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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
endlessly 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 20 years to write
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 "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,shamed, not so much by the quality of
music, but more by the
vast amount of 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 an insane
frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't mattered
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
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
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." Phil. 4:13

This story is the best e-mail story I have ever read.
"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?

(posted 10/31/00 -- submitted by Karen_K_Phipps@aoncons.com )