A Teen's Deep Thought

The following is an e-mail I received recently. The story about the young man involved is true and shows how deep a thinker a teenager can be.

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. 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 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 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 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 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?

 

I want to thank you all for pointing out that the story was plagerized. Had I known that it was, I would never have posted it. Thank you all.

SC