- In
that place between wakefulness and
- dreams,
I found myself in a 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, stretching from floor to
- ceiling
and seeming to go on forever--had
- very
different headings.
- As I drew near
the wall of files, the first
- to catch my
attention was one that read
- "Boys
I Have Liked." I opened it and began
- flipping
through the cards. I quickly shut it,
- shocked to
realize 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 card catalog system for my
- life. Here were
written the actions of my
- every
moment, big and small, in detail my
- memory
couldn't possibly 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 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
- 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 much fewer than
- I
hoped.
- I was
overwhelmed by the sheer volume of
- the life I had
lived. Could it be possible that
- I'd had the
time in my 17 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,
ashamed--not so much by the quality of
- the music as by
the Vast amount of time I
- knew
that this file represented. When I came to
- one 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.
- Rage
exploded within 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
a frenzy, I yanked the file out.
- Its
size didn't matter now. I had to empty
- it
and burn the cards. But as I grabbed
- it at one end
and began pounding it on the
- floor, I
couldn't 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 in half. Defeated and 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
- read
"People with Whom I Have Shared
- The
Gospel." The handle was brighter then
- those
around it. Newer. Almost unused. I
- pulled
on its handle, and a small box not more
- than
three inches deep 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 all the way through
- my body, I fell
on my knees and cried. I wept out
- of
shame--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
as I pushed away the tears I saw Him.
- No! Oh,
PLEASE NOT HIM. NOT HERE.
- OH, ANYONE BUT
JESUS. I watched
- helplessly as
he began to open and
- read the miles
and miles of cards. I couldn't bear to watch
- His
response. And in the moments I could
- bring myself to
look at His face, I saw sorrow much
- deeper
than my own. He seemed intuitively to go
- to the worst
boxes. Why did He have to
- read
every single one?
- Finally,
He turned and looked at me from
- across
the room. He looked at me with such pity
- in
His eyes. But this was 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 Him 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 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 His hand, 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 and continued
- signing.
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 the door. There were still more cards
- to
be written.
- author
unknown
-
