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. Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his life near them--the crepe paper that had adorned his locker during his senior football season, 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.

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 Room
by Brian Keith Moore

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 right to left as far as the eye could see, had very different headings.

As I walked up to 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.  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  entire life.  The actions of my every moment, big and small, were written in a detail my memory couldn't match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, mixed 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 common, everyday things to the not-so- common-"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 And Sisters."  Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I  Have Done In 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 had hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had  lived.  Could it be possible that I had time in my 17 years  to write each of these thousands or millions of cards?  But  each card confirmed the truth. Each card was written in  my own handwriting.  Each card was 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 the 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 such a moment  had been recorded.  A feeling of humiliation and anger ran  through my body.  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.  Its size didn't matter now.  I had to empty it and burn the cards.  But as I took the file 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. That was when I saw it.  The file 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 3 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. Then as I looked up through my tears,  I saw Him enter the room.  No, please, not Him.  Not here.   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.  The few times I looked at His face I saw  such sadness that it tore at my heart  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.  It was written in 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  the door.  There were still cards to be written.

He who loses money loses much;
He who loses a friend loses more;
He who loses faith loses all.
...

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