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's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin
found it while cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley High
School. Brian had been
dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his
life near
them-notes from classmates and teachers, his homework. 
Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about
encountering Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment
of the teen's life.
But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore realized
that
their son had described his view of heaven. "It makes such an impact
that people
want to share it. You feel like you are there." Mr. Moore said. 
 
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. 
 
"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." If you feel the same way
forward it to
as many people as you can so the love of Jesus will touch their lives
also. My
"People I shared the gospel with" file just got bigger, how about yours? 
IF THERE IS ONE EMAIL THAT I HAVE READ THAT NEEDS TO GO AROUND
THE WORLD, IT IS THIS ONE, PLEASE PASS THIS TO EVERYONE YOU KNOW,
CHRISTIAN OR NOT! "LET'S
FILL OUR OWN FILE CARD" AND MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL!
You don't have to share this with anybody, no one will know
>whether you did or not, but you will know and so will He. 


God's answers are wiser than our prayers.