The Room
This is long, but please take time to read it!
It's amazing and True!
- About this story -
I have some background on the author that I
thought you might be interested in.
Procrastinating as usual, 17-year-old Brian Moore
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'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 - the crepe paper that had adorned his
locker during his senior football season, 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.
Brian seemed to excel at everything he did. He
was an honor student.
He told his parents he loved them "a hundred
times a day", Mrs. Moore said.
He was a star wide receiver for the Teary's
Valley Football team and had earned a four-year
scholarship to Capital University in Columbus
because of his athletic and academic abilities.
He took it upon himself to learn how to help a
fellow student who used a wheelchair at school.
During one homecoming ceremony, Brian walked on
his tiptoes so that the girl he was
escorting wouldn't be embarrassed about being
taller than him. He adored his kid brother,
Bruce, now 14. He often escorted his
grand-mother, Evelyn Moore, who lives in
Columbus, to church. "I always called him
the "deep thinker",
Evelyn said of her eldest grandson.
Two years after his death, his family still
struggles to understand why Brian was taken from
them. They find comfort at the cemetery where
Brian is buried, just a few blocks from their
home. They visit daily. A candle and dozens of
silk and real flowers keep vigil over the
gravesite.
The Moore's 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 again someday." Mrs.
Moore 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 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.
"I can do all things through Christ who
strengthens me." Phil. 4:13
===================================================
This story is the best e-mail story I have ever
read.
"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?
Author: Unknown
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