A email from a friend

>> A TEENAGER'S VIEW OF HEAVEN 17-year-old Brian
>> Moore had only a short time to write something for a
>> class. The subject was what Heaven was like. '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 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. 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.'
>>
>>
>>
>> Brian's Essay: The Room... 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
>> endless 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 match. A sense of wonder and
>> curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within m
> e 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
> years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of
> cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was w
> ritten in my own handwriting. Each signed with my
> signature. When I
> pulled out the file marked 'TV Shows I have watched', 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 shows but more by
> the vast 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 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,seemed 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 they hurt. They
> 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 th
> e 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 wor st 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 smil
> e 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! . 'I can do all things through Christ who
> strengthens me. '-Phil. 4:13 'For God so loved the world
> that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him
> shall not perish but have eternal life.'

Thank you Jesus for your unselfish love and grace!