> > > > > > >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 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 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 s! trengthens 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? > > > _________________________________________________________________ FREE pop-up blocking with the new MSN Toolbar – get it now! http://toolbar.msn.com/go/onm00200415ave/direct/01/