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Friends,
I don't recall ever seeing this one. I found it as I was
searching
through some websites, and thought it to be a good story to share.
I hope
that you find it as helpful as I did.
In His service,
Bruce
The Room
COMMERCIAL POINT, Ohio --
Procrastinating as usual, 17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time
to
write something for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting.
It was his turn to lead the discussion. So he sat down and wrote. He
showed
the essay titled "The Room" to his mother, Beth, before he headed out
the
door.
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 Teays Valley High School.
Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every
piece of his life near them -- the crepe paper that had adorned his
locker
during his senior football season, 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.
-------------------------------------
Brian seemed to excel at everything he did. He was an honor student.
He told
his parents he loved them "a hundred times a day," Mrs. Moore said.
He was a
star wide receiver for the Teays Valley football team and had earned
a
four-year scholarship to Capital University in Columbus because of
his
athletic and academic abilities.
He took it upon himself to learn how to help a fellow student who used
a
wheelchair at school.
During one homecoming ceremony, Brian walked on his tiptoes so the girl
he
was escorting wouldn't be embarrassed about being taller than him.
He adored
his kid brother, Bruce, now 14. He often escorted his grandmother,
Evelyn
Moore, who lives in Columbus, to church.
"I always called him the deep thinker," Evelyn Moore said of her eldest
grandson.
Two years after his death, his family still struggles to understand
why
Brian was taken from them. They find comfort at the cemetery where
Brian is
buried, just a few blocks from their home. They visit daily. A candle
and
dozens of silk and real flowers keep vigil over the grave site. 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
someday," Mr. Moore said. "I just hurt so bad now."
------------------------------------
The Room
By Brian Keith Moore
In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room.
There were no distinguishing features save 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 right to left as far as the eye
could
see, had very different headings.
As I walked up to the wall of files, the first to catch my attention
was one
that read, "People 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 entire life. The actions of my every moment, big and small, were
written
in a detail my memory couldn't match.
A sense of wonder and curiosity, mixed 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 common, everyday things to the not-so-common:
"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 Have
Yelled at My Brothers and Sisters." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things
I
Have Done in 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 had hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume
of
the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had time in my 17
years to
write each of these thousands or millions of cards?
But each card confirmed the truth. Each card was written in my own
handwriting. Each card was 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 such a moment had been recorded.
A feeling of humiliation and anger ran through my body. 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 the file 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.That
was when
I saw it. The file 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 3 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 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.
Then as I looked up through my tears, I saw Him enter the room. No,
please,
not Him. Not here. 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. The few times I looked at His
face I
saw such sadness that it tore at my heart. 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 in 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.