[nukkad] The File Room

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Poetry is a subject as precise as geometry. 
-Gustave Flaubert, novelist (1821-80)
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The File 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 endlessly 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 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 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 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 40
years to write each of these millions or even billions
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 "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 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 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 the hurt 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
 



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