In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself ina room. There were no distignguishing features in this room save the o ne 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 seeminglyu endlessly in eiher 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 quicly shut it, shocked to realize taht 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 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 filed 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 markes "Friends I Have Betrayed".
The titles ranged from the numdane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read", "Lies I Have Told", "Comfort I Have Given", "JOkes I Have Laughted At". Some wer 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 filed makred "Songs I Have Listened To", I realized the filed grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or threee yard, I hadn't fojnd 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 taht 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 contetn. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.
An almost animal rage brok on me. One thougth 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 didnt 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 hlepless, I returned the file to its lsot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then i saw it. The title - - - "People I Have Shared The Gospel With". The handle was brighter than those aroudn it, newer, almost unsed. I puilled on its handle and a small bos not more than three inches long fell nito y 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.
But hen as I pushed away the tears, I saw HIm. NO, please not Him. NOt here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly asw He began to open the files and read the cards. I coudn'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 roomm. 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 fileds. 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 ont hese 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 smle 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 seemd 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 ofthe room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.
