RE: The Room

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-----Original Message-----
From: SBlaze [mailto:dagent.geo@xxxxxxxxx] 
Sent: Tuesday, July 29, 2003 11:01 AM
To: Catherine Cardwell; Sylvia Chan; Mark Collins; Dub; Gus; Michelle;
nf; Ray Parish; dave w
Subject: Fwd: The Room


--- PScooby478@xxxxxxx wrote:
> From PScooby478@xxxxxxx Tue Jul 29 09:56:31 2003
> From: PScooby478@xxxxxxx
> Date: Tue, 29 Jul 2003 12:56:31 EDT
> Subject: Fwd: The Room
> To: dagent.geo@xxxxxxxxx
> 
>  
> 

> ATTACHMENT part 2 message/rfc822 
> From: Rundaroadz@xxxxxxx
> Date: Tue, 29 Jul 2003 06:13:39 EDT
> Subject: Fwd: The Room
> To: CBinkjunky@xxxxxxx, dawnprodriguez@xxxxxxx, ronndeb1972@xxxxxxxxx,
> 	SgtMajCleotis@xxxxxxx, jnett@xxxxxxxxxxxx,
> 	dancing_princess13@xxxxxxxxxxx, ctaj@xxxxxxxxxxx,
Lbhuminbird1@xxxxxxx,
> 	BobbysGtownMom@xxxxxxx, mikah@xxxxxxxxxxx,
zipzeronada@xxxxxxxxxxxx,
> 	Macon2005@xxxxxxx, LuvMargie@xxxxxxx,
naomidavid_32177@xxxxxxxxx,
> 	TrailBlzrRT180@xxxxxxx, PScooby478@xxxxxxx, GRACEME1126@xxxxxxx
> 
>  
> 

> ATTACHMENT part 2.2 message/rfc822 
> From: GeorgiaRhythm03@xxxxxxx
> Date: Mon, 28 Jul 2003 11:54:04 EDT
> Subject: The Room
> To: undisclosed-recipients:;
> 
> An oldie on the internet but well worth repeating... Long but worth
the time 
> :)
> 
> The Room
> 
> 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's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it
while 
> cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teays Valley High School in
Pickaway 
> County. 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 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? Finall y 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."- 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 to as many people as you can so
the love 
> of Jesus will touch their lives also. My "People I shared the gospel
with" 
> file just
> got bigger, how about yours?
> 


=====
"Winky is not knowing how sir, winky is not knowing how?" -=Winky /
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire=-"

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