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 indexcard 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
endlessly 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 20 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 "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 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 the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me.
I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the
overwheming 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.
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 cards 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 cards back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign
them. 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.
The above story was sent to me via E-Mail
some time ago. I was asked to pass it along.
And so I now offer it to you.
Jesus is Lord (Return to Home Page)
THE CONTENTS OF THE ADVERTISEMENT BELOW ARE
THE RESPONSIBILITY OF TRIPOD, NOT THIS PAGE'S
CREATOR. IF I COULD AFFORD TO TAKE IT OFF,
I WOULD. I DO NOT MEAN DISRESPECT TO TRIPOD,
HOWEVER, WHO HAS GRACIOUSLY PROVIDED SPACE.