Bajeca's Values Vistas

Your values are the principles you have which control your behavior

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

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."

17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write
something for a class. The subject as 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 Teays Valley High School in Pickaway County.
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

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.