Brian's Essay

[PIX]

I found this on the net this morning and it moved me. If Christianity offends you, please move on and
don't read this. It is just a real cool story.

>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.