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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 save 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. 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 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 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 exactness:
"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. There were still cards to be written...