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?
>
>
>
>
>
>