Unfinished Business

She's a real piece of work, huh? A little of this, a little of that, a whole bunch of unorthodox chunks of her personality, all manifesting themselves simultaneously. Somehow, all of these components come together to create her -- let's call her Marge for funsies. These idiosyncrosies may be hilarious, irritating, or even self-destructive, but wrapped up in her patchwork appearance they scream MARGE. In a senseless way, they make sense when you think of her.

What would your picture look like? I'm trying to envision mine these days, and I'll be honest, the picture I'm getting is like that on an old television with rabbit ears, trying to get clear reception of the Johnny Carson show during a summertime thunderstorm out at my grandparents house. You could always see the outline of a person, generally tell their gender, but the details were decidedly fuzzy, and if you were getting too much static, you couldn't even guess who they were by their voice. But if you held your tongue just right, for a flash you would get a clear picture. You would hustle back to your seat, only to have the picture fuzz up again the minute your hindquarters hit something solid. Back to the drawing board...

I sat down to type a blog today about nothing in particular. I've been uber-busy, getting things ready for a new school year, a new page in all our lives as Lil' G starts Kindergarten and Bud begins preschool for the first time. I've been plagued with guilt over not getting my academic work done (haven't even touched it), migraines that last for days on end and make me into what I've termed, "Dinosaur Mommy," mental exhaustion as I try to get things squared away for a wonga-sized garage sale this weekend, and the list just goes on and on. I've felt like I hit a mental dry spell, creatively speaking, after the 100th blog. To be honest, it was rather anti-climactic for me. I am now left with the feeling of, "Now what???" But as I searched for something with which to open this blog, I ran across this picture in an email and it intrigued me.

My middle name is Renee. For most of my days, I have not necessarily been too fond of the name and have given my mother endless grief about being caught up in the '70s for giving me this middle name. However, in recent years, I have embraced it because it sums me up in one word: reborn. I have learned that I am in a constant cycle of rebirth: there is some kind of beginning, toil and struggle, success or failure, and then the need to start it all back up again. I am one of those people who is never content just to be. Some people muse at the amount of energy I exude; others think, 'Better her than me.' Me, I see it as a mixed blessing of sorts. I love the fact that I am constantly learning and growing, but I am exhausted by the fact that I am constantly learning and growing. Continually being reborn, perpetually metamorphosizing from one stage to the next, takes energy and patience. Some days I have the energy, but rarely do I posses the patience.

I looked at Marge and in a strange way, she reminded me of myself, or perhaps she taught me something that I need to apply to my own wacky existence. She's obnoxious, sassy, independent, doing her own thing, sitting back and watching it all. She is feminine but not a prude, tart and tangy without leaving a bitter taste in the mouth. To the casual observer, she looks like a lunatic, but to the ones she calls friends and family, every thing in that picture is quintessential 'Marge.' It just wouldn't be her without [insert crazy anecdotal item here]. Life has made her the multi-faceted person she is. The choices she's made, the roads she's taken, the ones she's bypassed, have all added a color to her canvas. I look at my own life and see the vibrant colors of life experiences, the warm fabrics of comfort and love from growing up years, the silky feel of love, the bruises of heartache and despair.

What Marge is telling me, between blowing smoke rings and making Old Navy commercials, is to embrace it. My picture cannot and will not look like any other in human history, and I can either avert my eyes and focus on everyone else's picture in God's gallery, or I can face my own, warts and all. I need to see everything, every moment, every tear, every scrape, every kiss, every sticky hug, every temper tantrum, every mess, every disappointment, every shut door, every cracked window, every achievement and every failure, as beautiful. Personally, I would love some of my rebirth to at least slow down to a less-than-break-neck speed. If it did, would that really be me, though? I wonder. I know that, once I start accepting God's design in and for my life, I will have much more peace, and I will finally feel as comfortable in my own picture as I do in my favorite jeans (or better yet, yoga pants).

"13For You formed my inward parts; You covered me in my mother's womb. 14I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Marvelous are Your works, and that my soul knows very well... 16Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed. And in Your book they all were written, the days fashioned for me, when as yet there were none of them."

--Psalm 139:13-14, 16