Posted on 07/14/2006 4:51:17 PM PDT by KansasConservative1
The story, if I remember correctly was written by a young man who actually died shortly after it was penned. It talks about going to heaven and finding a large card catalogue shelf with a drawer with his name on it. Upon opening he sees all the sins of his life... thousands of them. In his shame he thumbs through them and at the deepest depth of dispair he is approched by Jesus. He begs Jesus not to read the cards but he begins anyway. As Jesus begins to pull cards out of the deck they are blank. one by one he finds every card that once held a sin was now blank.
That is the gist of the story, I remember it very well and would love to find it again.
any help would be appreciated.
cool. Hope you find it.
haven't heard that story, but that's a good one.
I remember the story of which you speak - unfortunately I do not remember the name of the young man. I will try to do a little research later to see if something jogs it up on Google...
I just found out that it may be in a Joshua Harris book. I kissed dating goodby
I remember the story...I have actually searched for it and found it online (years ago) - I also remember there is some sort of weird plagiarism charge about it - apparently the person who published it and claimed it "came to him in a dream" actually read it somewhere else. Let me see if I can find it again.
There was a very similar story called "The Room". Not sure if it's the same one you're thinking of.
The following article was originally printed in The Columbus Dispatch on June 2, 1999.
Essay Wasn't Written by Teen
By Jill Riepenhoff - Dispatch Staff Reporter
Words of encouragement found in a 17-year-old's school locker hours after his death in 1997 once comforted his parents.Now those words that describe a teen-ager meeting Jesus in heaven are bringing anguish to Beth and Bruce Moore of Commercial Point in Pickaway County.
They learned yesterday that an essay their son, Brian, told them he had written is attributed to Christian author Joshua Harris. It appears in Harris' book, I Kissed Dating Goodbye, published by Multnomah Publishers of Sisters, Ore., in April 1997. It first appeared in the spring 1995 issue of the now-defunct New Attitude magazine, once edited by Harris.
The essay, with credit to Brian Moore as the author, was published in yesterday's Dispatch. Well-meaning relatives wanted to share what they believed were the late Teays Valley High School student's insightful words on the anniversary of his death.
"I had no idea,'' Mrs. Moore said yesterday. "I'm positive he said he wrote this. If he was here, I'd wring his neck.''
Brian told his parents that he wrote the essay, titled "The Room,'' as an assignment for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, a group to which he belonged.
The essay has gained a life of its own on the Internet, where more than a dozen variations appear under titles such as "Life's Index Cards,'' "The Price'' and "The Room of My Life.'' It has been tailored for other religions, such as under the title "People That I Have Taught Allah.'' Many of the listings say the author is anonymous, but several people have taken credit for writing it, including Harris.
Mrs. Moore recalled reading it the day her son said he wrote it, about two months before his death on May 27, 1997. The essay appears in Chapter 7 of Harris' book. "I don't usually share my dreams with people, but I'd like to tell you about a particularly stirring one I once had,'' Harris begins the chapter titled, "A Cleansed past: The Room.''
The essay tells of a teen-ager encountering Jesus in a heavenly file room full of cards detailing every moment of his life. Mrs. Moore said she and her husband never saw a copy of the book as they sorted through their son's belongings.
Brian died after his car ran off a road in rural Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He escaped without injuries but then stepped on a downed power line as he went for help and was electrocuted.
The essay was read at Brian's funeral. It has been circulated among church youth groups in the area, and a copy of it hangs on the Moores' living room wall.
"I'm just embarrassed to death,'' Mrs. Moore said.
http://www.joshharris.com/theroom/originalarticle.htm
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 "Brian Moore." 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 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 remember when that was published. I had it clipped at one time, but it got misplaced.
I remember that one too.
But I don't know where to suggest beyond DOGPILE.COM with some likely keywords.
There are some sites that specialize in Heavenly visitations. It might be collected in one of those.
Please ping me if you find it.
Blessings
http://acolumbinesite.com/victim/dead/rachel/eyes99.jpg
Reminds me of the girl that died at Columbine - Rachael Scott. In her journal on the morning of the shooting, she doodled a drawing with a pair of eyes crying, with 13 tears falling on a rose.
Later that day, she was one of the 13 people dead.
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