Rockingham Remembered
Short Stories
The Room
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 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.



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.