The Room
The Room:
Procrastinating as usual, 17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to
write something for the fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting. It was
his turn to lead the discussion. So he sat down and wrote. He showed the
essay titled "The Room" to his mother, Beth, before he headed out the
door.
"I wowed 'em," he later told his father Bruce. "it's a killer. It's the
bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote." It also was the last. Brian's
parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while cleaning
out the teenager's locker at Teays Valley High school. Brian had been dead
only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his life near
them-the crepe paper that had adorned his locker during his senior football
season, notes from classmates and teachers, his homework. Only two months
before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering Jesus in a file
room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's life. But it was
only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore realized that their son
had described his view of heaven. "It makes such an impact that people
want to share it. You feel like you are there," Mr. Moore said. Brian
Moore died May 27, 1997-the day after Memorial Day. He was driving home
from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce Road in Pickaway
County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from the wreck unharmed but
stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted. Brian seemed to excel
at everything he did. He was an honor student. He told his parents he
loved them "a hundred times a day," Mrs. Moore said. He was a star wide
receiver for the Teays Valley football team and had earned a four-year
scholarship to Capital University in Columbus because of his athletic and
academic abilities. He took it upon himself to learn how to help a fellow
student who used a wheelchair at school. During one homecoming ceremony,
Brian walked on his tiptoes so the girl he was escorting wouldn't be
embarrassed about being taller than him. He adored his kid brother, Bruce,
now 14. He often escorted his grandmother, Evelyn Moore, who lives in
Columbus to church. "I always called him the Deep thinker," Evelyn Moore
said of her eldest grandson. Two years after his death, his family still
struggles to understand why Brian was taken from them.
They find comfort at the cemetery where Brian is buried, just a few blocks
from their home. They visit daily. A candle and dozens of silk and real flowers
keep vigil over the grave site. The Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it
among the family portraits in the living room. "I think God used him to
make a point. I think we were meant to find it and make something out of
it," Mrs. Moore said of the essay. She and her husband want to share their
son's vision of life after death. "I'm happy for Brian. I know he's in
heaven. I know I'll see him again someday," Mrs. Moore said. "I just hurt
so bad now."
THE ROOM
by Brian Keith Moore
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 right to left as far as the eye could
see, had very different headings. As I walked up to 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. 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 entire life. The actions of my
every moment, big and small, were written in a detail my memory couldn't
match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, mixed 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 common, everyday things to the not-so-common-
"Books I Have Read", "Lies I. Have Told", "Comfort I Have Given", "Jokes I Have
Laughed At." Some were almost hilarious in their actness: "Things I Have
Yelled At My Brothers And Sisters." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I
Have Done In 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 had hoped. I
was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be
possible that I had time in my 17 years to write each of these thousands
or millions of cards? But each card confirmed the truth. Each card was
written in my own handwriting. Each card was 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 the 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 such a moment
had been recorded. A feeling of humiliation and anger ran through my
body.
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 the file 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.
That was when I saw it. The file 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 3 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. Then as I looked up through my tears,
I saw Him enter the room. No, please, not Him. Not here. 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. The few times I looked at His face I
saw such sadness that it tore at my heart. 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 in 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 the door.