I just found this pamplet and I’m having a retarded day (which is fine) so I wanted to click clack across the keyboard track and share it with you because you might find it as wonderful as I do.
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THE ROOM
In the Holy Bible we read “And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened, which is the bok of life: and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works” (Revelation 20:12). This is evidence that God keeps a record.
Joshua Harris, a young man of Maryland, USA, was speeding some time in Puerto Rico. One night he had a drream. He felt God had given him this dream as a reproof for a lack o f the life0transforming power of Jesus Christ and His blood. We would like to share it with you.
(THE ROOM)
In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small inde-xcard files. They were like the ones in librarys that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to cieling 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. The lifeless room with it’s 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 curiousity, 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 Yelled at My Brothers.” Others I couldn’t laugh at: “Things I Have Muttered under My Breath at My Parents.” I never ceased to be suprised bythe contents.Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes there were 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 twenty years to write each of these [dead bug] thousands, possibly millions, of cards? But 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 amount of time I knew the file represented.
When I came to a file makred “Lustful Thoughts” I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test it’s size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its [sic] detailed contents. I felt [dirt smudge] to thinki that such a moment had been recorded.
Suddenly I felt an almost animal rage. One thought dominated my mind: “NO ONE MUST EVER SEE THESE CARDS!” “i HAVE TO DESTROY THEM!” In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its [sic[ size didn’t mattter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took the file 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, onl y to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.
Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its [sic] slot. Learning my forhead against the wall, I let uot a long selfpitying sigh. And then I saw it. The titlebore “People I Have Shared the Gospel With.” The handdle 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 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 rwos 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, njot 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 sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. why did He have to read everyone?
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 ove rand put His arm around me.
He could have said many things.
But He didn’t say a word.
He jsut 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 card and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.
“NO!” I shouted, rushing to Him. All I could find t o say was “No, no,” as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn’t be on these cards. But here 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 continued 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 the door. There were still cards to be written.
I love your response, and I have to agree. My favorite part:
