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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 "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
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
the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me.
I fell on my knees
and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwheming
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.