Closer to Christmas

Hey everyone! This blog belongs to the “Advent Series” that’ll run from December 1st to January 19th. In this series of fictional short stories, I’ll be writing from different points of view, exploring how folks from various walks of life—from college grads to business executives to those in recovery—articulate why the meaning of Christmas, “God is with us,” matters to the people they come across. Through these fictional stories, I’ll be engaging with examples of how to have conversations (or not) about Advent in a variety of scenarios. Enjoy!

NOTE: If you don’t like needles, this story ain’t for you.

Darla didn’t so much as wince when the nurse brought out the needle.

“It’s a big one,” he said, apologizing. “But you look like you’ve done this before.”

“Done this before?” Darla laughed. “Honey, I’m a VIP around here.”

The nurse, who introduced himself as Eli, prepped Darla’s arm. Her wrinkly skin slid around, and it took him a moment to wrap the strap and pick out a vein. Darla used her free hand to tuck silver hair behind her ear, and the chain on her glasses tinkled. The tiny office for blood draws was all white, tiled, and smelled like antiseptic. Darla had come to associate the smell with pain and long periods of waiting in silence.

“I’m a roller, I’m afraid,” she said. “This old lady’s lucky that y’all don’t have to stick me in the hand yet!”

“I promise I’ll be done soon,” Eli said. His blue eyes were narrowed in concentration. He wiped the antiseptic on the crook of her elbow, the skin almost translucent. “We only have to fill three vials today.”

“I won’t make a fuss,” Darla replied. She spoke the truth; the needle went in without a flinch, and she watched as the dark blood slunk up the tube, Eli twisting the first full vial shut efficiently and transferring to the next.

“I’ll admit everyone looks young to me nowadays,” she said. “You could be recently graduated or a veteran phlebotomist.”

“I'm more than a few years out from school,” Eli smiled. “My wife and I just had a baby girl.”

“Oh, congratulations! I’m sure you’re tired.”

“No truer words spoken.” He twisted the second vial. “Almost done here. You sit very well, ma’am—”

“Darla.”

“Darla, then. What makes you a VIP?”

The old woman sighed. “Oh, the usual. All kinds of shadowy symptoms, no answers except the vague ‘old age’ descriptor on all my charts. I wish I weren’t so slow this close to Christmas—it’s the first year I haven’t prepped cinnamon rolls for the family coming into town. And I’ve been doing that fifty years!”

“I bet they taste delicious,” Eli replied. He placed the last vial in its container, then taped a small wad of cotton to Darla’s arm. He then turned all the vial labels facing out. “Now, would you mind stating your name and date of birth?”

“Safety protocols must be observed,” Darla chuckled. “I’m Darla Finch, and I was born February 26th, 1947.

“Then off these go to the lab.” Eli put the vials on the other counter, and propped up the chair’s safety guard. “I really do hope you start feeling better soon, Darla.”

“I hope so too. It’s a little bit fitting, feeling so helpless right before Christmas.”

“How so?” Eli asked, helping Darla out of the chair. She barely came up to his shoulder. She reminded him a lot of his grandmother.

“Well, Jesus was pretty helpless when he was born. He was just a ‘lil baby who didn’t know his right from his left.”

“You know, I never really understood that,” Eli said. “Do you feel dizzy? No? Good. But yeah, I grew up going to church and don’t anymore, but I never got the whole ‘God is a baby’ thing.”

“Like most complicated things, it’s pretty simple. Jesus arrived helpless to display God’s power. All that power in a tiny human body.”

Eli nodded a polite nod, closing that vein of conversation. “Merry Christmas then.”

“Merry Christmas to you too.”

Darla walked through the lobby with its beige carpet, through the automatic doors, and out into the crisp winter air. Her husband waited in the parking lot, the car running to keep it warm. She got into the passenger seat and shivered.

“Do we get a punch card yet?” her husband joked.

“Next time,” Darla replied, closing her eyes. She was so tired lately.

“Well,” her husband said, “Felicity just called, and she said she started the dough for cinnamon rolls, if you’re interested in helping.”

“I might watch this time,” she sighed. “But that sounds lovely. Let’s go home.”