In that place between wakefulness and
dreams, I found myself in a room. There
were no distinguishing features except for the
one wall covered with small index-card files.
They were like the ones in the libraries that list
titles by author or subject in alphabetical order.
But THESE files, stretching from floor to
ceiling and seeming to go on forever--had
very different headings.

As I drew near the wall of files, the first
to catch my attention was one that read
"Boys I Have Liked". I opened it and began
flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it,
shocked to realize 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 card 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
contents. 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
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'd had the time in my 17 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
the music as by the Vast amount of time I
knew that file represented. When I came to
one 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.

Rage exploded within 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.

It's size didn't matter now. I had to empty
it and burn the cards. But as I grabbed
it at one end and began pounding it on the
floor, I couldn't 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 helpless, I
returned the file to its slot. Leaning my
forehead against thewall, I let out a long,
self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title
read "People with Whom I Have Shared
The Gospel".

The handle was brighter then
those around it. Newer. Almost unused. I
pulled on its handle, and a small box not more
than three inches deep 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 all the way through
me, I fell on my knees and cried. I wept out
of shame--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 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 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 sorrow
deeper than my own. He seemed intuitively to go
to the worst boxes. Why did He have to
read everyone?

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 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 dard, so alive.
The name of Jesus covered mine. It was--
written with His blood.

He gently took the card back and continued
signing. 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 the door. There were still cards
to be written.

author unknown

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The song that is playing is entitled,
Create In Me A Clean Heart
is Based on Psalms 50
by Gilberto Barreto & Elton Smith