The Room

El día de hoy me llegó un profundo sentido religioso, y no está nada mal considerando que es Sábado de Gloria. Pasando una de esas tardes vagabundeando en Internet al punto de provocarme dolor de cabeza (o cualquier otra parte), encontré al verdadero autor de un mensaje que muchos habrán recibido por correo electrónico. Es un ensayo de lo más interesante, que les dejo aquí en su idioma original. Es el primer artículo aquí del cual no soy autor y confío en no ser tan débil para que esto se vuelva recurrente. Adelante, pues.


The Room: My Dream
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 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 20 years 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 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 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 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 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.


Josh Harris

©1995 New Attitude

Humanidad

Este es un artículo que nos encargaron escribir en el grupo de creación literaria al que asisto, para la campaña Abróchate a la Vida.

Humanidad

A los humanos nos gusta la emoción, liberar adrenalina en nuestro sistema. Construimos lugares con el fin de producirla y recreamos situaciones intensas y peligrosas para satisfacernos de ella. Hemos creado un sector económico encargado de generar ganancias al asustarnos, que vende el riesgo como producto y lo promociona como diversión. Y lo consumimos, porque lo necesitamos. Llenarlo no tiene, en ciencia, nada de malo, en medida en que se haga en los lugares y situaciones adecuados, designados como "familiares".

Pero también somos los humanos quienes inventamos las armas con el propósito de ser armas, que han dejado de representar la protección y se han convertido en el ícono mundial predominante de miedo e inseguridad. Estos dadores de muerte nos acercan al borde de las escenas de peligro y exaltación que la mayoría de nosotros sólo quiere disfrutar (y muchos no lo quieren) en parques de diversiones, el cine y las novelas, donde se encuentran todas las copias que creamos para la diversión y estimular la fantasía, sacar filo a los sentidos. Vienen en muchas formas, colores y diseños, a veces usando máscaras, o a veces en bienes pervertidos por la intención humana. Algunas de estas figuras son más viles, evitadas y repudiadas que otras; un cuchillo de cocina, un bate de béisbol o el suficiente veneno para ratas, todos con propósitos y fines de creación nobles (o relativamente nobles), pero que una vez en nuestras manos son importantes candidatos para dar lugar a sucesos peligrosos, accidentales o causados, y cuyo manejo debe darse de la forma apropiada y sin desviarlo de la idea para que fueron hechos, sin arranques de excitación o deseos de mala cuna. El automóvil entra en esta lista y la encabeza, y no muchos se ligan a la responsabilidad de aprender a usarlos correctamente. No muchos o casi nadie. Al tomar el volante manejamos, no carros, sino armas-transporte.

Se dice entre números que los autos matan más personas en el mundo que las balas al año, y si nos obligáramos la responsabilidad ciudadana de cuantificar (o buscar los datos que ya existen y que la mitad de las personas con conciencia promocionan) el número de accidentes automovilísticos anuales de una localidad y obtener el porcentaje de muerte, seguro que estaríamos extenuados por darnos cuenta de la gran probabilidad que tenemos de ser nosotros cada día. Y sorprendámonos aún más encontrando, no en cuántos casos estuvieron involucrados el alcohol y la inconsciencia, sino en cuántos no lo estuvieron. No, miento: es más sorprendente en el que sí estuvieron. Revisemos los promedios de horas y días a la semana en que estos infortunios suceden y habremos probado por nuestro propio ingenio que toda esa propaganda en los medios está totalmente en lo cierto.

¿Y qué queda? ¿Llegando las nueve o diez de la noche encerrarnos en nuestras casas con miedo de morir si ponemos un pie en el pavimento o la acera? Porque también a los peatones se llevan. ¿A eso tendremos que llegar para dejar que se aniquilen en la calle los desgraciados que matan aplastando un pedal y poder vivir en paz, vivos pero con miedo? ¿Cómo reparamos los estragos? ¿Cómo redirigimos los indicadores y ajustamos los números en las tablas? Educación: con lo que se puede resolver todo. No un par de retenes en unas cuantas avenidas, que todo el mundo conoce y todo el mundo evita (excepto los sobrios). Educación en medidas de prevención, propaganda de la responsabilidad de manera intensa en los niveles afectados y en quienes ellos dependen.

Por último, ¿por qué utilizo una terminología tan general? Para que no se restrinjan los eventos, las situaciones y las soluciones a un campo específico y cerrado. No le digan sólo a los jóvenes que por favor usen el cinturón, sino también a los niños, con mayor intensidad y con mayor razón. Lo mejor que podemos hacer es dejar de dirigir a la población a situaciones de riesgos, sin importar el grupo de población o la situación que se suscite. Es un mensaje que deben entender todos si lo que se buscan son cero muertes por accidentes en autos.

RARS!!!