Enron Mail |
this is awesome!
Theresa Zucha Enron North America Corp. 1400 Smith St., EB3884 Houston, TX 77002 Phone: 713/345-4582 Fax: 713/646-3490 -----Original Message----- From: "Cinda Salinas" <csalinas@shipperswarehouse.com<@ENRON Sent: Tuesday, October 23, 2001 12:00 PM To: Mary Dean; Zucha, Theresa; Thrower Deanna SSgt 75 MSS/DPMAR-O; Alicia Montemayor; jwilburn@shipperswarehouse.com; akoffel@shipperswarehouse.com; petemontemayor@shipperswarehouse.com; amcguffey; MARK COMIRE; lefthander@juno.com; LindaE1002@aol.com; lyarddog@yahoo.com; SWOG2000@aol.com; Debbie Burnham; BSpears@rifood.com; Thomas B. Gage \(E-mail\) Subject: Fw: How Tarnished Will Your Handle Be. Wow, this is really awsome! God is so great, and His love is so infinite! I wish I had e-mails for those who don't already know Christ and what He has done for us, but you will all enjoy this. love ya' cinda ----- Original Message ----- From: "Thrower Deanna SSgt 75 MSS/DPMAR-O" <Deanna.Thrower@HILL.af.mil< Sent: Tuesday, October 23, 2001 8:00 AM Subject: FW: How Tarnished Will Your Handle Be. < If you haven't already read before...great message. < < -----Original Message----- < From: Benning Quentin TSgt 311 CS/SCMP < [mailto:Quentin.Benning@brooks.af.mil] < Sent: Tuesday, October 23, 2001 6:22 AM < To: 'Hayes, Tracy D'; 'Michele Willis'; 'Sanders, Elizabeth C, TSgt, 11 < FM/FMF'; Thrower Deanna SSgt 75 MSS/DPMAR-O; 'Williams, Zetra' < Subject: FW: How Tarnished Will Your Handle Be. < < < very good < < -----Original Message----- < From: Williams, Zetra MSgt [mailto:WILLIAMZ@eur.disa.mil] < Sent: Tuesday, October 23, 2001 2:48 AM < Subject: FW: How Tarnished Will Your Handle Be. < < < Lengthy...but good reading... < < Zetra M. Williams, MSgt, USAF < DISA Defensive Information Operations Sr. Analyst < DSN 314-434-5314 < CMCL 011-49-711-68639-5314 < Subject: FW: How Tarnished Will Your Handle Be. < The Room... beware this is really powerful. < < 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 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 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? 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 insane frenzy I yanked the file < out. Its size didn't mattered now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. < 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. < < 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. 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. 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. < < "For God sent not his son into the world to condemn the < world, but that the world through him might be saved." < John 3:17 < < 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? < < < < < <
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