| |
sometimes i may feel like I'm alone in this world
but hes there and he cares about the tears that comes out of my eyes
and he feels the pain and i say to myself why must i go threw all of this?
why cant it just stop...why me?
sometimes i feel like giving up but the comforter tells me don't give up you can do it
with God all things are possible
i may doubt it because of the enemy that plays with my mind
but i know someday, someday he will make a way
and when that day comes i know he has something special prepared to give me
so im patiently waiting...
=] i dont know what i would do without my GOD
GOD BLESS |
| |
| |
If
this one doesn't move you, I don't know what will! It blessed me, it
really did. Think on it.... I have only one word for you... SHARE.
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 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 Hav e 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, 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 H e 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 ou t 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?
IF
THERE IS ONE EMAIL THAT I HAVE READ THAT NEEDS TO GO AROUND THE
WORLD, IT IS THIS ONE, FOR THE CHRISTIAN OR NOT! MAY GOD BLESS YOU
ALL!
You
don't have to share this with anybody, no one will know whether you
did or not, but what do you feel in your
heart?
"The
will of God will never take you where the Grace of God will not
protect you"
|
| |
|
