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 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 endlessly 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 20 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 amount of 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
an 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 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.
By Joshua Harris. Originally published in
New Attitude Magazine. Copyright New Attitude, 1995. You have permission to
reprint this in any form. We only ask that you include the appropriate
copyright byline and do not alter the content.
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