Sent: Wednesday, July 17, 2002 12:24 PM
Subject: View of Heaven
> 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 fiend'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 downed power line and
was
electrocuted.
> The Moore's 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.
>
> 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 write 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."
>
> 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?
>
>> "LET'S FILL OUR OWN FILE CARD" AND MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL !
>
>
-- MaryLu (mlc327@juno.com), July 21, 2002