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 cards 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 readings.
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 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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