[Ohio-Communities-of-Faith] FW: The Room

Fri Jun 11 12:18:01 UTC 2021

From: Larry Perry [mailto:larryperry at performancepress.ccsend.com] On Behalf Of Larry Perry
Sent: Friday, June 11, 2021 8:10 AM
To: mmoore11 at kent.edu
Subject: EXT: The Room

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Letter from Larry

Friday

June 11, 2021

Good Morning Everyone:

Hope you are having a great day with your family. 

Today's story is one that I hope you have time to read and think 

about this weekend.

                THE ROOM 

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.

"The Room" to his mother, Beth, before he headed out the door.

He showed the essay, titled, "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 his last. 

Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering 

Jesus. 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. 

 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

                                  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. 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.

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 realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were 

packed tightly, and yet after two or three cards, 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!

"For God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that

whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."

"I can do all things through Christ whom strengthens me."

Phil. 4:13

Think About it!

Much love,

Larry 

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