Quittintime: The Essay

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, 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.
>
> > >
>
>
>
> God Bless you guys on this forum

--------------------
Bob
"Rather be a hammer than a nail"