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 cards 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."  Another read "Boys 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
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 Have 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 16
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 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. 
           
                               Author Unknown