A Teenager's View of Heaven

"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'd emerged from the wreck unharmed, but then, he 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 that he is in heaven. I know that I will see him there.."


Brian's Essay: The Room...


In that place between our wakefulness and our dreams, I found myself in the room. But, there were no distinguishing features, except for that one wall that was covered with small index cards. They were like the ones you see 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 to the wall, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and I 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 every moment, whether big or small, in a detail my memory could not match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, did stir within me as I began to randomly open files and explore their content. Some of them brought joy and sweet memories, while others, brought a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if there was anyone was watching.


A file named "Friends" was next to one that was marked "Friends I have betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the out- right weird "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told", "Comfort I have Given", "The Jokes That 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 That I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I just never ceased to be surprised by the contents.


Often there were many more cards than I had 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 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 written in my own handwriting. Each was signed with my signature. When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I Have Watched", I realized that the files had grown to contain their contents.


The cards, they are packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I still 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 had represented.


When I came to a file that was 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. Only 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 those cards. But, as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, and I could not dislodge a single card.


I became so very 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, it 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 those cards that 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 I must 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 just could not 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 everyone? 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, He 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 then 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 had done it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed that I heard Him close that 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.


"For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in Him, shall not perish, but have everlasting life." -John 3:16.


"I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me."-Phil. 4:13