The Room
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 suprised 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 or 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, ashamed, 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.
-Author Unknown