The Room

by Brian Moore

The story behind the story¦

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 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 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 " 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