The Room

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room.  There were no distinguishing features save 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 endlessly 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 "People 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.  Then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.  This lifeless room with it's small files was a crude catalog system for my life.  Here were written the actions of my every moment, both big and small, in a detail that my memory could not possibly 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 else was watching.  A file named "Friends" was next to the 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 have 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 would have expected.  Sometimes fewer than I had hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I have lived.  Could it be possible that I had time in my 20 years to have written each of these thousands or millions of cards?  But each card confirmed this truth.  Each was written in my own hand-writings.  Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I have listened to." I realized that the files grew in order to contain their contents.  The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I still hadn't found the end of the file.  I shut it, ashamed, not so much by the quality of the music I listened to, but more by the vast amount of time that 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 it's detailed account.  I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.  An almost animal rage broke in 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 an insane frenzy, I yanked the file out.  It's 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 it's 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, new and 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.

Then the tears came.  I began to weep.  Sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach and shook all through me.  I fell on my knees and cried.  I cried out of shame...from the overwhelming shame of it all.  The rows of filed 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 wiped 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 bare to watch His response.  And in the moments that I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow much, much 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 arms around me.  He could have said so many things, but He didn't.  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 toward Him.  All I could find to say was "No...no..." as I pulled the card from Him.  His name didn't belong these cards.  These were thoughts and actions that He never would have imagined thinking...let alone doing.  Yet there it was...His name...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 rest of the cards.  I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly...so willingly...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 it's door.  There were still cards to be written.

~ Author Unknown ~