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 listed the authors or subject in
alphabetical order. But these files, which
stretched from floor to
ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had
very different readings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch
my attention was the 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 life. Here were written the actions of
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 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 to 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 life I had lived. Could it be possible that I have time in my 20
years to write each of these thousands of even millions of cards? But each
card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my handwriting. Each 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 the 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 that such
a moment had been recorded.
An almost animal rage broke on me.
One thought dominated my mind: "No one must 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 those 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 strong as steel
when I tried to tear it.
Defeated and utterly helpless, I
returned the file to its slot. Leaning on 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 and almost unused.
I pulled on its handle and a small box no 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 files shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever know of
this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.
But 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 own 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.