The Room

Sorry the layout to this post is so weird...I don't know what is wrong with it!

I had a really good visit with Keltson's Mom on Wednesday.

She is one the strongest people I know.

She gave me a Christmas gift that put me in tears

(suprising huh? I never cry! ;) haha.)

It was a gift basket.

with all sorts of thing to remember Keltson by.

One of the things inside was a poem Keltson wrote.

About a year before Keltson passed away,

I became aware of the amazing writer he was.

He wrote a story about a dream he had and I was so intrigued the whole time.

He was an amazing writer.

This poem he wrote was about Christmas.

It showed his amazing Testimony of our Savior.

That is not the point of this post though.

The reason I tell you this is to understand how I came across the story that I am about to share.

I was showing/telling my little sister about this basket.

When I showed her the poem, she said that it reminded her of a young man that passed away.

She was told about this in Seminary a few weeks ago.

She found it on the internet and showed it to me.

I couldn't resist posting it on my blog.

It was so good.

It really made me think

Before I share the poem though, I am going to share the story behind it; About the Author:

About The Author

Procrastinating as usual, 17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to

write something for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting. It was his

turn to lead the discussion. So he sat down and wrote.

He showed the essay titled "The Room" to his mother, Beth, before he headed

out the door. "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 was also 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.

Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every

piece of his life near them-the crepe paper that had adorned his locker

during his senior football season, note 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'

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 electrocuted. Brian

seemed to excel at everything he did. He was an honor student. He told his

parents he loved them "a hundred times a day", Mrs. Moore said. He was a

star wide receiver for the Teays Valley football team and had earned a

four-year scholarship to Capital University in Columbus because of his

athletic and academic abilities. He took it upon himself to learn how

to help a fellow student who used a wheelchair at school. During one

homecoming ceremony, Brian walked on his tiptoes so the girl he was

escorting wouldn't be embarrassed about being taller than he was. He adored

his kid brother, Bruce, now 14. He often escorted his grandmother Evelyn

Moore, who lives in Columbus to church. "I always called him the deep

thinker," Evelyn Moore said of her eldest grandson.

Two years after his death, his family still struggles to understand why

Brian was taken from them. They find comfort at the cemetery where Brian is

buried, just a few blocks from their home. They visit daily. A candle and

dozens of silk and real flowers keep vigil over the graveside. 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 again someday,"

Mrs.Moore said. "I just hurt so bad now."

The Story...

The Room

By Brian Keith Moore

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 right to left as far as the eye could

see, had very different headings.

As I walked up to the wall of files,the first to catch my attention was one

that read, "People 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

entire life. The actions of my every moment, big and small, were written in

a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, mixed

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 common, everyday things to the not-so-common-"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 Have

Yelled At My Brothers and Sisters." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I

Have Done in 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 less than I had hoped.

The sheer volume of the life I had lived overwhelmed me. Could it be

possible that I had time in my 17 years to write each of these thousands or

millions of cards? But each card confirmed the truth. Each card was written

in my own handwriting. Each card was 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 the 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 such a moment had been recorded.

A feeling of humiliation and anger ran through my body. 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 the file 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.

That was when I saw it. The file 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 3 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 the 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.

Then as I looked up through my tears, I saw Him enter the room. No, please

not Him. Not here. 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.

The few times I looked at His face I saw such sadness that it tore at my

heart. 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 in 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 the door. There were

still cards to be written