BlogBud

As you read this story please put yourself in Brian's place; it may change the way you live your life! Just maybe.

   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 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."

   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 all 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.

   "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."

By: Unknown

This was in an email that one of my friends sent me. Of course this is not what heaven is relay like but it is a good analogy of how Jesus has put his name in the place of yours in the judgment book.

Posted: February 14, 2005