Monday, March 08, 2004
Brian's Essay
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 Teary Valley High School.
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 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 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 brother." 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 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. 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 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, and 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.
yeah... got a bit of goosebumps after reading it... kinda chills me out... and even so... i've read through this many times to remind myself...
liten shan@
5:12 AM
