Invisible

A friend of mine sent me an e-mail forward today. In the eight years I've known her, I don't think I've ever received a forward from her. She even prefaced it by saying that she never sends forwards. I didn't make it past the first paragraph. I had to take off my glasses and wipe my eyes.

"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 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."

Of course, the rest of the forward goes on to encourage us invisible mothers in our great world-changing work. I have to admit, though, that for the past few days, I've wanted to be more than the reader of books, the teller of stories, the cleaner of messes, the changer of diapers, the wiper of bottoms, the washer of sheets, the hanger of clothes. . . . I dream of being a social activist----a revolutionary--a Kingdom advancer.

Yes, I know I'm all three to some degree, but many of my days have become a series of cleaning up other people's messes. I guess that's kind of what a revolutionary does on a larger scale--clean up other people's messes--or motivate them to clean up their own. Maybe this is all preparation--like Joseph's jail time or David's cave time--but a lot more fun. I'd much rather be doing what I'm doing than spending time in jail or in a cave. I sleep in a comfortable bed. I eat really good food. I listen to music. I e-mail. I talk on the phone. I drive to pretty places. I hold my children. I laugh.

I laugh.

Why does that make me cry?

Can someone tell me why I'm crying?