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, those- notes from
classmates and teachers, his home work.
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 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.
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 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. "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?
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Thank you for reading.