It was a Monday afternoon.
I decided,
after months of putting off,
to finally give blood.

Red Cross had only been
emailing me for months now.
They were in bad need for blood,
desperate need for mine: O-

The man who took my information
was  furrowed, leathery, and tired.
The opportunity time provided was conversation,
and the benefit of meeting Jesus.

Now the woman who took my blood,
was not only the unanimously decided tired,
but also sad.
The eyes gave it away.

The entire time I gave blood I listened,
and somehow made sure I didn't open up.
She sat there quietly counting the minutes,
While I denied her a chance to meet Jesus.

I treated her well.
I'm genuinely kind
as I know anyone can tell.
But is that enough?

And I'm questioning now with her memory in mind,
"What if that was Jesus?"
"What if He gave me the chance to better His day?"
And that's where I know I'm wrong-

For I know she was Jesus.