Found again…

well, some time ago, I cleaned out from beneath my bed…and for some other reason I moved some “life” important stuff to my closet…and once again…came across this, which makes me emotional in all sorts of ways…each and every time I read it…

I made her…she is different. She is unique. With love I formed her in her mother’s womb. I fashioned her with great joy. I remember with great pleasure the day I created her. (Psalm 139:13-16)

I love her smile. I love her ways. I love to hear her laugh And the silly things she says and does. She brings me great pleasure. This is how I made her. (Psalm 139:17)

I made her pretty and not beautiful. I wanted her to search out her heart and learn that it would be Me in her That would make her beautiful… And it would be Me that would draw others to her. (1 Peter 3:3-5)

I made her in such a way that she would need me. I made her a little more lonesome than she would like to be… Only because I need for her to learn and depend on Me. I know her heart. I know that if I had not made her like this, She would go her own chosen way And forget Me…her Creator. (Psalm 84:11, Romans 8:23)

Because I love her, I have seen her broken heart…and the tears she cried alone. I have cried with her and had a broken heart too. (Psalm 56:6)

Many times she has stumbled and fallen alone… Only because she would not hold my hand. So many lessons she’s learned the hard way because she would not listen to My voice. (Isaiah 53:6)

So many times I have sat back and sadly watched her go her merry way alone… Only to watch her return to my arms, sad and broken. (Isaiah 62:2)

And now she is Mine again. I made her, and I bought her… Because I love her. (Romans 5:8)

I have to reshape and remold her To renew her to what I planned for her to be It has not been easy for her or for Me. (Jeremiah 29:11)

I want her to be conformed to My image. This high goal I have set for her… Because I love her. (II Corinthians 2:14)

This next one is from my old youth director, Curtis.

The Price

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. 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 “Boys 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, by and small, in a detail my memory could not 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 the one marked “Friends I Have Betrayed.”

The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright. “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 Muttered Under My Breath At My Parents.” I never ceased to be surprised by the comments. Often there were many cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer that 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 or even millions of cards? But each card conformed 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 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 the 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, no 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 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 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 car, 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 that three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained in 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 filled 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 everyone?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at my 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 arms around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn’t say a word. He just cried with me.

The 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 in 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

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