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 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 besurprised 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 Ihad 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 signedwith my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To", I realized thefiles grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two orthree yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by thequality 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 mybody. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out acard. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment hadbeen recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "Noone must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroythem!" In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I hadto empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on thefloor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, onlyto 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 stomachand shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from theoverwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. Noone 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, anyonebut Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. Icouldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look atHis face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worstboxes. 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 Hiseyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with myhands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have saidso 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, Hetook 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 writtenwith His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign thecards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instantit seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand onmy 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 stillcards to be written.

Author Unknown