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.

Without being told, I knew where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were all of the actions of every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory could not 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 Have Yelled At My Brothers and Sisters". 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 time in the years of my life to write each of those 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 file grew long to contain its contents. The cards were packed so tightly, yet after two or three yards I had found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of the music but the vast amount of time I knew that the file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts", I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled it out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke over me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy it!". 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, and then I saw it.

The title was "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 not count the cards it contained on one hand.

Tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that the hurt started on 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 brushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please, not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus.

I watched his response, and in the moment I could bring myself to look upon 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 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 arms around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just sat there and 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 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 he was on 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 price has been payed by Him. All He asks for is love.