________________________________________
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 teens 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." -John 3:16