| Thank you Shelley. It is a beautiful post. Suddenly I feel Hope . I wish all will read this. Molly
--- On Sun, 2/28/10, Shelley Cartwright <bugshell87@yahoo. com> wrote:
From: Shelley Cartwright <bugshell87@yahoo. com>
Subject: [FamilyofGod] Th Room/Heaven
To: FamilyofGod@ yahoogroups. com
Date: Sunday, February 28, 2010, 7:52 PM
| | | | Heaven as written by a 17 Year Old Boy
This is excellent and really gets you
thinking about what will happen in Heaven.
17-year-old Brian Moore had only a
short time to write something for a class. The subject was what
Heaven was like. "I wowed 'em," he later told his father, Bruce. It's
a killer. It's the bomb It's the best thing I ever wrote." It also
was the last.
Brian's parents had forgotten about
the essay when a cousin found it while cleaning out the teenager's
locker at Teays Valley High School in Pickaway County
Brian had been dead only hours, but
his parents desperately wanted every piece of his life near them,
notes from classmates and teachers, and his homework. Only two months
before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering Jesus in a
file room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's life.
But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore
realized that their son had described his view of heaven.
It makes such an impact that people want
to share it. "You feel like you are there," Mr. Moore said.. Brian
Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. He was driving
home from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce Road in
Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from the wreck
unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.
The Moore 's framed a copy of Brian's
essay and hung it among the family portraits in the living room. "I
think God used him to make a point. I think we were meant to find it
and make something out of it," Mrs. Moore said of the essay. She and
her husband want to share their son's vision of life after death.
"I'm happy for Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him.
Here is Brian's essay entitled:
" 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 card 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 endless 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 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 years to fill 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 "TV
Shows I have watched," 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 shows but more by the vast 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 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 they hurt. They 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, and 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.
"For God so loved the world that He gave
His only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have
eternal life." John 3:16~ShelleyGlitter
ShelleyGlitter
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