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 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
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 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
‘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 written 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
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.
‘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.’ If you feel the same way
forward it so the love of Jesus will touch their lives also.
My ‘People I shared the gospel with’ file just got
bigger, how about yours?

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