enter fruitsblogsket, where blog meets fruits basket, one of my favorite anime titles. FruitsBlogsket is my personal fansite dedicated for Fruits Basket. You'll read my blog, find avatars, wallpapers, read the Sohma diaries, discover what Tohru and the Sohmas are doing and many more. Fruitsblogsket is an experimental fansite. Feel free to check the site.
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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 Teays Valley High School in Pickaway County. 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 again one day." Brian's Essay:
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 "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 years to fill 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 "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 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. 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 lock it up and hide the key. But then, as I wiped 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
Ugh, aneurysm. I'm getting head cramps because there's too much in my head right now and I don't know how to prioritize them anymore. In fact, it's getting worse. I keep on thinking about mathematics when I'm studying Political Science. I can't help but reminisce on my Political Science exam while concentrating on my Social Science readings. I'm always wondering what I'll do next on the internet while strolling around the campus. I'm always itching to find a new beat for my drums whilst watching a documentary. Too much dynamic living. I need to draw a line of some sort. Anyway, I shouldn't get too concerned -- I already have too many pimples.
It hit my mind of buying a much decent copy of the School Rumble series. I've bought a new copy on DVD format this time. Actually, I've already watched it last year. However, my old copy is in VCD format. Some of the discs were missing, gargled and messed up, so I hadn't been able to finish the series last year. I finally finished the series last week and I can't wait for School Rumble Semester 2 to hit my screen.
I've been instantaneously star stricken after watching School Rumble, like Fruits Basket. It's a romantic comedy. I've searched it over the net, and to my surprise, I only found a handful of fansites, compared to the number of Fruits Basket fansites out there.
"Hmm... Ding! Idea!"I'm going to study hard for my Math exam. I've been lectured, yet again, by my father, who is a math wizard. Hmph, apparently, I didn't inherit his mathematical genes. Instead, I inherited from him the genes of being ticklish on the toes.
"Excuse me? In case you haven't noticed, Fruitsblogsket is also stealing headers from mycircumstances. And one more, we don't need to drown our audience under deep waters in order to prove one point! Tohru is from outerspace." - Can You Feel Love Hina?
As I sat there in english class, I stared at the girl next to me. She was my so called 'best friend'. I stared at her long, silky hair, and wished she was mine. But she didn't notice me like that, and I knew it. After class, she walked up to me and asked me for the notes she had missed the day before. I handed them to her. She said 'thanks' and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I want to tell her, I want her to know that I dont want to be just friends, I love her but I'm just too shy, and I dont know why.
11th grade, The phone rang. On the other end, it was her. She was in tears, mumbling on and on about how her love had broke her heart. She asked me to come over because she didn't want to be alone, so I did. As I sat next to her on the sofa, I stared at her soft eyes, wishing she was mine. After 2 hours, one Drew Barrymore movie, and three bags of chips, she decided to go to sleep. She looked at me, said 'thanks' and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I want to tell her, I want her to know that I don't want to be just friends, I love her but I'm just too shy, and I dont know why.
Senior year, The day before prom she walked to my locker. "My date is sick" she said, has not gonna go" well, I didn't have a date, and in 7th grade, we made a promise that if neither of us had dates, we would go together-just as 'best friends'. So we did. Prom night, after everything was over, I was standing at her front door step. stared at her as she smiled at me and stared at me with her crystal eyes. I want her to be mine, but she doesn't think of me like that, and I know it.Then she said- "I had the best time, thanks!" and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I want to tell her, I want her to know that I dont want to be just friends, I love her but I'm just too shy, and I don't know why.
A day passed, then a week, then a month. Before I could blink, it was graduation day. I watched as her perfect body floated like an angel up on stage to get her diploma. I wanted her to be mine- but she didn't notice me like that, and I knew it. Before everyone went home, she came to me in her smock and hat, and cried as i hugged her. Then she lifted her head from my shoulder and said-'you're my best friend, thanks' and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I want to tell her, I want her to know that I dont want to be just friends, I love her but I'm just too shy, and don't know why.
Now I sit in the pews of the church. That girl is getting married. That girl is getting married now. I watched her say 'i do' and drive off to her new life, married to another man. I wanted her to be mine, but she didn't see me like that, and I knew it. But before she drove away, she came to me and said 'you came!'. She said 'thanks' and kissed me on the cheek. I want to tell her, I want her to know that I dont want to be just friends, I love her but I'm just too shy, and I don't know why.
Years passed, I looked down at the coffin of a girl who used to be my 'best friend'. At the service, they read a diary entry she had wrote in her high school years. This is what it read:
"...I stare at him wishing he was mine; but he doesn't notice me like that, and I know it. I want to tell him, I want him to know that Idon't want to be just friends, I love him but I'm just too shy, and I don't know why. I wish he would tell me he loved me!...
'I wish I did too...' I thought to myself, and I cried.
Morning. I was walking with a friend and we're bound for the jeepney stop. Then he paused for a minute and told me:
"Dude, there she is." All getting sweaty and nervous, he's acting like a cartoon again. Who could blame him?Well, there were flocks of people in front of us but I noticed a certain girl that stood out from the crowd. Obviously. he's really infatuated with this girl. I told him to approach her and say hello. So, he did. Honestly, I was expecting him to hesitate and show a little resistance. It turned out that he was easy to encourage, for that matter. After that, they've exchanged greetings for a while and smiled at each other for a couple of times.