The story behind the story "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.
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 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 runthrough
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." ---John
3:16
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?
-David Overcash
AIM: FunnyLookinHat
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