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 Teary Valley High School.
Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted
every piece of his life near them-notes from classmates and teachers,
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 descri bed 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 po le. He emerged from the wreck unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.

The Moores
framed a copy of Brian’s es say 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.”

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 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 th e 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 d idn’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 th is 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.

“I
can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”-Phil. 4:13 “For
God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes
in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.” If you feel the same
way forward it to as many people as you can so the love of Jesus will
touch their lives also. My “People I shared the gospel with” file just
got bigger, how about yours?

IF
THERE IS ONE EMAIL THAT I HAVE READ THAT NEEDS TO GO AROUND THE WORLD,
IT IS THIS ONE, PLEASE PASS THIS TO EVERYONE YOU KNOW, CHRISTIAN OR
NOT! “LET’S FILL OUR OWN FILE CARD” AND MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL!