Over the years I've received and forwarded thousands of emails with inspirational messages. By far, this story is my favorite. A friend sent this to me nearly a decade ago and I have kept it and still re-read it from time to time. I am now sharing with you, hoping it touches your heart just as it has mine.
The story behind the story "The Room"
17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for
The Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting. It was his turn to lead
The discussion so he sat down and wrote. He showed the essay, titled
"The Room" to his mother, Beth, before he headed out the door. "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 -- the crepe paper that had
adorned his locker during his senior football season, 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 is 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.
Brian seemed to excel at everything he did. He was an honor student.
He told his parents he loved them "a hundred times a day", Mrs. Moore
said. He was a star wide receiver for the Teary Valley's Football team and
had earned a four-year scholarship to Capital University in Columbus
because of his athletic and academic abilities. 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 again someday," Mrs. Moore said.
"It just hurts so bad now."
*********************************************************
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
"Songs I have listened to," 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 music 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, butthe 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
