[b] 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." [/b]

Page 1

[b] 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. [/b]