The Room: Author Unknown

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the wall covered with index files. They were like the ones in the libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemed to go endlessly in either direction, had very different headings.
As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was the 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 on each one. And then without being told, I knew where I was. This lifeless room with it's small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory could not 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 me 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.
The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed." There was also "Books I have read." "Lies I have told." "Comfort I have given," and "Jokes I have laughed at." Some were almost hilarious in the exactness like: "Things I have yelled at my brother." Others I couldn't laugh at, "Things I have done I 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 had 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 16 years of life to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed the truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my own 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 shout it, shamed not only by the quality of the music, but more by the amount of time I knew the 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 it's size and drew out a card. I shuddered at it's detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One Thought remained in my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! I have to destroy them!" In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. It's 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 couldn't dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it was strong as steel when I tried to tear it.
Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to it's 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 and almost unused. I pulled on it's handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards 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 in shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of the file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know about 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 bare to watch His response. And the moments I could bring myself to look at his face, I saw sorrow much 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.
Starting at one end of the room He took out a file and one by one started to sign His name overmine on each card.
"No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card away from Him. His name couldn'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 His blood.
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 it's door. There were still cards to be written.