The Room – Jesus and Our Sins - Author Unknown
In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features save for one wall covered with small index card 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 “People I Have Liked.” I opened it and began flipping 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 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 short life to write 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 own signature.
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 an 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 3 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.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Two Horses
Two Horses - Don't miss out on this Beautiful story!:) - Author Unknown
Just up the road from my home is a field, with two horses in it. From a distance, each horse looks like any other horse.
But if you stop your car, or are walking by, you will notice something quite amazing....
Looking into the eyes of one horse will disclose that he is blind. His owner has chosen not to have him put down, but has made a good home for him.
This alone is amazing. If you stand nearby and listen, you will hear the sound of a bell. Looking around for the source of the sound, you will see that it comes from the smaller horse in the field.
Attached to the horse's halter is a small bell. It lets the blind friend know where the other horse is, so he can follow.
As you stand and watch these two friends, you'll see that the horse with the bell is always checking on the blind horse, and that the blind horse will listen for the bell and then slowly walk to where the other horse is, trusting that he will not be led astray.
When the horse with the bell returns to the shelter of the barn each evening, it stops occasionally and looks back, making sure that the blind friend isn't too far behind to hear the bell.
Like the owners of these two horses, God does not throw us away just because we are not perfect or because we have problems or challenges.
He watches over us and even brings others into our lives to help us when we are in need..
Sometimes we are the blind horse being guided by the little ringing bell of those who God places in our lives.
Other times we are the guide horse, helping others to find their way....
Good friends are like that... You may not always see them, but you know they are always there.
Please listen for my bell and I'll listen for yours, and remember...Be kinder than necessary-Everyone you meet is fighting. Some kind of battle!
Live simply,Love generously,Care deeply,Speak Kindly.......And leave the rest to God! :)
"For we live by faith, not by sight. " - 2 Corinthians 5:7
May God keep and guide you and be Blessed! Only JESUS SAVES! Be Blessed! :)
Monday, November 7, 2011
God Has Been Good To Me
God Has Been Good To Me
A fortunate of us view life in such a way. We all complain when life seems unfair to us, yet we have never taken into account how blessed we all are.
For 25 years, I watched him fight cancer of the face.
First just a small speck that begin to grow larger. Year after year I watch him go to hospital to have a bit cut out each time. As the years went by, more and more of his face was cut away. When he returned with what is left of his face, he tried to smile. He never complained or was downhearted.
He was a skillful mechanic and carpenter. In fact, he was one of the best. Whenever he did a job, he would stand back to see if there is anything left out that could be added to make it perfect. Then he would see some little place that the average person would pass up. He would then touch up this or that.
I suspect he said this to himself ?My work will be my face and my life? I doubt if he often look in the mirror at that damaged face where the cancer eat into every day. No matter how humble the pace he worked in, how small the job is or how crude the other workers seem, it never bother him at all. This was his work and it has to be done right. He never glanced at the work of others; a shoddy work done by others was not his concern. Nevertheless, I suspect when the job was done, he had a sense of inner pride and joy when he saw how outstanding it was. But he never boasted about it.
As the years went by, he became weaker and weaker. His hands did not move with confidence and speed that so characterized him. He was unable to do many things. However no matter what the work or pay, he always had the insatiable desire to do a good job.
The help he got was not able to catch his vision. They thought he was cranky to try so hard to complete each and every detail. So he worked alone. He did not complain or bitterly rail at the others. He would just appear the next morning by himself with no explanation of the absence of his helpers.
During the latter day, he had only the shambles of a face. He would wrap it up in a red bandana handkerchief, leaving only his eyes showing.
When you met him on the streets, he would always give a cheery greeting. As time went on, it was more and more difficult to say he words. Often he would move his walking stick. This stick, too, was a thing of beauty, carved out by his skillful hands.
His life seemed to be filled with contentment and peace. I suspect that he thanked God for those hands and the fact that it was not marred in any way.
He would often be missed about his usual haunts for weeks or months. He would make his journey to the hospital for the surgeon to cut away more of his face. Then you would see him again, a bit more gruesome. There would be no complain, no telling of his operation and pain. He would just quietly go to work that was waiting for him.
In all his time, I never knew him to come back with any complaints about the pain. You would think there was nothing the matter if you did not see his face. When the days of his labors seem to come to an end, his chief concern was that his tools might be in good hands. He sent for me one day and told me he wished someone would appreciate the tools and use them properly.
When I took a young man to see him about the tools, there came a look of contentment and satisfaction. His work was finished and he was ready to cash in.
A few days before he died he was walking in the yard. His face was nearly completely covered with bandages. Only his eyes were uncovered. As he hobbled about the yard, he said ?I am going to keep young just as long as I can?
The day he died, I went to see him again. The odor was so offensive you could hardly stay there. What was left of his face was a mass of scars and there was really nothing to cut away. You could tell he was in great pain and had many sleepless nights. But still there were no words of complaints.
I shall never forget his last words. Ever afterwards they have made me ashamed whenever I feel inclined to complain. Still day after day, they are vivid in my mind.
"God has been good to me..."
A fortunate of us view life in such a way. We all complain when life seems unfair to us, yet we have never taken into account how blessed we all are.
For 25 years, I watched him fight cancer of the face.
First just a small speck that begin to grow larger. Year after year I watch him go to hospital to have a bit cut out each time. As the years went by, more and more of his face was cut away. When he returned with what is left of his face, he tried to smile. He never complained or was downhearted.
He was a skillful mechanic and carpenter. In fact, he was one of the best. Whenever he did a job, he would stand back to see if there is anything left out that could be added to make it perfect. Then he would see some little place that the average person would pass up. He would then touch up this or that.
I suspect he said this to himself ?My work will be my face and my life? I doubt if he often look in the mirror at that damaged face where the cancer eat into every day. No matter how humble the pace he worked in, how small the job is or how crude the other workers seem, it never bother him at all. This was his work and it has to be done right. He never glanced at the work of others; a shoddy work done by others was not his concern. Nevertheless, I suspect when the job was done, he had a sense of inner pride and joy when he saw how outstanding it was. But he never boasted about it.
As the years went by, he became weaker and weaker. His hands did not move with confidence and speed that so characterized him. He was unable to do many things. However no matter what the work or pay, he always had the insatiable desire to do a good job.
The help he got was not able to catch his vision. They thought he was cranky to try so hard to complete each and every detail. So he worked alone. He did not complain or bitterly rail at the others. He would just appear the next morning by himself with no explanation of the absence of his helpers.
During the latter day, he had only the shambles of a face. He would wrap it up in a red bandana handkerchief, leaving only his eyes showing.
When you met him on the streets, he would always give a cheery greeting. As time went on, it was more and more difficult to say he words. Often he would move his walking stick. This stick, too, was a thing of beauty, carved out by his skillful hands.
His life seemed to be filled with contentment and peace. I suspect that he thanked God for those hands and the fact that it was not marred in any way.
He would often be missed about his usual haunts for weeks or months. He would make his journey to the hospital for the surgeon to cut away more of his face. Then you would see him again, a bit more gruesome. There would be no complain, no telling of his operation and pain. He would just quietly go to work that was waiting for him.
In all his time, I never knew him to come back with any complaints about the pain. You would think there was nothing the matter if you did not see his face. When the days of his labors seem to come to an end, his chief concern was that his tools might be in good hands. He sent for me one day and told me he wished someone would appreciate the tools and use them properly.
When I took a young man to see him about the tools, there came a look of contentment and satisfaction. His work was finished and he was ready to cash in.
A few days before he died he was walking in the yard. His face was nearly completely covered with bandages. Only his eyes were uncovered. As he hobbled about the yard, he said ?I am going to keep young just as long as I can?
The day he died, I went to see him again. The odor was so offensive you could hardly stay there. What was left of his face was a mass of scars and there was really nothing to cut away. You could tell he was in great pain and had many sleepless nights. But still there were no words of complaints.
I shall never forget his last words. Ever afterwards they have made me ashamed whenever I feel inclined to complain. Still day after day, they are vivid in my mind.
"God has been good to me...
A fortunate of us view life in such a way. We all complain when life seems unfair to us, yet we have never taken into account how blessed we all are.
For 25 years, I watched him fight cancer of the face.
First just a small speck that begin to grow larger. Year after year I watch him go to hospital to have a bit cut out each time. As the years went by, more and more of his face was cut away. When he returned with what is left of his face, he tried to smile. He never complained or was downhearted.
He was a skillful mechanic and carpenter. In fact, he was one of the best. Whenever he did a job, he would stand back to see if there is anything left out that could be added to make it perfect. Then he would see some little place that the average person would pass up. He would then touch up this or that.
I suspect he said this to himself ?My work will be my face and my life? I doubt if he often look in the mirror at that damaged face where the cancer eat into every day. No matter how humble the pace he worked in, how small the job is or how crude the other workers seem, it never bother him at all. This was his work and it has to be done right. He never glanced at the work of others; a shoddy work done by others was not his concern. Nevertheless, I suspect when the job was done, he had a sense of inner pride and joy when he saw how outstanding it was. But he never boasted about it.
As the years went by, he became weaker and weaker. His hands did not move with confidence and speed that so characterized him. He was unable to do many things. However no matter what the work or pay, he always had the insatiable desire to do a good job.
The help he got was not able to catch his vision. They thought he was cranky to try so hard to complete each and every detail. So he worked alone. He did not complain or bitterly rail at the others. He would just appear the next morning by himself with no explanation of the absence of his helpers.
During the latter day, he had only the shambles of a face. He would wrap it up in a red bandana handkerchief, leaving only his eyes showing.
When you met him on the streets, he would always give a cheery greeting. As time went on, it was more and more difficult to say he words. Often he would move his walking stick. This stick, too, was a thing of beauty, carved out by his skillful hands.
His life seemed to be filled with contentment and peace. I suspect that he thanked God for those hands and the fact that it was not marred in any way.
He would often be missed about his usual haunts for weeks or months. He would make his journey to the hospital for the surgeon to cut away more of his face. Then you would see him again, a bit more gruesome. There would be no complain, no telling of his operation and pain. He would just quietly go to work that was waiting for him.
In all his time, I never knew him to come back with any complaints about the pain. You would think there was nothing the matter if you did not see his face. When the days of his labors seem to come to an end, his chief concern was that his tools might be in good hands. He sent for me one day and told me he wished someone would appreciate the tools and use them properly.
When I took a young man to see him about the tools, there came a look of contentment and satisfaction. His work was finished and he was ready to cash in.
A few days before he died he was walking in the yard. His face was nearly completely covered with bandages. Only his eyes were uncovered. As he hobbled about the yard, he said ?I am going to keep young just as long as I can?
The day he died, I went to see him again. The odor was so offensive you could hardly stay there. What was left of his face was a mass of scars and there was really nothing to cut away. You could tell he was in great pain and had many sleepless nights. But still there were no words of complaints.
I shall never forget his last words. Ever afterwards they have made me ashamed whenever I feel inclined to complain. Still day after day, they are vivid in my mind.
"God has been good to me..."
A fortunate of us view life in such a way. We all complain when life seems unfair to us, yet we have never taken into account how blessed we all are.
For 25 years, I watched him fight cancer of the face.
First just a small speck that begin to grow larger. Year after year I watch him go to hospital to have a bit cut out each time. As the years went by, more and more of his face was cut away. When he returned with what is left of his face, he tried to smile. He never complained or was downhearted.
He was a skillful mechanic and carpenter. In fact, he was one of the best. Whenever he did a job, he would stand back to see if there is anything left out that could be added to make it perfect. Then he would see some little place that the average person would pass up. He would then touch up this or that.
I suspect he said this to himself ?My work will be my face and my life? I doubt if he often look in the mirror at that damaged face where the cancer eat into every day. No matter how humble the pace he worked in, how small the job is or how crude the other workers seem, it never bother him at all. This was his work and it has to be done right. He never glanced at the work of others; a shoddy work done by others was not his concern. Nevertheless, I suspect when the job was done, he had a sense of inner pride and joy when he saw how outstanding it was. But he never boasted about it.
As the years went by, he became weaker and weaker. His hands did not move with confidence and speed that so characterized him. He was unable to do many things. However no matter what the work or pay, he always had the insatiable desire to do a good job.
The help he got was not able to catch his vision. They thought he was cranky to try so hard to complete each and every detail. So he worked alone. He did not complain or bitterly rail at the others. He would just appear the next morning by himself with no explanation of the absence of his helpers.
During the latter day, he had only the shambles of a face. He would wrap it up in a red bandana handkerchief, leaving only his eyes showing.
When you met him on the streets, he would always give a cheery greeting. As time went on, it was more and more difficult to say he words. Often he would move his walking stick. This stick, too, was a thing of beauty, carved out by his skillful hands.
His life seemed to be filled with contentment and peace. I suspect that he thanked God for those hands and the fact that it was not marred in any way.
He would often be missed about his usual haunts for weeks or months. He would make his journey to the hospital for the surgeon to cut away more of his face. Then you would see him again, a bit more gruesome. There would be no complain, no telling of his operation and pain. He would just quietly go to work that was waiting for him.
In all his time, I never knew him to come back with any complaints about the pain. You would think there was nothing the matter if you did not see his face. When the days of his labors seem to come to an end, his chief concern was that his tools might be in good hands. He sent for me one day and told me he wished someone would appreciate the tools and use them properly.
When I took a young man to see him about the tools, there came a look of contentment and satisfaction. His work was finished and he was ready to cash in.
A few days before he died he was walking in the yard. His face was nearly completely covered with bandages. Only his eyes were uncovered. As he hobbled about the yard, he said ?I am going to keep young just as long as I can?
The day he died, I went to see him again. The odor was so offensive you could hardly stay there. What was left of his face was a mass of scars and there was really nothing to cut away. You could tell he was in great pain and had many sleepless nights. But still there were no words of complaints.
I shall never forget his last words. Ever afterwards they have made me ashamed whenever I feel inclined to complain. Still day after day, they are vivid in my mind.
"God has been good to me...
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