The Room
--- author Joshua Harris, 1995
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 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 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 catch. 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 Have 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 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 place His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is
finished."
I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There is no
lock on its door. There are still cards to be written.
Joshua Harris wrote "The Room" after he awoke from a dream while he was in Puerto Rico at a Billy Graham Crusade in 1995. It first appeared in Joshua's magazine for homeschooled teens, New Attitude, in the Spring 1995 issue. Later, he published it in his book, I Kissed Dating Goodbye. After the article appeared in New Attitude, a number of people copied it into e-mail and forwarded it to their friends. It didn't take long for the author to be identified as "unknown" and "anonymous." At some point, Brian Moore received the e-mail. And the day he was killed in a car wreck, he was planning to
use the article in a devotional time at school. There was a misunderstanding, and a newspaper published an account stating that "The Room" had been written by Brian shortly before his death. When the newspaper was alerted that the article was already copyrighted, they wrote a follow-up with the correct author information. Everyone involved is sorry for the mix-up, but grateful that the gospel has been spread.
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