Monday, September 10, 2007


I got this off of myspace this is really good....Billie


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 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 C ounty 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 afte r
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 s mall, 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. C ould
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 ro om! 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 dislo dge 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 an d 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 fi les. 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 ca rd. "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 believe s in Him
sh all not perish but have eternal life." If you feel the same way forward it
so the love of Jesus will touch their lives also. My "People I shared the
gospel with" file just got bigger, how about yours?

You don't have to share this with anybody, no one will know whether you did
or not, but you will know and so will He.


Nadine said...

Wow that was great. Thank you for sharing it.

Anonymous said...

this was awesome====and made ones that have read it==have lots of tears too====i'm a writer and i love to write whatever pops into my head too==but very few ever take the time to read mine--other than ones i do give to many.
daily our Lord gives us ways to encourage others=whether be in music--chatting with many,uplifting others,many ways to do that=and in return we smile too...
keep up the great writings==
merry christmas and happy new year too

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