Parentheses Mark the Truth (Much Like X Marks the Spot)

She has considered blogging about many things.
(If you misspell “blogging” it says “blooging”. Which may be a better word for what she is gearing up to do tonight.)
There are a whole lot of things in the past several weeks that she would have loved to write about.
Big things, little things, in between things.
She can’t seem to get it all sorted out in her mind.
Things are feeling a little bit messy. (Or a lot.)
Her room is less than clean. (Messy. Disgustingly so.)
Her dayplanner has lots of things in it. (Scribbles- sloppy ones.)
There are lots of due dates, but none are immediate (except for those library books), and although everything is carefully documented and recorded (most things are, anyways), the possibility of feeling overwhelmed is overwhelming.
She writes things and wonders what the point was. (There was none. No point. A waste of words, a waste of time. Garbage.)
Her bank account is, unfortunately, rather neat and tidy. She would rather have dollars scattered everywhere, loose and crumpled and fluffy. (She feels discontent and slightly panicky and knows that this is wrong. How much is she allowed to care about money? And why does life take so much of it? Who came up with this system anyways? Wouldn’t it be better if we all graciously worked because we wanted to? And had access to the things that we need- for free? No money needed.)

She has done an incredible amount of stupid things recently.

Every time it feels as though she is accomplishing something, there comes a point when she realizes that she is actually not.

She solves the immediate problems at school, but those long-term issues… they just stick around like you wouldn’t believe. (Are long-term issues composed of immediate problems? She rather hopes so.)

Which, perhaps, brings us to the truth:
(Life is very full.)
(It keeps becoming more full.)
(Panic. Everybody. Now.)
How full can life be?
How many tiny faucets can a life hold before the liver (the person living the life… not the thing that produces bile and cleans your blood) just looses it and runs away to Ireland? (But wait… there’s not enough money for that.)
Her mind just isn’t good at balancing it all.
But with all this thinking about money… her mind goes to that woman.
The one that Jesus watched put her two small copper coins into the offering box.
(That one was brave. Giving what she had.)
Throwing herself into that warm, airy space of trusting God.
This one (that’s me. I am this one. In case you’re confused. I have almost confused myself here.) would do well to step into that same space. (With everything. This space is meant for everything. Not just money. Everything. It doesn’t feel nice to hand a messy jumble of fear and insecurity and other ugly things to Jesus.)
Who knows what happened to that giver?
Who knows?
In this one’s mind, although that woman had given everything, she now had everything, because Jesus had voiced his approval.
(But she might not have known that.)
She might have given, walked away alone with a slight shaking inside her bones, hunger in her stomach, quivering in her heart and…
Who knows?

Who knows what happened next?