I'm sending this 2 a few groups I'm in. I hope u guys don't mind that. If u
r not a Christian, and will get mad at me, I'm sorry. U don't have 2 read it
if u don't want 2. Thx!
~Amanda~

>>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.
>>"It's the best thing I ever wrote." It also was the last.
>>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 the road in a
>>ditch 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.
>>"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?

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