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The Room
An Essay about
Heaven
By Brian Moore
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, 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.
Brian's Essay: 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 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 led 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." 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?
By Brian Moore |
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