[vorbis] The Room

[Andy D. Smith]

definitely special.

|  Subject: The Room
| 
| 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.
| 
| Brian's 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 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.
| 
| "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."- Phil. 4:13  "For
| God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in
| Him shall not perish but have eternal life." 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?
| "LET'S FILL OUR OWN FILE CARD" AND MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL!

<><
><> Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry.
<><  -- Ephesians 4:26 (NIV)
><> *~*Song Of The Moment*~*Circles Of Sin*~*by*~*Cypress Hill*~*
<>< Ska-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la..
><> ¸_./'\._¸ ¸.·¤**¤·.¸.·¤**¤·..*
<>< *·.    .·* Andy Dale
><> /.·*·.\*.·¤**¤·.¸¸.·¤**¤·.*
<>< ICQ # 76178574
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