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 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 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 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.

 '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 . 'I can do all things through Christ who
 strengthens me. '-Phil. 4:13.

 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?


 T. Edwards I will live for Him who died for me - my Creator
 Jesus Christ!!



 I would rather walk with God in the dark than go alone in
 the light.

By:-
Mary Gardiner Brainard