“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 the small index 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 “People 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 contents.

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 title ranged from 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 Have Yelled My Brothers At”.

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 was the truth. Each was written in my own hand writing.

Each assigned with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked “Lustful Thoughts”, I felt a chill run through my body.

I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to attest its size, and drew out a card.

I shuddered at its detailed content.

I felt sick and 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 and burn the cards. But as I took it 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 the tears came. I began to weep.

I sob 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 the file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes.

No one must ever, ever know this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away my 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 could not bear to watch His responses.

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 does He have to read every one of them?

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, cover my face with my hands and began to cry again.

He walked over and put His arms 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 walls of files.

Starting from 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 should not be in these cards.

But it was, written in red… so rich… so dark… so alive.

The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written in 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 walked 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 are still cards to be written.

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