The Fileroom

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in

the room. There were no distinguishing features save for the onewall covered with small index-card files. They were like the ones inlibraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. Butthese files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlesslyin either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wallof files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I HaveLiked". I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shutit, 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 roomwith its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here werewritten the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail mymemory couldn't match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me asI began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some broughtjoy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense thatI 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 HaveRead", "Lies I Have Told", "Comfort I Have Given", "Jokes I Have LaughedAt". Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've Yelled atMy 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 tobe surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than Iexpected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it bepossible that I had the time in my 20 years to write each of thesethousands 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 realizedthe 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. Ishut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vastamount of time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts", I felt a chill run throughmy 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 tothink 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. Itssize didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I tookit at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge asingle card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it asstrong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning myforehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then Isaw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With". The handlewas brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on itshandle 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 hurtstarted in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. Icried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of fileshelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of thisroom. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Nothere. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open thefiles and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in themoments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeperthan my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did Hehave to read every one?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at mewith pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I droppedmy head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walkedover and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But Hedidn'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 ofthe room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name overmine on each card.

 

"No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as Ipulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But thereit was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesuscovered mine. It was written with His blood.

He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign thecards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but thenext instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to myside. 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.