woman by Nicole Johnson (thanks Jennifer!), though I first saw it at Kasie Sallee’s blog, The Art of Life