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This is long but please take the time to read all of the story. It could make a world of difference in your future.
He Was Wounded. . .
Procrastinating as usual, 17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting. It was his turn to lead the discussion. So he sat down and
wrote. He showed the essay titled "The Room" to his mother, Beth, before he headed out the door.
"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 Teays Valley High School. Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of
his life near them - the crepe paper that had adorned his locker during his senior football season, 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.
Brian seemed to excel
at everything he did. He was an honor student. He told his parents he
loved
them "a hundred times a day," Mrs. Moore said. He was a star wide receiver
for the Teays Valley football team and had earned a four-year scholarship
to
Capital University in Columbus because of his athletic and academic
abilities.
He took it upon himself to learn how to help a fellow student
who
used a wheelchair at school. During one homecoming ceremony, Brian walked
on
his tiptoes so the girl he was escorting wouldn't be embarrassed about
being
taller than him. He adored his kid brother, Bruce, now 14. He often
escorted
his grandmother, Evelyn Moore, who lives in Columbus, to church. "I always
called him the deep thinker," Evelyn Moore said of her eldest grandson.
Two
years after his death, his family still struggles to understand why Brian
was taken from them. They find comfort at the cemetery where Brian is
buried, just a few blocks from their home. They visit daily. A candle and
dozens of silk and real flowers keep vigil over the grave site.
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 again someday," Mr.
Moore said. "I just hurt so bad now.
"The Room"
By Brian Keith Moore
In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room.
There were no distinguishing features save 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 right to left as far as the eye could
see, had very different headings. As I walked up to the wall of files, the
first to catch my attention was one that read, "People 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 entire life. The actions of
my
every moment, big and small, were written in a detail my memory couldn't
match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, mixed 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 common, everyday things to the not-so-common- "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 Have Yelled
at
My Brothers and Sisters." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done
in
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 had hoped. I was overwhelmed by
the
sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had time
in my 17 years to write each of these thousands or millions of cards? But
each card confirmed the truth. Each card was written in my own
handwriting. Each card was signed with my signature. When I pulled out the file marked
"Songs I Have Listened To," 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 music, but more by the vast amount of 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 such a moment had been recorded. A feeling of humiliation
and
anger ran through my body. 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 the file 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. That was when I saw it. The file 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 3 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 the hurt 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.
Then as I looked up through my tears, I saw Him enter the room. No,
please,
not Him. Not here. 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.
The few times I looked at His face I saw such sadness that it tore at my
heart. 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 in 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.
If given a chance to look at your file what would you find written?
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