I have a dead person in my office. She’s been there nearly four years. Her name is Reyna. She died of cancer shortly after her wedding. Her husband, Bill, was a recovering alcoholic. After her passing he stopped recovering. I fear he’s dead, too. I don’t know if Reyna has any other family.
Reyna was cremated. Bill was supposed to take her ashes to her hometown but never did. Instead, they stay in my office. At one time they sat on the corner of my desk. One day, a friend was unwittingly tapping playfully on her box as we were chatting.
“That’s Reyna,” I said.
My friend jumped back in horror. “I’m sorry,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was apologizing to me or the box.
I don’t know what will happen to Reyna. I don’t imagine anyone will ever come to claim her. I’m reasonably sure she doesn’t care. But I do. I have to. Someone has to. Somehow I think it’s a matter of love and respect. It’s a matter of faith.
Keeping Reyna in my office won’t be the spark that ignites a revival across the nation. That’s not why I keep her. It’s being faithful in the little things. We get so wrapped up in big things that we neglect the small ones. But it’s the small ones that tend to mean so much.
So Reyna’s ashes will stay with me in my little office. I’ll keep them as long as need be.