If this one doesn't move you, I don't know what will! It blessed
me, it really did. Think on it.... I have only one word for you... SHARE.
It is long but please take a moment to read.

A TEENAGER'S VIEW OF HEAVEN

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 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.

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 car ds. I quickly shut it, shocked
to real ize 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 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 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 ho w He did it so quickly, but the
next i nstant 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.' If you feel the
same way forward it so the love of Jesus will touch their lives also. My

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

You don't have to share this with anybody, no one will know
whether you did or not, but what do you feel in your heart?

God Bless