In that place between wakefulness and dreams,

     I found myself in the room. There were no

     distinguishing features save 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

  "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 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 the 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 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.

   Author Unknown