Post by Jayda on Jan 27, 2010 15:40:23 GMT -5
Okay, so I guess that this is the best place to post this? It is a chain email, but it's a great story. It makes me tear up when I read it. Here it goes!
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 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
of f 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 someth ing
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.'
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 lifeles s room with its small files
was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my
every mom ent, 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.
Ofte n 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 possi ble 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 wasted 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 sic k to think tha t 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 insan e 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 was
'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.
< BR>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 i n 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 wi th 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 o ver 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 it s 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.' 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?
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 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
of f 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 someth ing
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.'
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 lifeles s room with its small files
was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my
every mom ent, 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.
Ofte n 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 possi ble 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 wasted 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 sic k to think tha t 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 insan e 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 was
'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.
< BR>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 i n 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 wi th 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 o ver 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 it s 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.' 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?