Page 45 of All's Fair in Love and Christmas
She lets her statement hang so it can seep in. I hear what she’s saying. I do. But there isn’t anything physically wrong with me. This is different.
“Your brain is a part of your body, Kenz,” she says as if she’s read my mind yet again. “If you’d see a doctor for your ankle or when you’re sick, then what’s the difference about seeking professional help for your mental health? Would you leave an infection to fester and eventually kill you when you could get antibiotics, even though God could heal you of the infection? And He could. I won’t argue that He isn’t all-powerful. But He also created us with brains. Scientific brains that led to the discovery and creation of antibiotics and other medicines to help heal us of all kinds of things.” She squeezes my hand. “Even mental health things.”
“So,” I say slowly, “you’re saying some healings come from prayer and faith and others modern medicine?”
“Not really. I’m saying all healing comes from prayer and faith but that God uses doctors and medicine as His hands to perform the healing.” She waves a hand in the air. “Or something like that. You know I’m not one to philosophize. I just think the stigma of mental health needs to end.” She bumps me with her shoulder. “And I think you need to talk with someone about your social anxiety.”
God uses people. Why haven’t I ever considered such a thing before? Even in the Bible, after Jesus ascended into heaven, the apostles healed in Jesus’s name.
Keri stands and blows air into her cupped hands. “Let’s find warmth before we turn into popsicles. Come on, it’s freezing out here.”
She’s right yet again.
18
Snow must have fallen steadily all night because the ground has been covered in a blanket of white. The sun has yet to rise from its nighttime slumber, but the streetlights cast a warm glow on the holiday postcard picture.
Things seem extra still and calm after a snowfall. Why is that? Maybe the pristine white makes everything feel dreamlike and magical, like endless possibilities wait within reach, and it’s up to us what type of tracks we want to leave in our wake.
I breathe in snow’s familiar and distinct scent. I’ve never been able to describe it, but I could recognize that scent anywhere. I fill my lungs, breathe in all the possibilities, and thank God for a new day. A new beginning. A fresh start. As fresh as the undisturbed first snowfall of the season.
Last night I made an appointment to speak to a therapist. I didn’t even have to pick up a phone or dial a number. They had the appointment forms on their website. It sounds silly, but not having to call is a huge relief, and the fact that things were accessible online makes me feel like the therapist will understand me a bit better. I’m still nervous, though. It’s still talking to a stranger face-to-face, after all. That always makes me uneasy.But I’m also hopeful. Maybe I won’t be miraculously healed, but perhaps I’ll learn more about God, myself, my brain, and how to better process and cope with the world around me.
Basically, I’m hoping not to be quite such a hot mess.
“I’m going to drop this stuff off upstairs.” I indicate the bags of things we bought for our Christmas children. Jeremy is collecting them all today to deliver later. “Then I’ll meet you in the empty lot next door.” We decided not to let the fresh blanket of snow go to waste. What is holiday cheer without building our own Frosty?
Keri agrees, and I hurry upstairs, thankful that Sofiya always arrives early so I can get into the office. She’s typing away on her computer. I don’t want to disturb her. I also don’t want to get pulled into a conversation when Keri is waiting for me, so I slink through the office and gently set down the bags so I don’t make any noise.
My gaze snags on miniature Mary and Joseph where I left them yesterday on their journey to Bethlehem. Taking a figurine in each hand, I move them to the top of the refrigerator. My placements of them have been quite random, but they are steadily getting closer to the manger and nativity.
I push the button for the elevator, then listen to the gears grinding on the other side of the stainless-steel doors. The conveyance settles, and the doors open. Jeremy stands on the other side, his hands full with a Crock-Pot and grocery bags hanging from his arms.
“What are you doing here?” The words jump out of my mouth before I can reel them back in.
He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Good morning to you, too.”
I step out of his way so he can exit the elevator. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I meant, good morning, you’re here early.”
He sets the Crock-Pot on the counter. “I could say the samething about you. Is the Christmas fairy out sprinkling her magic, impressing bosses and scoring more points?”
I search his words and tone for any bite, but they seem innocuous. Maybe even a bit endearing. Then again, that’s probably just my wishful thinking.
I don’t know why I suspect an undertone of anything other than friendly mock feuding. When Sofiya first told us we were pitted against each other for the job, I worried things would get gloves-off heated. At least on Jeremy’s side, since I’m the type to run from confrontation, not go at it head-on. I mean, I didn’twantto think he’d turn into someone who’d do anything to win, but I also knew he really wanted the job. Then when I found out about Nathan and Natalie, I knew he reallyneededthe job.
So perhaps I’ve been waiting for that no-holds-barred moment. For the sweet man I’ve observed from a distance to change. But being thrust into Jeremy’s path, each of us forced to allow space for the other in our lives, hasn’t changed the way I see him at all. The things I admired about him from a distance have only magnified upon closer inspection. My feelings have only deepened. Our story hasn’t gone from wallflower to enemies to more. If anything, it has the potential to grow from secret crush to unrequited love.
Leaning around him, I peer into the Crock-Pot. “What’s in here?”
He lifts the lid. A plume of sweet, creamy, chocolaty goodness rises to my face. “Homemade hot chocolate.”
I tilt my chin so I can look at him but also still inhale the mouth-watering aroma.
My thoughts must be written on my face again, because he laughs. “I learned from the bakery mistake. Although I can’t take full credit for the hot chocolate because it’s my mom’s recipe.” He puts the lid back on, then starts unloading the grocery bags. Mini marshmallows. Candy canes. Whipped cream. Caramel sauce.Cayenne pepper. Any add-in you can think of for hot chocolate is lined up on the counter.
“I never wanted to be your rival,” I blurt out.
He turns, his light-brown eyes steady on me. My face heats and my skin tingles. This is where I normally turn away. Retreat. Instead, I force my tongue to cooperate.
