[sword-devel] An off topic, but seeming necessary email
David Overcash
sword-devel@crosswire.org
Fri, 05 Apr 2002 18:00:00 -0600
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Hey guys,
I got this email today, really brought me to think on a lot so I thought I would forward it:
The story behind the story "The Room". 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 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 Moores 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.
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 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 years to 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 runthrough 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, 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." ---John 3:16
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?
-David Overcash
webmaster@eurosoccerclub.net
AIM: FunnyLookinHat
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<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>Hey guys,</FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>I got this email today, really brought me to think
on a lot so I thought I would forward it:</FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV>
<DIV>The story behind the story "The Room". 17-year-old Brian Moore had only
a<BR>short time to write something for a class. The subject was what Heaven
was<BR>like. "I wowed 'em," he later told his father, Bruce. "It's a killer,
It's<BR>the bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote." It also was the last.
<BR><BR>Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it
while<BR>cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley High School. Brian
had<BR>been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of
his<BR>life near them-notes from classmates and teachers, his homework.
<BR><BR>Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about
encountering<BR>Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the
teen's life<BR>But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore
realized that<BR>their son had described his view of heaven. It makes such an
impact that<BR>people want to share it. You feel like you are there." Mr. Moore
said. <BR><BR>Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day.
He was driving<BR>home from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce
Road in<BR>Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from the
wreck<BR>unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.
<BR><BR>The Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the
family<BR>portraits in the living room. "I think God used him to make a point. I
think<BR>we were meant to find it and make something out of it, " Mrs. Moore
said of<BR>the essay. She and her husband want to share their son's vision of
life<BR>after death. "I'm happy for Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll
see<BR>him. <BR><BR><BR>The Room... <BR><BR>In that place between
wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room.<BR>There were no
distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with<BR>small index card
files. They were like the ones in libraries that list<BR>titles by author or
subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which<BR>stretched from floor to
ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction,<BR>had very different
headings. <BR><BR>As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my
attention was one<BR>that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and began
flipping through the<BR>cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I
recognized the names<BR>written on each one. And then without being told, I knew
exactly where I<BR>was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude
catalog system for<BR>my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment,
big and small, in<BR>a detail my memory couldn't match. <BR><BR>A sense of
wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as<BR>I began
randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy<BR>and
sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I<BR>would
look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. <BR><BR>A file named
"Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed."<BR>The titles ranged
from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have<BR>Read," "Lies I Have
Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed<BR>at." Some were almost
hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at<BR>my brothers." Others I
couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger,"<BR>"Things I Have Muttered
Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be<BR>surprised by the
contents. <BR><BR>Often there were many more cards than I expected.
Sometimes fewer than I<BR>hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the
life I had lived. Could<BR>it be possible that I had the time in my years to
each of these thousands or<BR>even millions of cards? But each card confirmed
this truth. Each was written<BR>in my own handwriting. Each signed with my
signature. > <BR><BR>When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows
I have watched ," I realized<BR>the files grew to contain their contents. The
cards were packed tightly, and<BR>yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found
the end of the file. I shut it,<BR>shamed, not so much by the quality of shows
but more by the vast time I knew<BR>that file represented. When I came to a file
marked "Lustful Thoughts," I<BR>felt a chill runthrough my body. I pulled the
file out only an inch, not<BR>willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I
shuddered at its detailed<BR>content. I felt sick to think that such a moment
had been recorded. <BR><BR>An almost animal rage broke on me.
One thought dominated my mind: No one<BR>must ever see these cards! No one must
ever see this room! I have to destroy<BR>them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the
file out. Its size didn't matter now. I<BR>had to empty it and burn the cards.
But as I took it at one end and began<BR>pounding it on the floor, I could not
dislodge a single card. I became<BR>desperate and pulled out a card, only to
find it as strong as steel when I<BR>tried to tear it. Defeated and utterly
helpless, I returned the file to its<BR>slot. <BR><BR>Leaning my forehead
against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.<BR>And then I saw it..
The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With."<BR>The handle was
brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused.<BR></DIV>
<DIV>I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches
long<BR>fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.
And<BR>then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt.
They<BR>started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and
cried. I<BR>cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows
of file<BR>shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know
of this<BR>room. I must lock it up and hide the key. <BR></DIV>
<DIV>But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him.
Not<BR>here Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open
the<BR>files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in
the<BR>moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper
than<BR>my own.<BR><BR>He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did
He have to read<BR>every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the
room. He<BR>looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't
anger<BR>me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry
again.<BR>He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many
things.<BR>But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me. <BR><BR>Then He got
up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end<BR>of the room, He
took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over<BR>mine on each
card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say<BR>was "No, no,"
as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these<BR>cards. But
there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name<BR>of Jesus
covered mine. It was written with His blood.. He gently took the<BR>card back.
He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. <BR> <BR>I don't
think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next<BR>instant it
seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side.<BR>He placed
His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up,<BR>and He led me
out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were<BR>still cards to be
written. <BR> </DIV>
<DIV> "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." ---Phil.
4:13 <BR><BR>"For God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that
whoever<BR>believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life." ---John 3:16
<BR><BR>If you feel the same way forward it to as many people as you can so
the<BR>love of Jesus will touch their lives also. My "People I shared the
gospel<BR>with" file just got bigger, how about yours?</DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>-David Overcash</FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2><A
href="mailto:webmaster@eurosoccerclub.net">webmaster@eurosoccerclub.net</A></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>AIM:
FunnyLookinHat</FONT></DIV></DIV></BODY></HTML>
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