Halo Under My Desk

     Someone left a halo under my desk.

     A double strand of gleaming gold, accented with the occasional shimmering star, so ethereally light that one might imagine it not resting lightly on the crown of a head, but instead barely hovering over it.  Down among the lost pens, bent paper clips, and dust bunnies.

     Was it left by one of the little girls, all robed in white with impossible to adjust cardboard wings pinned to their backs, who starred in our church's live Nativity tableau Sunday evening?  Perhaps the halo was dropped when, after their duties were done, they ransacked my office for the chocolates cached in my desk.

     Or was it, perhaps more likely, left by the young man, a recovering alcoholic, who stopped into my study Monday afternoon to thank us for allowing a new AA chapter to use our facilities for their nightly meetings?

     I like to think so. I like to think that this halo was left by an innocent child who delighted in playing dress-up and was happy to help out the church and whose idea of mischief rose only to the level of sneaking treats from my desk (treats left there knowing full well what would happen!).  I like to think even more that this was a providential reminder of the grace that has helped a young man make a new start and find again a fullness of life; I like to think how hard-won each day of sobriety is for him, and for all who makes those nightly meetings.

     What I don't like to think about is how maybe this halo was not as much left by them, as for me.  That it is telling me that for all the professional discipleship that I am called to model, I might want to look again at how much a disciple I am personally, deep down inside.  I don't like to think about how I am not so innocent, and don't work so hard at it nearly as hard as do those folk at the nightly meetings.

     Someone left a halo under my desk.

     Have you looked under yours lately?