Unseen Builder

I spent my junior year of college in a tiny town in west Wales. It was a year that would, as I imagine most study abroad years do, forever shape how I saw myself: capable, independent, confident. There are days when I still get a little nostalgic, missing my dorm-window view of sheep-studded hills and the familiar call of the chapel bells ringing, summoning one and all to the Anglican services I grew to love. I could write about half a dozen different facets of my year abroad, but there's one I want to focus on particularly today.

Towards the end of my year, a friend and I traveled northeast to the big(ger) city of York, England. I (very briefly) considered graduate school in Britain, and the University of York had a fascinating music program, the title of which I can't remember now. While we were there, we took in the sights, which included the local cathedral.

Now, I grew up in a very pretty medium-sized stone church, but by late junior high, my family was involved in a number of church plants. At 21, I was more familiar with elementary school gymnasiums and converted theaters for church -- and the customary rock music and repetitive praise choruses that inevitably follow -- than hymns and choirs and pews and liturgy. As I said, as a college student in west Wales I had already grown to love the rhythm of the Anglican church year, but our little university chapel was small. A real-life cathedral was simply out of my realm of experience.

So it was that I was quite taken aback when my friend said softly, as we stood in the dim, hazy light of the cavernous sanctuary, "I love cathedrals." Why? Okay, they're pretty, but it's just a building. Lots of buildings are impressive these days. (This was, obviously, before I knew much about cathedrals.)

His answer has stayed with me for the eleven years since that trip, and probably always will: the people who built cathedrals could be fairly certain that they would never see the completion of the work they started. Cathedrals take decades to build, and they were built (again, obviously) long before modern machines. Why would any man choose to take on such meticulous, often dangerous, labor, when he would likely never even see the fruit of his labor?

Because God saw, and what they did -- the beautiful spaces they created -- brought glory to God.

I'm thinking about this today for two reasons, and I'll give the second reason first. A friend of my husband's, who blogs passionately and creatively at Five in Tow, has been sharing the renovations she's done on her recently-sold house over the past five years. She's been talking a lot about taking the space that God gives you and making it beautiful. Something about her post today made me think of the cathedrals . . . and also want to dive into a dozen household projects that I know I don't have the time or resources to finish.

The main reason, though, was a post I read via Facebook called The Invisible Mother. I know I've been long-winded already, but go read it now, if you can. In a nutshell, the author likens motherhood to the building of cathedrals. The work of (wo)man that may never be seen (by said woman) in its completion. The giving of life for a project that is so big, so grand, so full of eternity that the workers cannot comprehend the depth and scope of their work. Please, go read it -- it's so much more beautiful there than I can summarize here.

I should also point out that there are interesting thoughts in the comments. Several people have protested that nothing good comes from being invisible, that we should be teaching our children to respect us and appreciate our work, so that in time they will go out into the world to be respectful and appreciative. I can see both sides of the issue, but I think the people commenting miss the major point of the post. Yes, I want my children to understand work and to respect and appreciate it, but frankly, I think it is largely my husband's job to see that they respect and appreciate me and my work. I'll direct them to acknowledge everything else appropriately. I'm more concerned with whom I'm building a monument to, whether it's worth the time and energy and risk to sacrifice endlessly for "projects" I likely won't see completed. 

But God always completes his work, and it is his work that I do, and I hope, I pray, to be doing it for his glory alone, and not my own. Like building a cathedral.