She spends her days as an invisible woman. An unseen force who toasts waffles, drizzles them with maple syrup, places them on high chair trays. And then, poof—whisks away the dishes, wipes clean the sticky hands.
She buckles flailing children into car seats and drives them safely to the pediatrician for their checkups. The invisible woman keeps the fridge stocked, the clothes washed, the playdates scheduled. She is the whisperer of prayers, the healer of boo boos, the teller of stories. She often moves like a ghost through her own life, wondering if she will be remembered only for keeping a clean house.
But then—
She looks again and she sees: Children jumping into a just-raked pile of leaves. A family laughing around bowls of chili at the dinner table. An afternoon wandering the local pumpkin patch and an evening spent painting silly faces onto pumpkins.
A toddler reaching up to her for comfort only she can provide. A Thanksgiving table set abundantly, the eaters bursting with pie and gratitude.
The woman looks at her life and sees she is building a legacy of family, of faith, of love. She spends her days making the invisible things visible, the intangible things real.
[Originally posted here]
A Continual Feast 