Always prepared. Mostly.

This week, all week long, my boss is away at a Face to Face conference for Industrial Hygienists. It's this big company wide conference where all the IH gurus get together and compare notes and answer long complicated questions all to try to figure out better ways to do things in the IH world. In his absence, my boss left me with lots of clerical work to do. We have an audit coming up, so I've been working diligently on making sure we have all the technical things documented and filed just so, and I've been walking through the units keeping a tally of what equipment needs new hazard signs hung. Along with that I've also been cleaning up the lab and fixing broken personal gas detectors.

Pretty regular stuff.
Pretty easy, and 'do it with my eyes closed' kind of stuff.
Pretty 'ho hum.'

So I'm 'ho humming' through my day this morning, a little filing here, a little email checking there, when my phone rings.

My phone! Rings!

The little caller ID screen reads: BOILERS.

I answer and have a discussion with none other than my very favorite refinery operator. He's my favorite because he's smart, grand-fatherly, loves crossword puzzles and tells the most amazingly embellished stories of The Old Refinery Days. This time though, we're discussing an odor complaint and possible leak of some sort. We talk about some possibilities and locations. I go over a few observations and testing methods, and quiz him on the specifics of the odor. A big part of IH is simply using your nose, and understanding what certain smells mean. I have a big nose, so I'm pretty good at this.

I'm feeling pretty competent all of a sudden, in the absence of my boss, and my ability to possibly, single handedly, save the refinery from imminent danger. I am suddenly, Super Industrial Hygiene Technician Girl. With my flame resistant super girl cape and acid resistant steel toe boots. Take that evil doing refinery stenches.

This happens rather frequently to me. I get a call to go investigate something, or make sure something is safe, and people are relying on me to give them the A-OK, or help them fix a problem. I know a few things now about occupational health and am actually able to help. And even with my boss gone (the master of all things hygienic) I think I can tackle most anything, and get it done right. So, I'm hanging up the phone, with a plan in mind, feeling rather important, and capable, and well... maybe a little smug.

(What is that saying, something about pride cometh before a fall?).

I carefully gather my things and get ready to go out to the Boiler unit. I put my coveralls on, and my jacket. I adjust my hard hat and make sure my personal gas detector is tested, working and clipped to the right place in my breathing zone. I double knot my boots, and put my Atlas gloves in my back pocket, ready for wearing to climb the towers. I grab a five gas meter, which I don't really need, but is good to have on hand, just in case. And lastly, I grab the meter I need specifically, for this job. A meter which looks like it came from the dark ages of technology. A meter which is huge and heavy and has not one but TWO shoulder straps to help you carry it. A meter that even with two shoulder straps, I decide to walk with it to the Boilers instead of ride my bike, as it is too heavy to try and balance and pedal simultaneously.

I get to the Boiler unit and have a good number of guys take me to the troublesome area. To get there we climb up an old structure. This is probably the part that I should remind you that I am not a person who enjoys heights. We climb and climb and climb and all the while I am hoisting up this enormous archaic meter. I cling so tightly to the rails of the ladders that my hands are starting to ache. Being in the boiler unit also means that there is lots of steam. Warm wet gusts of air billow into my face giving me moments of panic where I struggle to breathe, all while reaching up for the next rung. I don't know if you've ever tried to climb tall ladders in a steam room, but I don't recommend it.

Finally, exhausted, we reach the top, and I pretend that I am not winded or exhausted, but am Fully Capable Super Industrial Hygiene Technician Girl. I pull out the giant meter and everyone gathers around. I flip switches and dial knobs, waiting for the meter to kick on and start giving readings. I flip more switches and dial more knobs. And wait some more. Everyone gathers in closer, trying to read the tiny screen on the enormous meter. They are poised and ready for my declaration of safety or recommendations of caution. But it is futile, hundreds of feet above ground, I realize my error. The batteries, which take hours to charge, are dead.

The climb down was just as slow, but a hundred times as humbling.

How we might not be broke much longer.

This is just a note to say:
Nathan, I hope you love your new job as a coffee roaster!
I know you have deserved a job in which to be happy for a long long time, and I hope that this is the start of that.
I hope that yesterday, when the afterburner broke, and with your experience with refinery vessels and boilers and such, peering in and trying to fix it didn't remind you too much of the refinery world and make you want to run away.
I hope that when you saw the banners all over the walls saying "Welcome Nathan!" that you felt...well...welcome, and appreciated, and deserving.
And I hope that you know how much we all love you, and realize how hard it has been for you to leave your job as Stay-At-Home-Dad, and mainly, Baby-Simon-Holder, and sometimes, House-Picker-Upper.

Congratulations Nathan, and try to not drink too much coffee while you are working!

Cathederals

My friend Malia, a fellow mother and hard worker, sent me this letter this morning. I thought it was beautiful, and so true.
Thanks Malia, I love you, and you are building the most beautiful cathederals of all.



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 returned 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 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:

(1) No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names.
(2) These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished.
(3) They made great sacrifices and expected no credit.
(4) 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.

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.

God Bless You as you build your Cathedrals!

-Author Unknown

Zoe vs. THE SANDWHICH

I'm afraid to tell you who won.