A TERRIFIC REMINDER OF GRACE
 
Last night I had the following dream .I found myself in a room. The room had no distinguishing features except for one wall covered with small index card files 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 endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. I walked over to the wall of files and the first one to catch my attention was titled "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 card catalog system of 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 a little 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 looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was in the room with me. 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 such as "Things I’ve Yelled at My Sister." Others I couldn’t laugh at such as "Things I Have Done in Anger," and "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, but 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 45 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card was written in my own handwriting and each was 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 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. I was seized by anger as 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 a 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 the file at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I put the drawer back in its slot and was surprised to find I could remove individual cards, but when I tried to tear the card I removed, I found it was as strong as steel and I could not tear it. Defeated and utterly helpless, I closed the file. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

 And then I saw a box that had a handle that was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. The title on The box read "People I Have Shared The Gospel With." 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 cry with sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach and shook me from head to toe. I fell on my knees and wept out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves blurred 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 wiped away the tears, I sensed a presence in the room with me. 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 but when I finally 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 with pity in His eyes. 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’ll never 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. The price has been paid by Him. All He asks for is Love.

Sincerely in Christ Jesus,

Fred Weeks
Saturday, March 21,1998