The Room

[Guest guest]

THE ROOM

17-year-old 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.

's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while

cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley High School. 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 's death that Beth and Bruce 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. said.

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 s framed a copy of '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. said of the essay. She and

her husband want to share their son's vision of life after death. " I'm happy for

. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him.

'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. " If you feel the same way forward it to as

many people as you can so the love of Jesus will touch their lives also. My

" People I shared the gospel with " file just got bigger, how about yours?