My confession

A lot of truth in this

The following was written by Ben Stein and recited by him on CBS Sunday Morning Commentary.

My confession:

I am a Jew, and every single one of my ancestors was Jewish. And it does not bother me even a little bit when people call those beautiful lit up, bejeweled trees Christmas trees. I don't feel threatened. I don't feel discriminated against. That's what they are: Christmas trees.

It doesn't bother me a bit when people say, 'Merry Christmas' to me. I don't think they are slighting me or getting ready to put me in a ghetto. In fact, I kind of like it. It shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year. It doesn't bother me at all that there is a manger scene on display at a key intersection near my beach house in Malibu. If people want a creche, it's just as fine with me as is the Menorah a few hundred yards away.

I don't like getting pushed around for being a Jew, and I don't think Christians like getting pushed around for being Christians. I think people who believe in God are sick and tired of getting pushed around, period. I have no idea where the concept came from that America is an explicitly atheist country. I can't find it in the Constitution and I don't like it being shoved down my throat.

Or maybe I can put it another way: where did the idea come from that we should worship Nick and Jessica and we aren't allowed to worship God as we understand Him? I guess that's a sign that I'm getting old, too. But there are a lot of us who are wondering where Nick and Jessica came from and where the America we knew went to.

In light of the many jokes we send to one another for a laugh, this is a little different: This is not intended to be a joke; it's not funny, it's intended to get you thinking.

Billy Graham's daughter was interviewed on the Early Show and Jane Clayson asked her 'How could God let something like this happen?' (regarding Katrina) Anne Graham gave an extremely profound and insightful response. She said, 'I believe God is deeply saddened by this, just as we are, but for years we've been telling God to get out of our schools, to get out of our government and to get out of our lives. And being the gentleman He is, I believe He has calmly backed out. How can we expect God to give us His blessing and His protection if we demand He leave us alone?'

In light of recent events...terrorists attack, school shootings, etc. I think it started when Madeleine Murray O'Hare (she was murdered, her body found recently) complained she didn't want prayer in our schools, and we said OK. Then someone said you better not read the Bible in school. The Bible says thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal, and love your neighbor as yourself. And we said OK.

Then Dr. Benjamin Spock said we shouldn't spank our children when they misbehave because their little personalities would be warped and we might damage their self-esteem (Dr. Spock's son committed suicide). We said an expert should know what he's talking about. And we said OK.

Now we're asking ourselves why our children have no conscience, why they don't know right from wrong, and why it doesn't bother them to kill strangers, their classmates, and themselves.

Probably, if we think about it long and hard enough, we can figure it out. I think it has a great deal to do with 'WE REAP WHAT WE SOW.'

Funny how simple it is for people to trash God and then wonder why the world's going to hell. Funny how we believe what the newspapers say, but question what the Bible says. Funny how you can send 'jokes' through e-mail and they spread like wildfire but when you start sending messages regarding the Lord, people think twice about sharing. Funny how lewd, crude, vulgar and obscene articles pass freely through cyberspace, but public discussion of God is suppressed in the school and workplace.

Are you laughing?

Funny how when you forward this message, you will not send it to many on your address list because you're not sure what they believe, or what they will think of you for sending it.

Funny how we can be more worried about what other people think of us than what God thinks of us.

Pass it on if you think it has merit. If not then just discard it... no one will know you did. But, if you discard this thought process, don't sit back and complain about what bad shape the world is in. My Best Regards.

Honestly and respectfully,

Ben Stein

Middle School - 'Dusting'

First, I'm going to tell you a little about me and my family.
My name is Jeff. I am a Police Officer for a city which is
known nationwide for it's crime rate. We have a lot of
gangs and drugs. At one point we were # 2 in the nation
in homicides per capita. I also have a police K-9 named
Thor. He was certified in drugs and general duty. He
retired at 3 years old because he was shot in the line of
duty. He lives with us now and I still train with him because
he likes it. I
always liked the fact that there was no way to
bring drugs into my house. Thor wouldn't allow it. He would
tell on you. The reason I say this is so you understand that
I know about drugs.

I have taught in schools about drugs. My wife asks all our
kids at least once a week if they used any drugs. Makes
them promise they won't.

I like building computers occasionally and started building
a new one in February 2005. I also was working on some of
my older computers. They were full of dust so on one of my
trips to the computer store I bought a 3 pack of DUST OFF.
Dust Off is a can of compressed air to blow dust off a computer.
A few weeks later when I went to use one of them they were
all used. I talked to my kids and my two sons both said they
had used them on their computer and messing around with
them. I yelled at them for wasting the 10 dollars I paid for them.

On February 28 I
went back to the computer store. They didn't
have the 3 pack which I had bought on sale so I bought a single
jumbo can of Dust Off. I went home and set it down beside my
computer.

On March 1st, I left for work at 10 PM. Just before midnight
my wife went down and kissed Kyle goodnight. At 5:30 am
the next morning Kathy went downstairs to wake Kyle up for
school, before she left for work. He was propped up in bed
with his legs crossed and his head leaning over. She called
to him a few times to get up. He didn't move. He would some-
times tease her like this and pretend he fell back asleep. He
was never easy to get up. She went in and shook his arm.
He fell over. He was pale white and had the straw from the
Dust Off can coming out of his mouth. He had the new can
of Dust Off in his hands. Kyle was dead.

I am a police officer and I had
never heard of this. My wife
is a nurse and she had never heard of this. We later found
out from the coroner, after the autopsy, that only the pro-
pellant from the can of Dust off was in his system. No other
drugs. Kyle had died between midnight and 1 AM.

I found out that using Dust Off is being done mostly by kids
ages 9 through 15. They even have a name for it. It's called
dusting. A take off from the Dust Off name. It gives them a
slight high for about 10 seconds. It makes them dizzy. A boy
who lives down the street from us showed Kyle how to do
this about a month before. Kyle showed his best friend. Told
him it was cool and it couldn't hurt you. It's just compressed
air. It can't hurt you. His best friend said so.

Kyle was wrong. It's not just compressed air. It also contains
a propellant called R2. It's a refrigerant like what is used in
your refrigerator. It is a heavy gas. Heavier than air. When
you inhale it, it fills your lungs and keeps the good air, with
oxygen, out That's why you feel dizzy, buzzed. It decreases
the oxygen to your brain, to your heart. Kyle was right. It
can't hurt you. IT KILLS YOU.

The horrible part about this is there is no warning. There is
no level that kills you. It's not cumulative or an overdose; it
can just go randomly, terribly wrong. Roll the dice and if
your number comes up you die. IT'S NOT AN OVERDOSE .
It's Russian Roulette. You don't die later. Or not feel good
and say I've had too much. You usually die as you're breath-
ing it in. If not you die within 2 seconds of finishing "the hit."
That's why the straw was still in Kyle's mouth when he died.
Why his eyes were still open. The experts want to call this
huffing. The kids don't believe its huffing. As adults we
tend to lump many things together. But it doesn't fit here.
And that's why its more accepted. There is no chemical
reaction, no strong odor. It doesn't follow the huffing signals.
Kyle complained a few days before he died of his tongue
hurting. It probably did. The propellant causes frostbite.
If I had only known.

It's easy to say hey,it's my life and I'll do what I want.
But it isn't. Others are always affected. This has forever
changed our family's life. I have a hole in my heart and
soul that
can never be fixed. The pain is so immense I can't
describe it. There's nowhere to run from it. I cry all the time
and I don't ever cry. I do what I'm supposed to do but I don't
really care. My kids are messed u p. One won't talk about it.
The other will only sleep in our room at night. And my wife,
I can't even describe how bad she is taking this. I thought we
were safe because of Thor. I thought we were safe because
we knew about drugs and talked to our kids about them.

After Kyle died another story came out. A probation Officer
went to the school system next to ours to speak with a stu-
dent. While there he found a student using Dust Off in the
bathroom. This student told him about another student who
also had some in his locker. This is a rather affluent school
system. They will tell you they don't have a drug problem
there.
They
don't even have a dare or plus program there. So rather
than tell everyone about this "new" way of getting high they
found, they hid it. The probation officer told the media after
Kyle's death and they, the school, then admitted to it. I know
that if they would have told the media and I had heard, it wouldn't
have been in my house.

We need to get this out of our homes and school computer labs.
Using Dust Off isn't new and some "professionals" do know
about. It just isn't talked about much, except by the kids. They
all seem to know about it. April 2 nd was 1 mo nth since Kyle
died. April 5th would have been his 15th birthday. And every
weekday I catch myself sitting on the living room couch at 2:30
in the afternoon and waiting to see him get off the bus. I know
Kyle is in heaven but I can't help but wonder If I died and went
to Hell.


This Officer is asking for everyone who receives this email to
forward it to everyone in their address book, even Law Enforce-
ment Officers.

STR

STROKE IDENTIFICATION:

During a BBQ, a friend stumbled and took a little fall - she assured everyone that she was fine (they offered to call paramedics) and just tripped over a brick because of her new shoes. They got her cleaned up and got her a new plate of food - while she appeared a bit shaken up, Ingrid went about enjoying herself the rest of the evening. Ingrid's husband called later telling everyone that his wife had been taken to the hospital and had passed away at 6:00 p.m. She had suffered a stroke at the BBQ. Had they known how to identify the signs of a stroke, perhaps Ingrid would be with us today. Some don't die. They end up in a helpless, hopeless condition instead.

It only takes a minute to read this...
A neurologist says that if he can get to a stroke victim within three (3) hours he can totally reverse the effects of a stroke...totally. He said the trick was getting a stroke recognized, diagnosed, and then getting the patient medically cared for within 3 hours, which is tough.


RECOGNIZING A STROKE
Thank God for the sense to remember the "3" steps, STR . Read and Learn!


Sometimes symptoms of a stroke are difficult to identify. Unfortunately, the lack of awareness spells disaster. The stroke victim may suffer severe brain damage when people nearby fail to recognize the symptoms of a stroke.


Now doctors say a bystander can recognize a stroke by asking three simple questions:


S = Ask the individual to SMILE.


T = Ask the person to TALK to SPEAK A SIMPLE SENTENCE

(Coherently) (i.e.. It is sunny out today)



R = Ask him or her to RAISE BOTH ARMS.


{NOTE: Another 'sign' of a stroke is this: Ask the person to 'stick' out their tongue... if the tongue is 'crooked', if it goes to one side or the other that is also an indication of a stroke}



If the person has trouble with ANY ONE of these tasks, call 9-1-1 immediately and describe the symptoms to the dispatcher.

IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER

IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER - by Erma Bombeck
(written after she found out she was dying from cancer).
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.
I would have talked less and listened more.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained, or the sofa faded.
I would have eaten the popcorn in the 'good' living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have sat on the lawn with my grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television and more while watching life.
I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil, or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.
Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.

When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, "Later. Now go get washed up for dinner." There would have been more "I love you's." More "I'm sorry's."
But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute...look at it and really see it live it and never give it back. Stop sweating the small stuff.
Don't worry about who doesn't like you, who has more, or who's doing what.
Instead, let's cherish the relationships we have with those who do love us.
Let's think about what God HAS blessed us with. And what we are doing each day to promote ourselves mentally, physically, emotionally. I hope you all have a blessed day.

Hands

Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. He didn't move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands. When I sat down beside him he didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I wondered if he was OK.

Finally, not really wanting to disturb him but wanting to check on him at the same time, I asked him if he was OK. He raised his head and looked at me and smiled. Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking, he said in a clear strong voice.

I didn't mean to disturb you, grandpa, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK I explained to him.

Have you ever looked at your hands he asked. I mean really looked at your hands?

I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down. No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point he was making.

Grandpa smiled and related this story:

Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout your years. These hands, though wrinkled, shriveled and weak have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life.

They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As a child my mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots.

They dried the tears of my children and caressed the love of my life.

They held my rifle and wiped my tears when I went off to war. They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.

They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son.

Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was married and loved someone special. They wrote the letters home and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse and walked my daughter down the aisle.

Yet, they were strong and sure when I dug my buddy out of a foxhole and lifted a plow off of my best friends foot. They have held children, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn't understand. They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw. And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer. These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of my life.

But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when he leads me home. And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the face of Christ.

I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my grandpa's hands and led him home. When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and wife I think of grandpa. I know he has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God. I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel his hands upon my face.

Darrell Scott's Testimony

Guess our national leaders didn't expect this, hmm?On Thursday, Darrell Scott, the father of Rachel Scott, a victim of the Columbine High School shootings in Littleton, Colorado, was invited to address the House Judiciary Committee's subcommittee. What he said to our national leaders during this special session of Congress was painfully truthful. They were not prepared for what he was to say, nor was it received well. It needs to be heard by every parent, every teacher, every politician, every sociologist, every psychologist, and every so-called expert! These courageous words spoken by Darrell Scott are powerful, penetrating, and deeply personal. There is no doubt that God sent this man as a voice crying in the wilderness.. The following is a portion of the transcript:

"Since the dawn of creation there has been both good &evil in the hearts of men and women. We all contain the seeds of kindness or the seeds of violence. The death of my wonderful daughter, Rachel Joy Scott, and the deaths of that heroic teacher, and the other eleven children who died must not be in vain. Their blood cries out for answers.

"The first recorded act of violence was when Cain slew his brother Abel out in the field. The villain was not the club he used. Neither was it the NCA, the National Club Association. The true killer was Cain, and the reason for the murder could only be found in Cain's heart.
"In the days that followed the Columbine tragedy, I was amazed at how quickly fingers began to be pointed at groups such as the NRA. I am not a member of the NRA. I am not a hunter. I do not even own a gun. I am not here to represent or defend the NRA - because I don't believe that they are responsible for my daughter's death. Therefore I do not believe that they need to be defended. If I believed they had anything to do with Rachel's murder I would be their strongest opponent.
I am here today to declare that Columbine was not just a tragedy-it was a spiritual event that should be forcing us to look at where the real blame lies! Much of the blame lies here in this room. Much of the blame lies behind the pointing fingers of the accusers themselves. "I wrote a poem just four nights ago that expresses my feelings best. This was written way before I knew I would be speaking here today:

Your laws ignore our deepest needs,
Your words are empty air.
You've stripped away our heritage,
You've outlawed simple prayer.
Now gunshots fill our classrooms,
And precious children die.
You seek for answers everywhere,
And ask the question "Why?"
You regulate restrictive laws,
Through legislative creed.
And yet you fail to understand,
That God is what we need!


"Men and women are three-part beings. We all consist of body, soul, and spirit. When we refuse to acknowledge a third part of our make-up, we create a void that allows evil, prejudice, and hatred to rush in and reek havoc.. Spiritual presences were present within our educational systems for most of our nation's history. Many of our major colleges began as theological seminaries. This is a historical fact. What has happened to us as a nation? We have refused to honor God, and in so doing, we open the doors to hatred and violence. And when something as terrible as Columbine's tragedy occurs -- politicians immediately look for a scapegoat such as the NRA. They immediately seek to pass more restrictive laws that contribute to erode away our personal and private liberties. We do not need more restrictive laws. "Eric and Dylan would not have been stopped by metal detectors. No amount of gun laws can stop someone who spends months planning this type of massacre. The real villain lies within our own hearts.
"As my son Craig lay under that table in the school library and saw his two friends murdered before his very eyes-He did not hesitate to pray in school. I defy any law or politician to deny him that right! I challenge every young person in America, and around the world, to realize that on April 20, 1999, at Columbine High School, prayer was brought back to our schools. Do not let the many prayers offered by those students be in vain. Dare to move into the new millennium with a sacred disregard for legislation that violates your God-given right to communicate with Him. To those of you who would point your finger at the NRA - I give to you a sincere challenge... Dare to examine your own heart before casting the first stone!
My daughter's death will not be in vain! The young people of this country will not allow that to happen!"

Do what the media did not - - let the nation hear this man's speech. Please send this out to everyone you can if you believe in what this man has said!!!

Carl's Garden

Carl was a quiet man. He didn't talk much. He would always greet you with a big smile and a firm handshake. Even after living in our neighborhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they knew him very well.

Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The lone sight of him walking down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound received in W.W.II. Watching him, we worried that although he had survived W.W.II, he may not make it through our changing
uptown neighborhood with its ever-increasing random violence, gangs, and drug activity.

When he saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers for caring for the gardens behind the minister's residence, he responded in his characteristically unassuming manner. Without fanfare, he just signed up.

He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared finally happened. He was just finishing his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, "Would you like a drink from the hose?" The tallest and
toughest-looking of the three said, "Yeah, sure," with a malevolent little smile. As Carl offered the hose to him, the other two grabbed Carl's arm, throwing him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, Carl's assailants stole his retirement watch and his
wallet, and then fled.

Carl tried to get himself up, but he had been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister came running to help him. Although the minister had witnessed the attack from his window, he couldn't get there fast enough to stop it. "Carl, are you okay? Are you hurt?" the minister kept asking as he helped Carl to his feet. Carl just passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head.
"Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise-up someday." His wet
clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He adjusted the nozzle again and started to water. Confused and a little concerned, the minister asked, "Carl, what are you doing?" "I've got to finish my watering. It's been very dry lately," came the calm reply. Satisfying
himself that Carl really was all right, the minister could only marvel. Carl was a man from a different time and place.

A few weeks later the three returned. Just as before their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time they didn't rob him. They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him head to foot in the icy water. When they had finished their humiliation of him, they sauntered off down the street, throwing catcalls and curses,
falling over one another laughing at the hilarity of what they had just done.

Carl just watched them. Then he turned toward the warmth giving sun, picked up his hose, and went on with his watering. The summer was quickly fading into fall. Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches As he struggled to regain his footing, he turned to see the tall leader of his summer tormentors reaching down for him. He braced himself for the expected attack.

"Don't worry old man, I'm not gonna hurt you this time." The young man spoke softly, still offering the tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. As he helped Carl get up, the man pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket and handed it to Carl.

"What's this?" Carl asked. "It's your stuff," the man explained. "It's your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet."

"I don't understand," Carl said. "Why would you help me now?"

The man shifted his feet, seeming embarrassed and ill at ease. "I learned something from you," he said. "I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn't hate us for hating you. You kept showing love against our hate." He stopped for a moment "I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back." He paused for another awkward moment, not knowing what more there was to say. "That bag's my
way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." And with that, he walked off down the street.

Carl looked down at the sack in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his retirement watch and put it back on his wrist. Opening his wallet, he checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride that still smiled back at him from all those years ago.

He died one cold day after Christmas that winter. Many people
attended his funeral in spite of the weather. In particular the minister noticed a tall young man that he didn't know sitting quietly in a distant corner of the church. The minister spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life. In
a voice made thick with unshed tears, he said, "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can. We will never forget Carl and his garden."

The following spring another flyer went up. It read: "Person needed to care for Carl's garden." The flyer went unnoticed by the busy parishioners until one day when a knock was heard at the minister's office door. Opening the door, the minister saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer. "I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said.

The minister recognized him as the same young man who had returned the stolen watch and wallet to Carl. He knew that Carl's kindness had turned this man's life around. As the minister handed him the keys to the garden shed, he said, "Yes, go take care of Carl's garden and honor him."

The man went to work and, over the next several years, he tended the flowers and vegetables just as Carl had done. In that time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of the community. But he never forgot his promise to Carl's memory and kept the garden as beautiful
as he thought Carl would have kept it.

One day he approached the new minister and told him that he
couldn't care for the garden any longer. He explained with a shy and happy smile, "My wife just had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday."

"Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the garden shed keys. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?"

"Carl," he replied.

That's the whole gospel message simply stated.

Take 60 seconds give this a shot! Let's just see if Satan stops this one. All you do is:

1. Simply say a small prayer for the person who sent you this, (Father, God bless this person in whatever it is that You know he or she may be needing this day!)

2. Then send it on to other people Within hours people will have prayed for you, and you caused a multitude of people to pray to God for other people. Then sit back and watch the power of God work in your life fordoing the thing that you know He loves.

GOOD FRIENDS ARE LIKE ANGELS, YOU DON'T HAVE TO SEE THEM TO KNOW THEY ARE THERE.......

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