The Invisible Woman By Nicole Johnson
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.
That's when I started to put all the pieces together. I
don't think he can see me. I don't think anyone can see me.
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. 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.
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