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