David Johnson
04-29-2002, 07:53 PM
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 fiend'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 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, 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.
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 fiend'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 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, 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.