"So many different kinds of love,
From the beginning to the end;
Still yours has grown to be priceless,
My dear and sweet faithful friend."
The Room
About The Room
story - Here is some background on the author that 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.
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 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 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 hand writing.
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
l card 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."
John 3:16
Please forward
this 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 ~ Brian Moore
Copyright
1999, 2000 ©
"Thelma & Louise"
* All
Rights Reserved
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