The Room

Discussion in 'Spirituality/Worship' started by webintrig, Jun 23, 2007.

  1. webintrig

    webintrig New Member

    A bit lengthy but well worth the read.

    18 -year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for a

    class. The subject was what Heaven was like. "I wowed 'em," he later
    his father, Bruce. "It's a killer. It's the bomb. It's the best thing I
    wrote." It also was the last.
    >Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it
    >cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley High School . Brian
    >been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece
    of his
    >life near them-notes from classmates and teachers, his homework.
    >Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about
    >Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the
    >life. But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore
    >realized that their son had described his view of heaven. "It makes
    such an
    >impact that people want to share it. You feel like you are there." Mr.

    >Moore said.
    >Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. He was
    >home from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce Road in
    >Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from the wreck
    >unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.
    >The Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the family

    >portraits in the living room. "I think God used him to make a point. I

    >think we were meant to find it and make something out of it," Mrs.
    >said of the essay. She and her husband want to share their son's
    vision of
    >life after death. "I'm happy for Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know
    >see him."
    > Brian's Essay: The
    > In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in
    >room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall
    >with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that
    >titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files,
    >stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either
    >had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the
    first to
    >catch my attention was one that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it
    >began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to
    >that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without
    >told, I knew exactly where I was.
    > This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog
    >for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and

    >small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and
    >curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly
    >opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet
    >memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would
    >over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.
    > A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have
    >betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird
    >I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I
    >Laughed at." Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things
    >yelled at my brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have
    Done in
    >My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I
    >ceased to be surprised by the contents.
    > Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes
    >than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had
    >lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill
    each of
    >these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed
    >truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my
    > When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched", I
    >realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were
    >tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of
    >file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more
    >the vast time I knew that file represented.
    > When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill
    >through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to
    >its size and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content.
    > I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An
    >animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one must
    >see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy
    >In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I
    >to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began
    >pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became

    >desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel
    when I
    >tried to tear it.
    > Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot.

    >Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying
    > And then I saw it.. The title bore "People I Have Shared the
    >With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost
    >I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long
    >into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.
    > And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that
    >hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my
    >and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it
    all. The
    >rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever,
    >know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I
    >away the tears, I saw Him.
    > No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched
    >helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I
    >bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to
    >at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own.
    > He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have
    >read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the
    room. He
    >looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't
    >me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry
    >again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so
    >things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.
    > Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting
    at one
    >end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His
    >over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could
    find to
    >say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be
    >these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so
    >The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He
    >took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards.
    >don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the
    >instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my
    > He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I

    >stood up, and He led me out of the room.. There was no lock on its
    >There were still cards to be written.
    > "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."-Phil.
    >"For God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever
    >believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."
    >"People I shared the gospel with" file just got bigger, how about
  2. MIssAutumn

    MIssAutumn New Member

    That says it all!