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 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."
Brian's Essay: 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 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 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."
