I know this is kinda long, but I just got it from a friend in our email, and it has a very powerful message. For those of you who tend to be emotional, get some kleenex.<P>Tigger<P>> About this story - I have some background on the author that I thought<BR>> you <BR>> might be interested in. Procrastinating as usual, 17-year-old Brian<BR>> Moore <BR>> had only a short time to write something for the Fellowship of Christian <BR>> Athletes meeting. <BR>> <BR>> It was his turn to lead the discussion. So he sat down and wrote. He<BR>> showed <BR>> the essay, titled "The Room" to his mother, Beth, before he headed out<BR>> the <BR>> door. "I wowed 'em." he later told his father, Bruce. "It's a killer,<BR>> It's <BR>> the bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote." <BR>> <BR>> It also was the last. <BR>> <BR>> Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it<BR>> while <BR>> cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley High School. <BR>> <BR>> Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every <BR>> piece of his life near them - the crape paper that had adorned his locker<BR>> <BR>> during his senior football season, notes from classmates and teachers,<BR>> his <BR>> homework. <BR>> <BR>> Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering <BR>> Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's <BR>> life. But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore <BR>> realized that their son had described his view of heaven. <BR>> <BR>> "It makes such an impact that people want to share it. You feel like you <BR>> are there." Mr. Moore said. <BR>> <BR>> Brian Moore died May 27, 1997-the day after Memorial Day. He was driving <BR>> home from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce Road in <BR>> Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from the wreck <BR>> unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted. <BR>> <BR>> Brian seemed to excel at everything he did. He was an honor student. He <BR>> told his parents he loved them "a hundred times a day", Mrs. Moore said. <BR>> <BR>> He was a star wide receiver for the Teary's Valley Football team and had <BR>> earned a four-year scholarship to Capital University in Columbus because <BR>> of his athletic and academic abilities. <BR>> <BR>> He took it upon himself to learn how to help a fellow student who used a <BR>> wheelchair at school. During one homecoming ceremony, Brian walked on his<BR>> <BR>> tiptoes so that the girl he was escorting wouldn't be embarrassed <BR>> about being taller than him. He adored his kid brother, Bruce, now 14. He<BR>> <BR>> often escorted his grand- mother, Evelyn Moore, who lives in Columbus, to<BR>> <BR>> church. "I always called him the "deep thinker", Evelyn said of her<BR>> eldest <BR>> grandson. <BR>> <BR>> Two years after his death, his family still struggles to understand why <BR>> Brian was taken from them. They find comfort at the cemetery where Brian <BR>> is buried, just a few blocks from their home. They visit daily. A candle<BR>> and <BR>> dozens of silk and real flowers keep vigil over the gravesite. <BR>> <BR>> <BR>> <BR>> Moore's framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the family <BR>> portraits in the living room. <BR>> <BR>> "I think God used him to make a point. I think we were meant to find it <BR>> and make something out of it," Mrs. Moore said of the essay. She and her <BR>> husband want to share their son's vision of life after death. "I'm happy<BR>> for <BR>> Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him again someday." Mrs.<BR>> Moore <BR>> said. "It just hurts so bad now." <BR>> <BR>> ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ <BR>> <BR>> The Room... <BR>> <BR>> In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room.<BR>> <BR>> There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered<BR>> with <BR>> small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list <BR>> titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which<BR>> <BR>> stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either <BR>> direction, had very different headings. <BR>> <BR>> As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one<BR>> <BR>> that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and began flipping through<BR>> the <BR>> cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names <BR>> written on each one. <BR>> <BR>> And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless <BR>> room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here<BR>> were <BR>> written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my <BR>> memory couldn't match. <BR>> <BR>> A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as<BR>> <BR>> I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought<BR>> joy <BR>> and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I <BR>> would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. <BR>> <BR>> A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed." <BR>> The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have<BR>> Read," <BR>> "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed at." <BR>> <BR>> Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at my <BR>> brothers". <BR>> <BR>> Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I <BR>> Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." <BR>> <BR>> I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many<BR>> more <BR>> cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by<BR>> <BR>> the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had<BR>> <BR>> the time in my years to write each of these thousands or even millions of<BR>> <BR>> cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own <BR>> handwriting. Each signed with my signature. <BR>> <BR>> <BR>> <BR>> <BR>> <BR>> <BR>> When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I have listened to," I realized <BR>> the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly,<BR>> and <BR>> yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut<BR>> it, <BR>> shamed, not so much by the quality of music but more by the vast time I <BR>> knew that file represented. <BR>> <BR>> When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run <BR>> through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test<BR>> its size, <BR>> and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to <BR>> think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke<BR>> on <BR>> me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No <BR>> one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I <BR>> yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and<BR>> burn the <BR>> cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I <BR>> could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a <BR>> card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it. <BR>> <BR>> Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my<BR>> <BR>> forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then <BR>> I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The<BR>> handle <BR>> was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its <BR>> handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands.<BR>> <BR>> I could count the cards it contained on one hand. <BR>> <BR>> And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. <BR>> They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and<BR>> cried. <BR>> I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of <BR>> file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know<BR>> of <BR>> this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. <BR>> <BR>> But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not <BR>> here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the <BR>> files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in <BR>> the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow<BR>> deeper <BR>> than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He<BR>> have to <BR>> read every one? <BR>> <BR>> Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me <BR>> with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped<BR>> <BR>> my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked <BR>> over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He <BR>> didn't say a word. He just cried with me. Then He got up and walked back <BR>> to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file<BR>> <BR>> and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I<BR>> shouted <BR>> rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no, " as I pulled the <BR>> card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was,<BR>> written <BR>> in red so rich, so dark, so alive. <BR>> <BR>> The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently <BR>> took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I <BR>> don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next <BR>> instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my <BR>> side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I<BR>> stood up, <BR>> and He led me out of the room. <BR>> <BR>> There was no lock on its door. <BR>> <BR>> There were still cards to be written. <BR>> <BR>> "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." Phil. 4:13<P>

thanks tigger. you were right about needing the kleenex. that story is everyone of us in some way. makes you think, life is short, make the best of it. and share god's love. which you just did by sharing with all of us. you should post this on the women's bible study forum. actually i think i will link it for them, i am sure they will like it.<P>thanks tigger. hope you are feeling better and that your grandma's surgery goes well tomorrow.<P>happy_girl<BR>

Dear Tigger,<P>It is beautiful. Thanks for sharing. I will share that with my friends.<P>God bless you, <BR>take care<BR>from weep.<P>Thanks Happy_girl for doing the link again.

I don't think I can take anymore of this. Is this a conspiracy, Lord? Must be my time to let go of the anger, disappointment, resentment, jealousy, vengeful thoughts, pride, sadness, manipulation, lies, evil thoughts.<P>Thank you, Tigger. I've been 'touched' so much today I am feeling down right manhandled.<P>Catnip =^^=

Thanks Tigger. Wow,that was touching....<BR><P>------------------<BR>Imagine....

Tigger,<P>That was truly powerful ... Makes you think ...<P>I will be happy to share this with my friends.<P>- Heavenly

Powerful! thank you for sharing. God bless<P>Comfort

Thank you so much that made me think about things I have been doing a whole lot differently.