baby44

a poetic Heartº
2004-03-31 19:28:50 (UTC)

The Room (PLEASE READ)

The Room
By Brian Moore

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found
myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features
except for the one wall covered with small index card
files. They were like the ones in libraries that list
titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But
these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and
seemingly endless in either direction, 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 and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it,
shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on
each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where
I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude
catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions
of my every moment, big and small, in 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 look 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. "Books I have Read," Lies I Have
Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed at."
Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've
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 never ceased to be surprised by
the contents.

Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes
fewer 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 this truth.
Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my
signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have
watched," I realized the files grew to contain their
contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two
or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut
it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by
the vast time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a
chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an
inch, not willing to test 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 almost animal rage
broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must
ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I
have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file
out. Its size didn't matter now. I had 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 sigh. And then I saw it. The title
bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was
brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I
pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three
inches long fell 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 they hurt. They started
in my
stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees 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, ever know of this room. I must lock
it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed 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 couldn't bear to watch His response. And in
the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw
a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to
the worst boxes.

Why did He have to 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 anger 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 many 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 name 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 on these cards. But there it was, written in
red so rich, so dark, and so alive.

The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His
blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile
and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever
understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant
it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to
my side. 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 door. There were still cards to be written.


Note:
17-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 told his father, Bruce. "It's
a killer. It's the bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote."
It also was the last.

Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin
found it while cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary
Valley High School. Brian had 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
encountering Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing
every moment of the teen's 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 driving 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. Moore 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 I'll see him.




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