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, seemed 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 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, FOR THE CHRISTIAN OR NOT!
MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL!
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