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Brian Daniel (149-64-4517) NIX
b.7 May 1962 Huntsville, Madison Couty, Alabama (35710)
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BRIAN NIX Request Information � SSN 149-64-4517 Residence: � Born 7 May 1962 Last Benefit: 07871��Sparta, Sussex, NJ � Died Apr 1979 Issued: NJ (1977) > As you read this story please put yourself in Brian's place; it can change > your life! > > THE ROOM > > 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's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while > cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley High School. Brian had > been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his > life near them-notes from classmates and teachers, his homework. > > Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering > Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's > life. But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore realized > that their son had described his view of heaven. "It makes such an impact > that people want to share it. You feel like you are there." Mr. Moore said. > > 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 "Fr iends" 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 years to fill ea ch 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 n ow. 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 lo ck 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 "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 > to as many people as you can 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, PLEASE PASS THIS TO EVERYONE YOU KNOW, CHRISTIAN OR NOT! "LET'S > FILL OUR OWN FILE CARD" AND MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL! > > You don't have to share this with anybody, no one will know whether you did > or not, but you will know and so will He. > > |