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I have been told that
this story is not truthful, but it is still a nice story.
The Room
by Brian Keith Moore
1980-1997
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
endlessly 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
watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked
"Friends I Have Betrayed". The titles ranged from the
mundane to the out right 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 17 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 amount of 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 an 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.
But then the tears came. I began to weep.
Sobs so deep that the hurt 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 everyone?
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.
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