Y
yornoc
Guest
I don't know if this story is true or not... Anyway, it does not matter 'cause it's still a good story
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 Moore's 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
"For God so loved the world that He gave His only
son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish
but have eternal life."
