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 streched from
floor to ceiling and
seemingly enlessly 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 twenty 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 in 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 that 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 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 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...
"Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise;
give thanks to Him and praise His name. For the Lord is good
and
His love endures forever. His faithfulness continues through
all generations."
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