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 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, and 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?
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 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, and 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?
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