Thank You, Lord for Your gentle guidance.
With Your help I will accept worthy
challenges. Amen.

A Point to Ponder....
Did you know the ten commandments are not
multiple choice?

This e-mail is a little long, I left it that way so we all can get the
full meaning behind this story. No wonder John 14:2 tell
us " In my Fathers house are many mansions" He needs
a mansion for all the bad stuff I did in my life, Thank You
Lord for preparing a place for me. Amen

The Room
 About this story - there is some background on the author that I
thought you might be interested in. Procrastinating as usual, 17
year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something
for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting. It was his turn
to lead the discussion so he sat down and wrote.

He showed the essay, titled "The Room" to his mother, Beth,
before he headed out the door. "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- the crepe paper that
had adorned his locker during his senior football season, 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 a utility
 pole. He emerged from the wreck unharmed but stepped on a
 downed power line and was electrocuted.

Brian seemed to excel at everything he did. He was an honor
student. He told his parents he loved them "a hundred times
a day", Mrs. Moore said. He was a star wide receiver for the
Teary Valley Football team and had earned a four-year scholarship
to Capital University in Columbus because of his athletic and
academic abilities. He took it upon himself to learn how to help
a fellow student who used a wheelchair at school.

During one homecoming ceremony, Brian walked on his tiptoes
so that the girl he was escorting wouldn't be embarrassed about
being taller than him. He adored his kid brother, Bruce, now 14.
He often escorted his grand-mother, Evelyn Moore, who lives in
Columbus, to church. "I always called him the "deep thinker",
Evelyn said of her eldest grandson.

Two years after his death, his family still struggles to understand
why Brian was taken from them. They find comfort at the cemetery
where Brian is buried, just a few blocks from their home. They
visit daily. A candle and dozens of silk and real flowers keep vigil
;over the gravesite.

The Moore's 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 again someday." Mrs. Moore said. "It just hurts so bad
now."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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
endlessly 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

============================

This story is the best e-mail story I have ever read.

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

If you feel the same way forward it to as many people as you
can so the love of Jesus will touch their lives also.

My "People I shared the gospel with" file just got bigger, how
about yours?

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