The Room

Read this if you haven't heard of it :) the atonement is too cool! I love my savior!!

The Room
By Joshua Harris

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in a
room. There were no distinguishing features in this room save 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 "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 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 --- "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 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.