This is 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, teachers and 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.

It was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore
realized that their son had described his view of heaven. It
made such an impact that they wanted 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 again."

* * * * *

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 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."

Copy this essay and share it with everyone, so the love of
Jesus will touch other lives. My "People I shared the gospel
with" file just got bigger!