The Room of Indexcards

  INSPIRATIONAL:
(Author Unknown)

    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 desperat
e 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 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.

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