Alive.

Thats the best word I can use to describe this feeling. It's like nothing can get me down. Even when I slept through my alarm and woke up 2 1/2 hours later (talk about rushing for class) my head was held high. Everything I needed to get accomplished for this week is done. My day lasted 12 hours, but in those 12 hours I've never felt so alive.

I got home and started to check my e-mail. I recieved one from a friend of mine. We have known each other since highschool and throughout the years both of us have grown closer to God. Its as if we both have seen where we've been and where we're going and have learned to appreciate God for it. In this e-mail was a story about a boy. He had to write an essay for a class describing Heaven. This essay was written two months prior to the boy being killed in a freak accident. It touched my heart and made me take a good look at my life. I am attaching it to this blog because I think everyone needs to read this. It made me feel even more alive...in a different way. It made me see things for how they are, even though I don't want them to be. Thanks Molly! I am truely blessed to call you a friend!!


Brian's Essay: 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 "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.

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 fill 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 "TV Shows I have watched", 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 shows 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.


My reason to smile today: Sweatpants, coffee, and dinner with a friend ;o)