~ Contemplate The Following… ~
The following is from another source.
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
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 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
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.
By Joshua
Harris. Originally published in New
Attitude Magazine. Copyright New
Attitude, 1995. You have permission to
reprint this in any form. We only ask
that you include the appropriate copyright byline and do not alter the content.
~ Robert Lloyd Russell, ABUNDANT LIFE NOW
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