I went in for a blood test. For the medical part of my immigration forms.
They messed something up on the timing of the blood work and I went in again.
I'd, unthinkingly, had a few sips of coffee when I should have been fasting. We rescheduled, just to be safe.
I went in again, a third time. Knowing how it works, I sat in the chair.
I don't give blood well, I forewarned her.
She is gentle, but confident.
We start to chit chat. She asks what I do.
I currently stay home with my two little ones.
What does my husband do, she wondered.
He's a pastor. She smiles. We talk about her church, the comradery of the pastors in this city, the need for more churches, more hope and more love. I don't feel crazy for being here.
She finishes up the last tube needed. She checks over everything to make sure she has it all and that I don't need to come in again.
I stand up to walk out.
Let me give you a hug, she says.
She holds me for a good while, long enough for me to tear up. We both seem to hold each other extra tight.
I hear her say, welcome.
Thank you, is all I can manage.