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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 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 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?
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 "For God so
loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him shall
not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16
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