On Tue, 29 Jul 2003 11:16:24 -0700,
"Daniel Chemko" <dchemko@xxxxxxxxxx> wrote in message
<7C9884991ADAE0479C14F10C858BCDF52E35F3@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx>:
> Please post OT when you feel in the mood to share Offtopic articles.
..and whenever you see these spammers, get them _off_ the net.
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29 Jul 2003 11:01:19 PDT From: SBlaze <dagent.geo@xxxxxxxxx>
Subject: Fwd: The Room
To: Catherine Cardwell <bluetopazz_2000@xxxxxxxxx>, Sylvia Chan
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Tue, 29 Jul 2003 11:01:19 -0700 (PDT)
--- 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 >
>
>
> -----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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--
..med vennlig hilsen = with Kind Regards from Arnt... ;-)
...with a number of polar bear hunters in his ancestry...
Scenarios always come in sets of three:
best case, worst case, and just in case.
