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| 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 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 "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 write 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 "Songs I have listened to," 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 music, but more by the vast amount of 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
the hurt 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.
-- Unknown |
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