submitted to Baptist Church News by Barbara Dunn Canton GA


> THE ROOM
> About this story - there is some background on the author that I 
> thought you might be interested in.  Procrastinating as usual, 
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 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. 
> 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's Valley Football team and 
> had earned a four-year scholarship to Capital University in Columbus 
> because of  his athletic and academic abilities. 
> 
> He took it upon himself  to learn how to help a fellow student who used a 
> wheelchair at school. 
> 
> During one homecoming ceremony, Brian walked on his tiptoes so that the 
girl he 
> was escorting wouldn't be embarrassed about being taller than him. He 
> adored his kid brother, Bruce, now 14. He often escorted his 
grand-mother, 
> Evelyn Moore, who lives in Columbus, to church.  "I always called him the 
> "deep thinker", Evelyn said of her eldest grandson. 
> 
> 
>  Two years after his death, his family still struggles to understand why 
> Brian was taken from them. They find comfort at the cemetery where Brian 
is 
> buried, just a few blocks from their home. They visit daily. A candle and 
dozens 
> of 
> silk and real flowers keep vigil over the gravesite. 
> 
> 
>  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 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 endlessly 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 
> brother".   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, 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." 
>