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<span style="widows: 2; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><b><font
color="#002060" face="Arial" size="6"><span
style="font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 32, 96); font-size:
24pt; font-weight: bold;">17-year-old Brian Moore had only a
short time to write something for a class. The subject was
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.</span></font></b><span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"><font color="black"
face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family: Arial; color:
black; font-size: 10pt;"> <br>
<br>
</span></font></span><font color="black" face="Arial" size="2"><span
style="font-family: Arial; color: black; font-size: 10pt;"></span></font><b><font
color="#002060" face="Arial" size="6"><span
style="font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 32, 96); font-size:
24pt; font-weight: bold;">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 <span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
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.</span></font></b><span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"><font color="black"
face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family: Arial; color:
black; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></font></span><font
color="black" face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family:
Arial; color: black; font-size: 10pt;"><br>
</span></font><b><font color="#002060" face="Arial" size="7"><span
style="font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 32, 96); font-size:
36pt; font-weight: bold;"></span></font></b><font
color="black" face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family:
Arial; color: black; font-size: 10pt;"><br>
</span></font><b><font color="#002060" face="Arial" size="6"><span
style="font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 32, 96); font-size:
24pt; font-weight: bold;">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. <span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
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.<span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
Here is Brian's essay entitled</span></font></b><span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"><font color="black"
face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family: Arial; color:
black; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></font></span><font
color="black" face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family:
Arial; color: black; font-size: 10pt;"><br>
</span></font><b><i><font color="#002060" face="Arial" size="6"><span
style="font-style: italic; font-family: Arial; color:
rgb(0, 32, 96); font-size: 24pt; font-weight: bold;">"The
Room."<span class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
Page 1</span></font></i></b><span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"><font color="black"
face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family: Arial; color:
black; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></font></span><font
color="black" face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family:
Arial; color: black; font-size: 10pt;"><br>
</span></font><b><i><font color="#002060" face="Arial" size="6"><span
style="font-style: italic; font-family: Arial; color:
rgb(0, 32, 96); font-size: 24pt; font-weight: bold;">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.</span></font></i></b><span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"><font color="black"
face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family: Arial; color:
black; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></font></span><font
color="black" face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family:
Arial; color: black; font-size: 10pt;"><br>
</span></font><b><i><font color="#002060" face="Arial" size="6"><span
style="font-style: italic; font-family: Arial; color:
rgb(0, 32, 96); font-size: 24pt; font-weight: bold;">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.<span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
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."<span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
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...<span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
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.<span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
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.<span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
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.<span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
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.</span></font></i></b><span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"><font color="black"
face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family: Arial; color:
black; font-size: 10pt;"> <br>
<br>
</span></font></span><font color="black" face="Arial" size="2"><span
style="font-family: Arial; color: black; font-size: 10pt;"></span></font><b><i><font
color="#002060" face="Arial" size="6"><span
style="font-style: italic; font-family: Arial; color:
rgb(0, 32, 96); font-size: 24pt; font-weight: bold;">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.<span class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
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..</span></font></i></b><span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"><font color="black"
face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family: Arial; color:
black; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></font></span><font
color="black" face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family:
Arial; color: black; font-size: 10pt;"><br>
</span></font><b><i><font color="#002060" face="Arial" size="6"><span
style="font-style: italic; font-family: Arial; color:
rgb(0, 32, 96); font-size: 24pt; font-weight: bold;">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..<span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
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.</span></font></i></b><span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"><font color="black"
face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family: Arial; color:
black; font-size: 10pt;"> <br>
<br>
</span></font></span><font color="black" face="Arial" size="2"><span
style="font-family: Arial; color: black; font-size: 10pt;"></span></font><b><i><font
color="#002060" face="Arial" size="6"><span
style="font-style: italic; font-family: Arial; color:
rgb(0, 32, 96); font-size: 24pt; font-weight: bold;">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.<span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
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.</span></font></i></b><span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"><font color="black"
face="Arial" size="2"><span style="font-family: Arial; color:
black; font-size: 10pt;"> <br>
<br>
</span></font></span><font color="black" face="Arial" size="2"><span
style="font-family: Arial; color: black; font-size: 10pt;"></span></font><b><i><font
color="blue" face="Arial" size="6"><span style="font-style:
italic; font-family: Arial; color: blue; font-size: 24pt;
font-weight: bold;">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."<span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
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.<span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
"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<span
class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
</span></font></i></b><b><font color="#002060" face="Arial"
size="6"><span style="font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 32,
96); font-size: 24pt; font-weight: bold;"><br>
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?<span class="yiv2019610866apple-converted-space"> </span><br>
<br>
You don't have to share this with anybody, no one will know
whether you did or not, but you will know and so will He.</span></font></b></span>
<pre class="moz-signature" cols="72">--
"Gun control is like trying to reduce drunk driving by making it
tougher for sober people to own cars." - Unknown
</pre>
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