Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while
cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley High School Brian had
been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his
life near them-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.

"It makes such an impact that people want to share it. You feel like you
are there." Mr. Moore said. 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 watch. 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, 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."-Philippians 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."