The Room

Some background about the author of this story that I believe will interest
you. Brian Moore, 17 years old and procrastinating as usual, had only a
short time to write something for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes
meeting. It was his turn to lead the discussion, so he sat down and wrote.


He showed the essay, titled "The Room" to his mother, Beth, before he headed
out the door.

"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 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.

"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 happyfor Brian. I
know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him again someday," Mrs.M oore said "It
just hurts so bad now."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE ROOM

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 endlessly 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 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 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 write 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 "Songs I have listened to," 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 music 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 it's
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, 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.

"I can do all things through Him who strengthens me." Philippians 4:13

This story is one of the best e-mail stories I have ever read.

"For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that
whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life." John 3:16