Tuesday, February 21, 2012


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.