Subject: The Room
> 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 Teays Valley High School
> in Pickaway County. 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.
>
> "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?
>
> IF THERE IS ONE EMAIL THAT I HAVE READ THAT NEEDS TO GO AROUND THE
> WORLD, IT IS THIS ONE, PLEASE PASS THIS TO EVERYONE YOU KNOW,
> CHRISTIAN OR NOT! "LET'S FILL OUR OWN FILE CARD"
> AND MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL!
>
> You don't have to share this with anybody, no one will know whether
> you did or not, but you will know and so will" He"
>
> 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 Teays Valley High School
> in Pickaway County. 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.
>
> "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?
>
> IF THERE IS ONE EMAIL THAT I HAVE READ THAT NEEDS TO GO AROUND THE
> WORLD, IT IS THIS ONE, PLEASE PASS THIS TO EVERYONE YOU KNOW,
> CHRISTIAN OR NOT! "LET'S FILL OUR OWN FILE CARD"
> AND MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL!
>
> You don't have to share this with anybody, no one will know whether
> you did or not, but you will know and so will" He"
>
