Its long but its good...

17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something
for a class. The subject was what Heaven was like. It was the last essay he ever wrote.
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.
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.

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.