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 "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 
 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.  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.