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 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 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 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, and 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.