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 happy
for
Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him again someday," Mrs.
Moore said. "It just hurts so bad now."
And now for the essay....
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.
In 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
"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
If you feel the same way, forward it to as many people as you can, so the
love of Jesus will touch their lives also.
My "PEOPLE I SHARED THE GOSPEL WITH" file just got bigger, how about
yours?
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