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This story has been
circulated for over ten years, through emails and websites. It is very
inspirational. Despite the fact that it was written in 1995 by Joshua Harris,
for the longest time the authorship was credited to "Author
Unknown", or to a young man named Brian Moore. Brian Moore was an actual person who had died
tragically at an early age. Shortly before his death, he read this story to a
group of his peers. Following his death, it seemed an appropriate eulogy to
remember him by. However, Moore had actually barrowed the story from Joshua
Harris' writings, and had claimed it as his own. For years, I – along with so many others
– didn't see anything wrong with Moore's name on the story. "After
all," I would justify, "it's the story that matters, not the
author." I now stand corrected, and sincerely apologize for
my own misrepresentation of Harris' work. As an author myself, I would be
devastated if someone else took credit for my writing. To any readers needing further persuasion, or who
wish to convey the truth to others, check out these websites: http://www.snopes.com/glurge/room.asp,
http://joshharris.com/who_really_wrote_it.php,
and http://64.13.216.130/columbus_dispatch_on_the_room.php.
Or drop me an email. I dedicate this new opening to Angie, a concerned
girl who didn't just tell me I was wrong, but provided this old stubborn coot
the facts to back her up. Thanks Angie. (Mark Eidemiller, August 28, 2008)
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"The Room"
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by Joshua Harris
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In that place between
wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no
distinguishing features save 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 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 contents. 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 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 there were 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 twenty years to write each of these thousands, possibly 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 "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
contents, I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. Suddenly I felt an almost
animal rage. 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 an
insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty
it and bum 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 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 continued 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. |
Any
comments to Mark Eidemiller? Feel free to respond.