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 write 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"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
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 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.
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