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The Room
by Brian Moore, from the Internet
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 Iexpected. 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 thenI 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."
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