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A TEENAGER'S VIEW OF HEAVEN
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> >
> > 17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write
> > something for a class. The subject was what Heaven was like. "I wowed
> > 'em," he later told his father, Bruce. "It's a killer. It's the bomb.
> > It's the best thing I ever wrote.." It also was the last.
> >
> >
> >
> > 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 Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it
> > among the family portraits in the living room. "I think God used him to
> > make a point. I think we were meant to find it and make something out of
> > it," Mrs. Moore said of the essay. She and her husband want to share
> > their son's vision of life after death. "I'm happy for Brian. I know
> > he's in heaven. I know I'll see him."
> >
> >
> >
> > Brian's Essay: 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 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 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,seemed
> > 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, 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.
> >
> >
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> >
> > "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." If
> > you feel the same way forward it so the love of Jesus will touch their
> > lives also. My "People I shared the gospel with" file just got bigger,
> > how about yours?
> >
> >
> >
> > IF THERE IS ONE EMAIL THAT I HAVE READ THAT NEEDS TO GO
> > AROUND THE WORLD, IT IS THIS ONE, FOR THE CHRISTIAN OR NOT! MAY GOD
> > BLESS YOU ALL!
> >
> > You don't have to share this with anybody, no one will
> > know whether you did or not, but what do you feel in your heart?
> >
> >
> >
> > Having read this put your self in the place of this boy and consider
> > what would be in your room.
> >
> >
> >
> >
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