The Room
I have adapted this poem for my own "index cards"
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 indexcard 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 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 is
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.
Written by Joshua Harris
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