A Teenager's View of Heaven

I was sent this in an e-mail earlier today and it was amazing. I am never going to get rid of this!! It is SO REAL and SO TRUE!!! It brought tears to my eyes. I hope that you will share it too.... - Megan

A Teenager's View of Heaven


17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for a
class. The subject was what Heaven was like. '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 Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. He was
driving home from a friend's house=2 0when 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.




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.'



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 wh ere 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
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 signatu re.



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 s tee l 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 'P eople 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 coul d 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.


'I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. '-Phil. 4:13


'For God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever
believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.'


If you feel the same way forward it so the love of Jesus will touch their
lives also. My 'People I shared the gospel with' file20just got bigger, how
about yours?