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 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 "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, and 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 thee world that He gave His only son, that
whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."
