[sword-devel] An off topic, but seeming necessary email

David Overcash sword-devel@crosswire.org
Sat, 06 Apr 2002 00:24:37 -0600


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Thanks for investigating that David, I was curious as to the level of its validity...

-Dave Overcash
  ----- Original Message ----- 
  From: David Trotz 
  To: sword-devel@crosswire.org 
  Sent: Friday, April 05, 2002 7:39 PM
  Subject: Re: [sword-devel] An off topic, but seeming necessary email


  David,
  That was a good letter, I liked reading it, I rarely read those types of letters since I get them so often in my email, but this one I read. I went ahead and checked it's validity... Here is what I found, not too far from the truth http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/theroom.htm It is a shame Christians feel they must embelish stories to get people to read them. Thanks again for sharing David.
  In Christ,
  David Trotz
    ----- Original Message ----- 
    From: David Overcash 
    To: sword-devel@crosswire.org 
    Sent: Friday, April 05, 2002 4:00 PM
    Subject: [sword-devel] An off topic, but seeming necessary email


    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>Thanks for investigating that David, I was curious 
as to the level of its validity...</FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2></FONT>&nbsp;</DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>-Dave Overcash</FONT></DIV>
<BLOCKQUOTE dir=ltr 
style="PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 5px; MARGIN-LEFT: 5px; BORDER-LEFT: #000000 2px solid; MARGIN-RIGHT: 0px">
  <DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial">----- Original Message ----- </DIV>
  <DIV 
  style="BACKGROUND: #e4e4e4; FONT: 10pt arial; font-color: black"><B>From:</B> 
  <A title=dtrotzjr@arilion.com href="mailto:dtrotzjr@arilion.com">David 
  Trotz</A> </DIV>
  <DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial"><B>To:</B> <A title=sword-devel@crosswire.org 
  href="mailto:sword-devel@crosswire.org">sword-devel@crosswire.org</A> </DIV>
  <DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial"><B>Sent:</B> Friday, April 05, 2002 7:39 
PM</DIV>
  <DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial"><B>Subject:</B> Re: [sword-devel] An off topic, 
  but seeming necessary email</DIV>
  <DIV><BR></DIV>
  <DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>David,</FONT></DIV>
  <DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>That was a good letter, I liked reading it, I 
  rarely read those types of letters since I get them so often in my email, but 
  this one I read. I went ahead and checked it's validity... Here is what I 
  found, not too far from the truth <A 
  href="http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/theroom.htm">http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/theroom.htm</A>&nbsp;It 
  is a shame Christians feel they must embelish stories to get people to read 
  them. Thanks again for sharing David.</FONT></DIV>
  <DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>In Christ,</FONT></DIV>
  <DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>David Trotz</FONT></DIV>
  <BLOCKQUOTE dir=ltr 
  style="PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 5px; MARGIN-LEFT: 5px; BORDER-LEFT: #000000 2px solid; MARGIN-RIGHT: 0px">
    <DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial">----- Original Message ----- </DIV>
    <DIV 
    style="BACKGROUND: #e4e4e4; FONT: 10pt arial; font-color: black"><B>From:</B> 
    <A title=webmaster@eurosoccerclub.net 
    href="mailto:webmaster@eurosoccerclub.net">David Overcash</A> </DIV>
    <DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial"><B>To:</B> <A title=sword-devel@crosswire.org 
    href="mailto:sword-devel@crosswire.org">sword-devel@crosswire.org</A> </DIV>
    <DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial"><B>Sent:</B> Friday, April 05, 2002 4:00 
    PM</DIV>
    <DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial"><B>Subject:</B> [sword-devel] An off topic, 
    but seeming necessary email</DIV>
    <DIV><BR></DIV>
    <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>&nbsp;</DIV>
    <DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2></FONT>&nbsp;</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.&nbsp; <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.&nbsp; <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.&nbsp; <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.&nbsp; <BR><BR><BR>The Room...&nbsp; <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.&nbsp; <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.&nbsp;&nbsp; 
    <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.&nbsp;&nbsp; &gt; <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.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <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.&nbsp; 
    <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.&nbsp;<BR>&nbsp; <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.&nbsp;<BR>&nbsp;</DIV>
    <DIV>&nbsp;"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>&nbsp;</DIV>
    <DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2></FONT>&nbsp;</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>&nbsp;</DIV>
    <DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2><BR>---<BR>Outgoing mail is certified Virus 
    Free.<BR>Checked by AVG anti-virus system (<A 
    href="http://www.grisoft.com">http://www.grisoft.com</A>).<BR>Version: 
    6.0.338 / Virus Database: 189 - Release Date: 
  3/14/2002</FONT></DIV></DIV></BLOCKQUOTE></BLOCKQUOTE></BODY></HTML>

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