Preface

Dear reader of this book, although I don’t see your eyes and I don’t know your life, I want to send you a prayer which will get us closer and will join us in Jesus Christ. Like many of us, I also grow more mature on our way to God. We look for the acceptance of events in our life, we look for love that we can trust. Our interior, heart, soul are like a beautiful house that is protected with the locked door. We are often a mystery for ourselves, but not for God. Our Lord, Jesus is standing close to this door. He is waiting patiently for us to let Him be our guest in this house. He wishes to have this intimate encounter with us and to touch us with His Love. If we really want such an encounter, then we will sink into the silence of contemplation and will open the door for Him and will experience many  revelations, beautiful thoughts and even teachings. We may hear in our hearts the words  that will surprise us. That’s how my poems were born. When Jesus becomes a frequent guest in our home, our life changes, our human nature gets more gentle and is filled with peace. A sense of humour, sincerity toward other people, forgiveness – they all strangely increase. We have a desire to meet the Lord every day at the Holy Mass, to worship Him in Adoration and to go on pilgrimages to holy places. Jesus becomes a living Friend, we talk to Him, we hear Him or we are gifted with beautiful images. We react to His Love with our own love, maybe not the perfect one, hesitating, but it is He, God, who will make it noble and will teach us the prayer that we haven’t known before. St. Faustina in her “Diary” wrote about her encounter with God: happiness and joy that my soul is feeling, can’t be described. I can’t express with words what is without words. This book was born out of love and I wish to share this love with You, my reader and even if one poem, one thought made you desire such an encounter in prayer, I will be grateful to God for this gift.

The world gives us our birth certificate which contains the length of our lives, and accordingly we are determined as a child, a youth and an aged one.
But when we look back on our pilgrimage across the earth, it appears that we remember only some moments - this bright flash of our soul, when a little light of above-average experiences lights up. This may be a moment of illumination in prayer, mysterious pictures from dreams, and conversations with the Guardian Angel? God? Saints? Or during Adoration of the Most Holy Sacrament, during Mass, or while looking at a picture.
These are the moments which define our gray days like golden threads. Gray days, years - this is the true birth certificate of this world. Sometimes happiness will surface and lighten up , at times suffering will pastorate like a thorn. Doubts, anxiety, ambition, fear - these are tendencies that colour our daily lives.
The golden thread of beautiful moments, which I called “the encounters in prayer”, gives rationale to our lives. It gives a worth; gives a hope that someday. In a month , year, we will relive another “encounters in prayer” - a moment of illumination , when we are granted a gift of describing our close relation with God, by using words, art and music, gesture, telling dreams, etc.
This encounter has a very intimate form - Only between God and you.
Each of us receives such golden thread, which is sent down from Heaven generously. But we must   face this “encounter” and mustn’t waste the grace of attaining it.

 

 

The Chapel of the Little Souls in Chevremont, Belgium - the Centre of the Little Souls where Margaret, aged 90, still alive, has written a few volumes of a series entitled: "The Message of the Merciful Love to the Little Souls”.

With a group of other pilgrims I participated in a Mass in Chevremont and Margaret was with us. It was my first encounter with Jesus in this esoteric place. I asked Him to take off the heavy cross that I carry, or make it light ( It is connected with the death of some person close to my heart). Then I heard a gentle voice, if I make light your cross, it will keep flying off your shoulders. If the cross remains rugged with splinters, it will hold firmer on your shoulders and you will not have to keep picking it up all over again.

I understood this message as a necessity to accept the cross that I carry and appreciate its worth. If Jesus agreed to my request, it would mean that I would have to strain bend and pick it up repeatedly.

 

The Encounter

 

I encountered You, Jesus , in Chevremont

Carved in wood

Your hands tied with a rope

The Son Of God - Gift to and for the World

The World tore up Your robes

It crowned You with thorns and whipped you

And sent You back to… God

In a silent procession, in the cloister

We come up to You, Jesus

We kiss Your hands and legs that are

Whitened from our endearing touches

You are patiently waiting

Mercifully

Who will take the shackles off Your hands?

Who will share the suffering without grumbling?

Oh Lord, there are so few saints among us.

 

 

Meditation during the Mass.

There are three phases of prayer: verbal, emotional and the one when you feel a moment of illumination when you move away  from reality ; as if you were in a different realm which is bright ( it lasts for a few seconds.)  From this dazzling or awe-inspiring spectacle you draw enormous power, greater than from other prayers.

 

Fear

I put my feet on fear
On a regular day, neither sunny nor rainy
It took me by surprise
It grasped my heart and paralysed with fear
Loneliness
Guilt
Sin
Cried loudly
I felt the power of evil
The power over the weakness of those
Who make the world their God
And allow to be misled
And put aside the exorcism of prayer
The Archangel threw a golden rope from Heaven
And I caught it
Saint Michael Archangel
Please protect us in our fight .
Devilish laughter stopped
But not for ever
I know it will return
I got to know it in my Gethsemane
I can't pretend  it doesn't exist.

 

Prayer

 

I look at you, through the bars

Of my sins

Or crosses, perhaps

I try to break them with my prayer

To reach the haloed ray

Of Your Mercy

I set my faith

Like an alarm clock

So that it sounds bright in the hour of darkness

I lay my weaknesses like a pile

Before the confessional of Your servant

Forgive me, Lord

Give hope that Your love

Will break my bars of obscurity

It will speak…

Through someone, or an angel, or a saint

I hope I will not overlook this moment.

 

During the Rosary prayer at home I couldn’t concentrate and complained about my state of being to the Holy Mother, asking Her how to intervene. Then I had a vision: the Holy Mother was sitting in a garden of flowers, She wore a blue dress with a veil. Rosary beads in Her hand. She was sitting in the middle of a flowerbed, on an elevation. There were various segues of flowers around Her, with well-defined colors, all arranged like Rosary beads. Since that moment I have always recalled this scene of beauty.

 

Signs

 

I move along the cress-crossed roads

Looking for the holy signs

That are clear in our everyday life

Labyrinths of suffering, passing joys

Dot my map; like rocks

I lift my eyes towards high towers

I wish I could climb the walls of a church

I might find the Great Angel there

He will unroll a luminous ribbon

He will show me the way, the only one, to God

And I will never confuse it

But my soul returns to the Earth

God designed our little trails there

Bow your head very low - the Angel said

Look for the signs that are related to you

Look, there is an old woman passing by

Listen to what she is whispering quietly

And I do listen, because the Angel told me so

I hear the woman who walks in hardship

Weighing her old age on a walking stick

She whispers:

I trust You, Jesus, I believe in You, my Lord.

 

 

Medjugorje

Adoration. During Adoration, I heard a voice ‘Adore My human nature which shows man’s weakness and his suffering, and you are to help human suffering.’

Two days later, also during Adoration, I  saw Christ on a dark cross. Christ was covered in brown patina. Suddenly I heard ‘I come down to you from the cross and I Am with you, but when you sin, I retreat to the cross again.’

A few days later, in Czestochowa (famous Polish sanctuary), standing in front of the famous picture of Our Lady of Czestochowa,  I was surprised that I saw the face of Jesus and I said: I came to You, Mary but I see the face of Christ. I hear the answer: Because there are two of Us now in Czestochowa. Coming back home, on the coach, I understood that it was the time of enthronization of Christ for the King of Poland. At night, in my dream I was surprised that I didn’t see the body of Jesus but just His head wearing a black Crown of thorns. Jesus explained that these thorns are our old sins which we repeatedly commit. Beside the old thorns I noticed a new one that looked like a living one. I asked what a strange thorn it was. Christ remarked that these are our new sins like spikes that we add to His Crown of thorns.

 

Broken silence

 

A wooden cross with Jesus and a picture of Mary

Nailed to the wall with the tradition of our ancestors

Nearby, our prayers like birds, fly away

Spoken in a hurry, often forgotten

But time flies

The cross is silent, like a painting in a museum

When one looks at it without love…

And we need a thunder that will knock you down with pain

And feed you with suffering like daily bread

Compelling you to kneel down in obedience

Before the cross

Which is nailed to your own wall of life

Raise your head towards the image of Mary

Covered with dust of oblivion

And beg Jesus who has been speechless thus far

Waiting for a miracle, of the holy time

When He wants to speak… to the suffering of yours.

 

Polish sanctuary in Obory.

During a meditation session, kneeling before a picture of the Sorrowful Mother of Obory, I saw an open door which was high and narrow. Only one person could get through it. In my mind I asked myself a question, ‘what does it mean? Then I heard an answer that there are such sanctuaries in which people receive graces by direct contact with Jesus and Mary. There is 24-hour vigil of Holy Mary. I have an impression that there are certain places beloved by Her, in which our prayers are received immediately.

 

Mother

 

When she was alive, she was like nourishment and good word

She was like dexterous hands and security

The wall against the malice of the world

The triplication hovering over the destiny of the child.

The defense against sins

The beseeching prayer and Rosary

The offering of her own crosses to Archangels

So that They carried them... instead

As ransom, penance, a gift

For the child, for his sake

Asking for mercy…

It’s high time you went to God - Saint Peter said

The sacrifice of your time is fulfilled

Collect your remissions, prayers, loves

Pack them in a mourning lamenting trail and wander on

Further, higher

Your soul longs for the final rest

And crave for mercy out there

Clinging close to the Living Cross of Christ.

 

Banneux. The Chapel of the Holy Cross.

During the Meditation - Adoration, when half an hour passed, I asked Jesus: We have been at a Mass in Chevremont and You have not told me anything, Lord? Then I heard: I am everywhere and I speak to you wherever you are. I asked, ‘Jesus, why are You so sad on this cross?’ I heard the answer, ‘I am not sad because I resurrected and I live among you. I take turns and bless each one of you. I am still on my way along the Way of the Cross! I approach a man and he spits at Me. I come up to another man and he crucifies Me. But there are others, like Simon and Veronica. I stand in front of everyone at My fourteen stations. Sometimes I come back to the same person several times and I hope that this man will accept Me, even at the moment of his passing away. Man has a chance to be saved even at the very end of his life.

Jesus complains: I feel cold and it is dark here.

I am surprised and say: But so many people come and visit You here! In reply, I hear: They spend more time buying material things than adoring Me!

 

Christ Arrives

 

Christ comes to me in silence

Looking at my empty hands

My loneliness… and His

What will I give You, my Guest - I ask

And I turn away my eyes in shame

Hold My cross, He whispers

Just for a moment…

Christ comes to me in happiness

When I forget about the dangerous world

He curiously looks at me

Like a man who… is waiting

He shifts the thorns in His crown

To wipe away drops of sweat and blood

And speaks silently: share your joy with Me

Christ comes to me in the darkness

When I feel pressed with devilish persuasions

Thinking that I am worth… nothing

He looks for me in the thick darkness

Stepping along the Rosary beads

He finds me by the smell of my pain

Give Me your hand - I Am here! - He says

Christ comes to me when I

Don’t stretch out my hands for silence or joy or darkness

I leave space for Him in my heart

For praying together, for a priest with Eucharist

For somebody’s eyes, for holy pictures

Be my everyday guest, I say

He smiles, saying: be on the alert and rest, as well.

 

Dream. In my dream I was walking down the gray-blue street with my son, David (aged 6). I was holding his hand. At one moment he slipped down a steep curb. He fell down and became livid. There was nobody around us. I picked him up and held him in my arms and I realized that he was dead. I shouted, ‘is there any doctor here?’ Then a light went on, in the house on the left. I got in, carrying him in my arms. I found doctors there; wearing white, long robes with blue scarves. They gathered around him, then he started to breathe. One of them gave me some advice: you must take care of his medical treatment until the very end, because it is a very serious disease. Alas; my son passed away in 1999.

 

The wound

 

I stare at my wound

Sometimes I powder it with oblivion

And musk it with a lipstick of little joys

So that nobody could see it

And  didn’t ask:

How did you get this wound?

But in the evening, at night

When I go to bed

Without sophisticated makeup

I, and my wound, my life’s companion

Look into each other’s eyes knowingly

Although she has become a scar already

In memory…

Like a branded cross-mark

I tell her:

You are like my friend

Who is given but not chosen

You demand that I knowingly

Feel the world stronger and more painfully

I recognize people who cover their scars

But I pretend not to see or know

How they got this wound

I know that it is God’s Mystery.

 

Feast of Archangels. I was in my local church on Nobel St. in Warsaw. After the Holy Mass, there was the Most Holy Sacrament Adoration. Having prayed the Chaplet of Mercy, I stayed in the church. During my prayer, I saw Jesus wearing white garment He was on His knees, His head was just over the floor. He was holding the cross. He turned His head to me, but still sidewise. Then the cross changed color from dark-brown to white, then I saw it was covered with blood and finally it reverted black. I asked in my mind: Why does this cross change colors? I heard the answer: you will find out someday.

 

The Eyes of God

 

Through the stain-glass in the stone wall of the chapel

I saw... the Eyes of God

The Eyes of God looked at the flowered altar

In the Tabernacle, They spoke with Jesus

Like a lantern, They lit up an empty confessional

And a worn-out carpet, stepped over by so many believers

And old kneelers that required repair

They blessed the holy paintings

Then They rested on a precious pieta

A gentle blow wiped dust off the statue

The Eyes of God lit up the face of the Most Holy Mother

Because the statue, so old, might be feeling sad

The Eyes of God whitened Jesus’ hand that was darkened

With beseeching kisses, and They cleaned the Angels wings

The old woman, who asked for a painless death

They wrote in her prayer book: enjoy life...

The Eyes of God painted an aureole for a young couple

Will they be saints, perhaps?

Or will they be just a man and his wife?

Then the Eyes of God rested on me

Quiet, all-seeing, all knowing…

The Angel covered me against the Eyes of God

He said: she is still learning how to pray, give her time, Boss

Please bless her, Lord, do not evaluate her

 

I was not sure whether it was a dream or I was awake. I heard a voice that recited me three wonderful poems. I know that I would remember them because they were so simple and beautiful. I acknowledged that they reminded me of the poetry of Father Twardowski   (famous Polish priest and poet). I heard a voice saying: you will be like Twardowski, but dressed in a skirt. Unfortunately, the next morning, I could recollect only one poem, although I partially remembered the other one, entitled: “Last will”. The first one was about nature - comparing soul with nature - it is like a bird, like rain which cleanses. The second one was “Last will”. And the third one that I remembered, was “The road”. The message was like a dramatic staging - you heard the actor’s voice, you saw the picture on the screen. I saw myself walking along a tunnel and the words came to me:

 

The road

 

I am walking down a long corridor

Where dust covers my legs

I touch a damp wall with my hands

How long yet?

Who will give strength to my hands?

There isn’t even an echo here for companionship

Maybe I will step upon hope?

I will lift it to my mouth

I will get drunk with it

I must go!

I have signed a contract for this journey

God endorsed it with a seal

So I must move on

Maybe I will meet You?

 

 

Last will

 

An Angel stood before me, in a dream

He ordered: write your last will

I have no fortune - I told Him

Just a small apartment in a housing block

A little cottage outside the city, over-used furniture…

Who will need it?

Just think - He said with humming of His wings

And made me fall silent

So I gathered my feelings like a shredded picture

I sliced my heart into pieces

That I gave away to others

Sometimes they received;

Sometimes they returned…

Without gratitude

Were they too little?

I collected words of love about people

Whose life I described

A few prayers, holy pictures, pilgrimages

Talks with friends, with family

Fears, sins, penances

Holy Masses offered for the living and the dead

Questions to God without answers

And questions answered but not remembered

But I know they mean Love and perseverance

The Angel, seated comfortably

Supported His head with a wing and smiled

Continue writing, He said

While I have a nap…

 

 

Last will - 2

 

The sleeping Angel moved His wing momentarily

His nap was over and He looked at me

I felt concerned and I asked my soul a question:

What was it that my last will overlooked, my Lord?

Months of prayers and Angel’s whispers

Hardly heard and forgotten

How hard it is, oh God, to make a word reach us

The word of our Guardian, in our daily chores

Or maybe we are deaf out of our own choice?

Because it is easier to hear noise than silence

With His nap, the Angel intended to convey something

What is the most important value in my life?

How should I write my Earthly last will?

Or perhaps just a beseeching request?

For those, whom my heart loved so much

Please pray for me when my time is over

Just with a tiny moment of silence, with a simple prayer

And I will write my last will for you - a promise

The will shall have Angel’s protection, He was engaged so much

He will pull out His sacred wing

And shield you from evil that is so infectious

And hell-bent on destroying your heart so badly

The Angel will teach you how to write a last will - an imploration

It contains so few words, indeed

Pray for those who are not capable enough.

To beseech with their lips… for Eternal Peace and Salvation.

 

Friday. After the morning Mass, I had the Way of the Cross. At one moment, I heard in my heart: Pay attention to the falls of Jesus. His first fall was when He fell because of pain over human sins. The second fall - because of ignorance of man - Jesus was abandoned and is lonely. Then I asked: what about the third fall? I heard an answer: Because the ultimate justice must come, anyway!

 

The house

 

There is a house on the other side of the forest

It’s empty because no children

Have been born there lately

Good people have boarded it with planks

So that the wind won’t blow

The rest of its memories into the doldrums

The surrounding tall, write birches, slender pine trees

Protect it from the rains, storms and showers

Only the wooden wicket, very crooked

Flutters, wails, invitingly

Come in, wanderer, come in

This is me, the House, good people have built of me

Once, I used to be the host of joy, giggles and lamentations

I don’t want to perish in loneliness.

 

 

The fall

 

I move around in ink-black darkness

I can’t recognize the shapes

Of good or evil

Thousands of tiny sparks

Hurt me with their despair

Where is Your Light, Holy Spirit?

Our Father who art in Heaven…

No, Not ours

Mine

You touched me with hell

Your will, Lord, not mine

I recognize the pain

Without mercy, without offering

The weakness of Man’s cross

Go on - I hear the blessed voice of Madonna

Sorrowful, Weeping and lovingly recommending:

Overcome the vanity of despair.

 

 

Oh, Heavenly Angel!

 

You are the Guardian of my lost trails

You are the runner on the mountains of my ecstasies

And stepping down

Into my dark nights

You must be very patient

I feel the protection of Your wings

Sometimes I feel Your fatigue

Then I try to comfort You

With a prayer, a gesture of mercy

There are moments when I escape

When You sleep, covered with Your white wing

Indeed, I have my own will!

Maybe You will sleep over my rebellious escape?

But where to?

Over there, where it is easier, nicer, where…

The cross doesn’t “spoil” the landscape

But I come back, my Angel

I touch You with my sins carefully

And I beseech You, please, forgive and rescue me.

 

When I was on a pilgrimage in Lourdes, I thought about a priest I once knew, then I saw a picture - a brown mountain. I didn’t see its top. There were projections, serpentine-like formations; people wearing brown or black frocks (were they monks?) were climbing up. I only saw a part of the mountain, just two paths. Some of them were climbing up, and some were falling down. It all looked like in an ant-hill when they moved upward with a great effort.  In this procession, I didn’t see any faces but just frocks.

 

A priest on the way

 

They taught you verses from the Bible in your youth

They showed you wise books of the learned and the saints

They said that humility - is your main feature

And your hands are to do good

And every man has Christ in him

Then came the days

When you went on the Calvary of life

Like everyday stations of the cross

There were months, or maybe years of its next stations

And yours - whipping, crowning…

You already know that these stations aren’t passed

Like the seasons, which do not last forever

They come back sorrowfully again, like mysteries of the Rosary

When the nights are dark and moody and the days are bright

Light or darkness, your Guardian Angel and... the snake

You know the stones of your own way of the cross

You know them by your conversions and falls

You get used to the pain of roadside thorns

You watch the truth in the confessional

You don’t get confused by the sound of voice or multi-colored words

Although you know that joy is the Christian watchword

You, the teacher of His teachings, discover

Your vocation when you approach the Olive Garden

Looking at the pain of Man… and God

There is your place; there you sing David’s psalms.

 

Lourdes. Staying in the grotto, I had an impression that the Holy Mother is particularly dedicated to people and their requests in this very place. She is like a “servant”, like a shepherdess without Her royal majesty, completely devoted to people, “imprisoned” by them, submissive and subjected to the prayers of the beseechers. The Holy Mother of La Sallete urges us to consider things, She points at the direction with Her finger. She is like a teacher. She reigns there. She is the law. She is legal. She directs and teaches. In Medjugorje - She adores Jesus - She points at Christ as the source.

 

Lourdes

 

You welcomed me, Holy Mother, in Lourdes

With raindrops, and mountains shrouded with fog

With warm rays of spring sun

Filling up with shy courage and hope

That I will experience a miracle of meeting You

 

I thought that rain would be like music of silence

And prayer would become a lonely experience of the encounter

But Lourdes pulled me into a big swarm

Of people’s faces, talks and loud prayers

I became a bee in this great swarm of hope

 

I felt communion with those who suffered

While going round the wheelchairs with the sick and disabled

This suffering was hungry for the consoling hand of the Mother

At every wheelchair, was a volunteer like a Guardian Angel

And was dressed in human garment, in human compassion

 

In this beautiful place of conversions and healings

Adorned with processions and a peculiar dance of lights

The time was filled with the incense of prayers

With a mystery of individual, thirsty hearts

Rising up toward Mary, with every lit-up candle

 

There is no room, in Lourdes, for separation

You must look at human suffering

You must hurt your heart with love for human pain

Lourdes teaches you to become a grotto of hope for others  

Just like the holy grotto of the Apparitions

 

I fell in love with Lourdes for this teaching

For resurrecting the feeling of love toward the suffering

Who carry the cross, maybe for me?

The holy water of Lourdes filled me with faith in man

The man who is able to share free love

 

The stones around the grotto are smoothened with human hands

Hungry for  the comforting touch of the Holy Mother

Water flows down over them, like hope for the suffering

Millions of prayers rise in the grotto

Stones become alive, stony hearts crumble

 

Oh, holy Lourdes, filled with a human swarm of hope

I felt like a bee in this crowd of desires

The bee that experienced the grace of the healing power of prayer

For my fellow human being, hungry for consolation in suffering

For those who carry heavier crosses than mine.

 

 

A pilgrim

 

In the corners of old streets and houses of Assisi

In dark churches with mosaics on the walls

In the beautiful basilicas of Rome, at the shrines of the saints

I search for You, Lord

Before the Monstrance with Your Blood and Flesh in Lanciano

In the little cottage of Black Madonna in Loreto and

In the chapel of the Mother of the Poor in Banneux

I search for You, Lord

Before the statue of the Holy Mother of Lourdes

Over the tomb of Saint Bernadette in Nevers

In the chapel of the Miraculous Medallion, and kissing the blood relicts in Brugge

I search for You, Lord

I follow Your light, dragging the weakness of mine

Over the stones, faded with the pilgrims’ feet

I heave my hope like a heavy hunch, because while walking

I search for You, Lord

And when at last my heart finds You, Lord

I will kneel down, transformed by the miracle of love

And I will cry to You with power, like Shovel did

What should I do, my Lord?

 

Our local church in Saska Kepa, Warsaw, Poland.

I was on my knees praying before the picture of the Holy Mother of Czestochowa, and suddenly I heard in my heart: Be faithful in your prayer. If you, who do not see Me say that you love Me, so how could it be that I who see you, would not love you?

I was surprised hearing this old-fashioned, biblical word order. Anyway it was the answer to my doubts and anxiety that I had during Adoration the day before.

 

There is love…

 

There is love that hands can’t touch

Though they would like to embrace it warmly

This is love which is above man’s love

Redeeming, eternal

How to touch it here on earth?

Man is searching with human gestures

He will embrace a wooden cross

And will hug the picture of Jesus

He will adorn the statue of Mary with roses

And will hang a medallion around Her neck

With fear, he will touch the relics, hidden in the box

Like a miracle

There is love that ordinary wishes and gestures

Can not reach …

It comes to us …

In prayer

It is recognized in the bloodless offering

You can see it .. through a grace

When a priest is giving you the Host

This love has no dimension

The human touch cannot measure it

Its power and strength lie in prayer

In a beseeching raising of the hands

Just fold your hands … and don’t reach for anything

Wait patiently

It will touch you like a ray in silence

Trust it

It has a great power

Which heals saints and non-saints

 

I was wondering why Europe stubbornly insisted that there should not be any reference to God in the Constitution of European Union. Then I heard the whole reasoning in my heart: When we refer to God's Commandments, then we can not accept morality or evil relatively. Murder is murder; adultery is adultery etc. (ref. the Ten Commandments). When we do not refer to God, but to so-called human justice, then we can make the Decalogue relative and bend Man's behavior to the evaluation of human justice, not God's. In other words, in a murderer we look for some psychotic explanations and in a mother committing abortion, we find social welfare excuses. Adultery is justified. We refer to human justice which is not objective because it is enacted by people of certain vocation, epoch and tradition, and is subject to redress with ever new generation. What was not socially tolerated a hundred years ago-is a norm today and is not a subject to political correctness and evaluation.

A few days later, during Adoration of the Most Holy Sacrament, I "saw" a wooden cross with Lord Jesus. There were different chains, big and small, hanging on it. I thought they were religious votes. But in a moment I saw a man with a chain around his head and the end of the chain was hooked to the cross. I wanted to know what it meant and then I saw different chains, thick, thin, short and long - connecting numerous people to the cross. Even when a person stood further, his chain extended to the very cross at the Altar. Then I wanted to see my chain and I saw myself connected to the cross with a short, thick chain. All this was in a form of images. I asked myself a question, a little irritated 'Why is my chain so short and thick, as if it were meant for animals?' I heard an answer, 'So that I could keep you close'

 

We are created

 

Created to look like and resemble God

We look for Him in Heaven, we - innocent children

We recall the touch of His Love

And the hands, folded and ready for prayer

And then growing up with no humility

The eyes looking down

And the injury is - to remind us

That our creation is in His image and to be like Him

There came the grace of sudden light

During the Mass, the prayer

The eyes staring at the Black Madonna

The pages of the Bible discovered again

Out of pieces of grace, gathered on earth

We rediscover Heaven that was lost

Impatiently we look for the touch of love

And the Forgotten Promise

Bent with age, with gray hair

Propping with our own crosses

On our knees, with hope

We beseech: Let us, Lord, love, like a child.

 

Mass in my local church in Warsaw. After the Communion I had an impression that Lord Jesus "is coming off" the cross standing on the Altar. Then I heard in my heart that we are born with our crosses, attached to us. This world is closely connected with the cross and its shape or size.

After the Mass there was the Way of the Cross, prayers and Adoration of the Eucharist in the side chapel of the Heart of Jesus. While praying I saw a picture of leaning forward people. I had an impression that I was at a cemetery, although there weren't any graves. All was gray there. The place there was full of crosses of different shapes and sizes, small ones, big, colored, carved, but without Christ on them. There were people moving among the crosses, bent down silhouettes, but I couldn't see their faces. They were dressed alike, in gray. Everyone was looking for a cross. They were picking up the crosses and throwing them away. It seemed that they knew what cross to look for. I conclude it this way that every man is sent to earth with a cross and many people don't accept it out of their own will. But the time comes when they begin to understand that without this cross, they will not know the truth about life. Then they go off to look for their own cross that they had abandoned.

 

The soul

 

Oh, you are the Creator of mountains and oceans

You - the Painter of the world, the perfect Craftsman

The Artist of sunrises and sunsets

I stand before Your wonders

And my soul flies up to the mountain peaks

How will I pull her down if she loves their secrets?

I call her, shout; the echo reaches her

She comes back to my body

 

I know that you feel cramped, sinful in here

I whisper to her gently, explain

How can it be - man without a soul?

 

At the seaside, I admire the talent of the Creator

The humming of water, the clouds running beyond the horizon

My soul rushes out again

She jumps over the whitened, foamy waves

I send a seagull after her

Come back - I cry

You know that I can't stay without you, my soul

 

We kneel down before You, Lord

Both of us, I and my soul - the escapee

We are together

I will take care of her

For You, my Lord.

 

Adoration after the Mass in my local church in Saska Kepa, Warsaw.

While I was praying I saw pictures of goblets (for keeping Holy Host) - different kinds, silver, golden, copper. They were supposed to be filled with our offerings, our prayers and sufferings which we offer during our lives. The Holy Mother, hovering in the air, was collecting these goblets and was handing them to the Angels who lifted them higher. Some goblets were empty, some were partially filled and some were full, indeed.

I think that the content of the goblets is... our prayers for ourselves, for our neighbors, for our families. Empty ones mean that nobody prayed for this person, nor did he recommend this person to God. It seems that maybe pilgrimages and prayers offered to the Holy Mother fill these empty goblets and cause that She distributes these intentions, thus filling empty cups.

 

Traces

 

It is so easy to walk over a green meadow

When the sun warms up our temples

And our thoughts are pure and beautiful

Safe

We don't count our steps

Dew, not tears sprinkle the flowers under our feet

 

It is so hard to walk over the concrete

Our traces are covered with dust, when we follow the crowd

Smiles and tears on strange faces

Are wiped off with gray fog

We don't see our friend's hands

Where are we going then?

 

We are happy in the green meadow of hope

And lost, when we follow other people's traces

Let's stop aside for a while

So that nobody could push us

Let's close our eyes

Maybe, behind our eyelids, we will see a living picture

Of our own way

 

Before the Mass in my local church.

I was wondering what it meant to possess power and confidence in this world - Then I saw two pictures: one was of a rich man in a luxury car, having a beautiful house,  swanky dressed and very self-confident. In the other picture, I saw people praying in a church, modest people, monks, priests. And then "a voice" told me compare these two forces. Is the first one as strong as the other one? If you tear the first one off the outer signs of wealth, their houses, cars, money - they become immensely weak because they obtain their power and confidence through these material things, exclusively through these things. They become hollow without these things. The other ones, who receive power from God and possess divine grace, get stronger and have no need to be supported with all of those acquisitions.

It is their heart and mind which give strength and they don't have to decorate it with flamboyant colors of earthly life. It seems that earthly wealth (beauty, talent, riches) is connected with many negative emotions - fear of loss and conceit - all these threaten positive righteous emotions to exist. The believers, even modest and poor, have nothing to lose - on the contrary, they can get enriched more and more spiritually. The man who is materially rich must use a lot of energy to protect all that he possesses, but the man who is close to God, can only gain inner richness and divine protection. I suppose that good people are attacked more by evil and diseases because the evil spirit wants to weaken them, deprive them of their hope of faith, because they spread goodness with the way they live. This fact can be well noticed, particularly among the Catholics, saints who lived and are still living in poverty and diseases.

I felt a great need to write a poem, a kind of a dialogue - prayer to Father Pio.

 

Father Pio

 

Give me your strength and faith

Just a little crumb of it

What do you need it for, in Heaven?

You are a saint already, a great saint

I ask You because here on earth

Your faith is noted in this ungrateful world

And God is the only One who knows the truth

Of the souls redeemed - by You

I will feed my heart that is shy

And weakened on the thorny paths

With a touch of the Holy Monk

And with a prayer to Him - eternal

 

Oh please, let Your love resurrect, Father

Help Your faithful, those who ask

How to overcome, with endurance and dignity

The time of life, offered like a generous gift

Reach out Your hand from Heaven that touches San Giovanni

And snuggle those whom nobody wants

Raise the sinners who kneel down

Show Jesus on the cross

For He is the One who stigmatized You...

Please smile, even through tears and

Whisper, whisper to everyone:

I keep praying and I bless you!

 

I was thinking about a human soul and I "saw" a circle. With some people, the soul was within the circle but with some others, the soul was somewhat above the circle. I was wondering why, in some cases, the soul wasn't inside the circle, which is the symbol of a person. Then I heard an inner voice saying that these persons are full of serious sins and the soul which is the divine element would get dirty in them. Thus, the soul doesn't want to stay within such a person so that she wouldn't get dirty when she doesn't see hope for cleansing him. I had an impression that people, whose souls were outside, are exclusively physical, they react to another person without empathy, they easily react with anger, brutality, vulgarisms. Satan has an easy access to such people. Healing occurs when grace descends onto this person. It may include somebody's prayer or Divine Mercy. And then the soul enters into this man (circle). It all looked as if it were a Red pulsating wheel (maybe it was the heart) and a smaller circle of the soul was revolving around it. I had an impression that the Earth was revolving around the Sun. I was surprised to see that the soul - the pure, divine element, can't be joined to physical dirt and man's sin. The soul is waiting for man's cleansing and then she joins him fully and directs him.

 

Passing away for eternity

 

I am walking along a path covered with dry leaves

They rustle

They persuade me to rejoice

But you have died, I reflect

Wind is your conqueror

We serve you - they whisper

With our experience of transition

Please keep it in mind

And enjoy your existence

 

I pick up a golden leaf

I dip my feet in the carpet of dry leaves

What would the world be like, without transition?

An unlit lamp in November fog, on the Memorial Day?

Life without memory?

Then, to whom would we send

Our prayer to eternity?

We send it to the One who does not pass away

Rest in peace

 

The Way of the Cross - in the intentions for Purgatory souls.

Veronica wipes Christ's face with a scarf. At this station, I "saw" many figures coming up to this scarf. It seemed that they wanted to touch it. I also saw the same figures at the stations where Jesus falls and where Simon helps Jesus carry the cross. First, I couldn't understand what it meant and why I experienced seeing these pictures only at these stations. After a while I understood that these were the Purgatory souls. Whenever the Way of the Cross is conducted in their intentions, they try to "gain" graces, for which the participating faithful pray. I was particularly surprised to see many of them at Veronica's scarf - as if each of them wanted to touch it. The figures were slim, tall, in long, blue-white robes. I didn't see their faces but only their stretching out arms.

During these prayers at the stations I asked myself why it was Jesus who redeemed us, while there were so many prophets or saints who died as martyrs. Then I heard the word - Love and I understood that only the Most High, Divine Love can redeem us. Hence Christ's death who is the Most High Love of God. Many saints died in terrible tortures, but they couldn't be the redeemers of mankind because they had the original sin, they were the sign of love of God on earth, but they weren't the Love Itself.

 

Friday Mass

 

When I came to your feast, Jesus

To the Mass, the time of Offering

An Angel's voice whispered to me:

Look, how many wounds your God received!

The face of Christ and the body bent with the cross

Blood covers the wounds abundantly

My wound is in your chest, Jesus?

Or maybe a sharp thorn stings it

The priest finished the Mass already, but mine went on

The Mass, or rather confession on the truth about myself

About the wounds that I caused

And then the Angel who collected people's worries after the Mass

Like a busy nun picking up rose flakes on the floor

At the holy statues

The Angel sat down, His fatigue visible

And whispered: be helpful like Veronica

 

I looked at the Lord on the cross

Asking for strength, a helping hand

I must carry the cross, it's Friday - He said

So My arms are busy

I invite you to the procession of souls on Golgotha

Who look for the wounds they committed, like you, at the fourteen stations

And when at last, you find - the wound, the truth about yourself

Put it on the altar, it will liberate you.

 

During the Mass. During a thanksgiving prayer, I saw a picture of a dark-blue cross sticking out of a lump of ice, heart-shaped. Drops of blood were dripping slowly down the cross, spreading over the ice, Will this blood melt the ice?

After the Mass, I was wondering how the love of common faithful differs from the love of saints. Maybe the difference is in the understanding of love? Saints are coming to Jesus, as volunteers, ready for anything to gain this love. They don't expect any gifts for this great feeling. And what about us? We keep asking for something, we try to bend God's will to our expectations, needs. We pray for happiness, but within our range of understanding, even when we say: Thy will be done.

Priests, monks are the people who adore God with such pure, holy love, when they decide to give their lives for Him, and when they absolutely trust Him. The "civil" saints are those who live according to God's directives, and they don't try to bend them to their expectations. Is striving after sanctity the same as endless climbing the tops of Trust? Who is truly ready, like the Apostles, to answer Jesus' call: "follow me"?

 

Why?

 

I have seen love

Not the one that poets write about

This love was hidden in a prayer of folded hands

As silent as a light breeze

Of the Holy Spirit

Nobody saw it because it was in the heart of

A nun

Her eyes penetrated through the thick lenses of her glasses

Searching for the Bridegroom on the altar

In her gesture was the peace of total submission

The gentleness that adores

 

I have seen such love in a chapel

It lasted a moment

The very movement of her black frock

As if the body weren't inside

But only the soul

And then the leave-taking, a very low bow

Almost touching the floor

And the hands moving like birds

Marking the sign of the cross

Why did You want me to see it, Lord?

 

 

Worse or better love

 

So many rows and wars the world is affected with

And they are never ending

Who loves You more, Jesus so tender

A Christian, a Protestant or maybe a Muslim?

 

What is Love, my God and how should we know it?

Must we use tanks, bombs to punish and kill?

Even the Bible divides the Christians today

And the words contained there are misused sometimes

 

Your Passion, Lord, is the sign for many

But, will the sign itself light up with love?

Love must be touched, like Thomas did with Your wounds

The man who wasn't hurt, will never experience it

 

He will never start fighting, when devil's not tempting

He will not feel its taste, when there is no pain or downfall

Love has your face, spat, bleeding

The one who rises from the kneeling, can recognize it

 

He will see with surprise that dressed in beggars clothes

This Love is circling this world, so much at odds

Asking which love is worse and which is better for us?

Which one to fight against and which one to bow to?

 

And then the man who came to stand in front of this Love

Will understand with no words or emotions

How difficult it is to find it, though the heart still searches

She is so silent and humble that we pass  by her like the blind and deaf.

 

I had an impression that it's not a dream but rather a displacement in time. I felt the warmth of the morning, the percale smell of an unknown place. There was a narrow, stony road and a temple nearby. Gray-blue dawn was coming, people dressed in white robes where going to the temple. The cacophony of human voices, prayers, plaintive singing. This was not a modern city. I was engulfed in this euphoric atmosphere. Suddenly I saw myself as a beggar sitting at the gate of this temple, other people were passing by. I could see their bare feet in sandals. I could see their feet clearly, even their shapeless toes, straps of the sandals. In front of me there was a small bowl for beggar's alms, all worn out. Passersby cast coins, little copper ones (without gluier). Suddenly I saw a shinning reflection of a golden coin and I raised my head, looking for my donor. I could see only his back (those praying were only the men). He was the only one who turned around in the crowd. His face and his whole head were covered. I saw his eyes, beautiful, large, oriental. The crowd pulled in this man. They all moved, I supposed, toward the altar. The gate of the temple, where I was seated, was narrow, the upper part  was higher, as if in a triangle. People were gathering on the stony road. They looked dark, as if light didn't reflect on them, they wore  black clothes. They were preparing a big, dark-brown cross, made of beams. They were getting ready for  The Way of the Cross? This city - was this Jerusalem?

 

Jerusalem

 

Gray-blue dawn

Quiet voices of Arab and Jewish prayers

Extended, weeping, like laments of souls in distress

I am sitting at the gate of a temple

A beggar, wrapped up in a frock, tightly

Holding out a worn-out tin bowl for alms

Like hope for survival

The feet of the faithful are passing by

Clinking of small coins sounds like an exotic bird's singing

And brings hope for the evening meal

More and more feet are coming, I can't see people's eyes

When I stoop in obedience

People are kneeling before God

I readily kneel and pray for little gifts

Suddenly a loud sound is deafening the rustle of the morning

A golden coin lightens the surrounding in the bowl of copper coins

Silhouettes of people are heading for the altar

I am looking for the donor's eyes

He is the only one who stared directly at me

I caught his intent eyes, just for a moment

The quality coin  outshines the copper coins like Grace

Do You always hide in a crowd, Lord?

The sounds of prayers, like birds, drift in the sky

Nearby, among the bazaar stands, along the stony road

Another group begins their Way of the Cross on Golgotha Hill

Souls of the pilgrims, like my beggar's bowl

Desire Your Gift

Will a copper coin shine there... or gold?

 

I had been participating in the prayers of the Way of the Cross every week, for many years and I carried out a strong inner impulse to write about my own feelings concerning the Stations. I called it a conversation of my heart with Jesus during the Way of the Cross. Also, quite accidentally, I found a following message: Consider the depth of His sorrowful Passion, consider it as if it were taken up exclusively for you.

The conversation of the heart with Jesus during the Way of the Cross.

 

Station I

Lord Jesus condemned by Pilatus' court

 

In people's hearts

Hatred sprouted already

It built up the Cross

Pilatus washed his hands off it

You were standing in silence

The King of Humanity without the crown, scepter

Your heart, Your thoughts, Your Love

Didn't call for mercy

It wasn't the time for words

It was the time for suffering

God has foreseen it and showed You all in the Olive Garden

Put this cup aside from Me

Your hope was shouting that maybe man

Can be as merciful as God                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Their will, not mine be done

And it has been done

For the salvation of man

You must resurrect

 

 

Station II

Lord Jesus takes the cross on His shoulders.

 

You are silent, in pain, with the cross on Your shoulders

You watch when we take crosses off the walls

Take them off our backs, our consciences

We cover our hearts with soft silk

So that suffering wouldn't hurt them

We leave the memory of Your Passion in churches

On the fourteen tables

But

Sometimes, on our way, pain looks at us

It touches us

Its eyes are like Yours

The silky cover on our hearts gets split

This is the moment when we see

Our own crosses on Your shoulders

And You are not just one of the Stations of the Cross

Or a lifeless picture of the 21st century

You Are our suffering

Our tears

Our silence when we lack understanding

You said:

Let everyone take up his cross

And follow Me

 

 

Station III

First fall of Lord Jesus

 

At the Stations of the Cross, You Are a human being

Like me or them

Being whipped, wounded, You have no strength

Like our body, touched with illness, with life

With sin

You stumble over a stone and fall

The stone may have my name written on it?

Or maybe yours, my companion from work

From a meeting, from a pilgrimage?

The stone is silent, mysterious

Jesus knows its name

He gets up and gives hope for forgiveness

He is kicked by His ruffians

Cruelty of strength over Silence of Love

He is getting up, all by Himself

I, human being didn't help You

I was afraid to come up

Out of fear, terror

I close my eyes

Is it better not to see? Not to hear?

But God works in my heart already

He reveals the power of Love

The Cross of Jesus - it's not a lifeless wood

It is alive, it pulsates with millions of human beings

Waiting for salvation

And I am within this Cross, too

 

 

Station IV

Lord Jesus meets His Mother

 

The moment of two lonely hearts

The moment of looking at mutual pain

The pain that is carried

The pain, pierced with a spear of grief

Where are your companions, Jesus?

Where are your defenders?

Where am I?

Just the Cross and Mother

God appointed Them for our Salvation

We are not alone in our pain, anymore

Mother's eyes are vigilant, Jesus' eyes are vigilant

The world around is noisy, like it always is on Calvary

Shouting and pushing, stepping on those who can't make it

The glance that lasts one second is enough

One second of pouring Love

And we already have His power

We reshuffle our cross of destiny on our backs

The cross of vocation

You looked at us the same way as at Your Mother

You pierced Your Cross with the lance of our grief

We follow You

To Calvary of our own lives

 

 

Station V

Simon of Cyrene helps Lord Jesus carry the Cross

 

I am in the crowd, I - Simon of Cyrene

I am looking at a man with a cross who suffers

He will pass near me

It is his suffering, his destiny

I will return home

Somebody is dragging me, pulling out of the crowd

Give help - he shouts

Why me?

For hundreds of years, Cyrene-like people

Have been asking themselves this question

The cross for me?

Rebellion breaks the heart

Fists are clenched...

The bent gaunt figure of Jesus

The eyes full of understanding, love

Looking just at me

I am not a common passerby in life, anymore

He is asking... like man, not like God

My heart softens, tight fists relax

Two pairs of hands carry the cross

The grace of suffering in silence...

He has chosen me

He has trusted...

I don't ask... why me?

The burden of love...

I will fall with it many times

Please, be with me when I carry my cross.

 

 

Station VI

Veronica wipes Lord Jesus' face

 

In the heat and dust

On the way to Golgotha

Veronica is making her way through the crowd

It is her mercy and courage

That wipe Your face

You reward her with Your Countenance Reflection

On an ordinary veil

On an ordinary life

You leave a trace

It is enough to pull out our hands to You

And they will never be empty

You say: don't hide in the crowd

Let your heart act

Devote it to love

To courage...

To the power of vocation

A frock of a monk, a cassock

Like Veronica's veil

A wedding ring

Like Veronica's veil

Loneliness

Like Veronica's veil

Permit God to write on it

Your name.

 

 

Station VII

Second fall of Jesus

 

Mocking, pushing, hostile shouting

This is Your music on the way to Golgotha

Singing of birds is deafened, just stones under the feet

Nature is silent, it knows the mysteries of Your Passion

The earth is getting ready to quake

It is wounded by Your blood

Only people are deaf

Stranger's suffering hurts only wise hearts

Falling the second time, You give time to the executioners

For the silence of mercy, at least

You fall, oppressed with the Cross

You do it for us, who cast away the grace of Salvation

We throw our sin-laden crosses upon Your emboldened Cross

We don't want them

You embrace and hug this over-burden with Your heart

You don't leave any...

On the Calvary road

Your blood will bless them

Love will speak

You hope until the very end, while rising from the fall

To see more Simons and Veronicas around.

 

 

Station VIII

Lord Jesus consoles the weeping women

 

The women take pity on Your Passion

They are weeping

What are tears for, when life dries them up so quickly

Mercy will pass away, time will forget all about it

So much suffering around

The hearts harden when seeing it

They are protected with fences of everyday life

So that our neighbors’ sufferings wouldn't hurt us

We have mercy for the victims

Tender words, vain, with no meaning

Although sometimes beautiful

Cry over your children - says Jesus

Tears of mercy don't soothe pain

We must hold it in warm hands

Even if it belongs to a stranger

We must warm it, going along together

Until we encounter

The first smile

The first hope

The first prayer together...

Is this what You asked for, Jesus?

 

 

Station IX

Third fall of Lord Jesus

 

God was deep in thoughts when creating man

To look like Him and be similar to Him

He inscribed free will into man's rebellious heart

With His Holy finger

Man took God's plan in his hands

He cast sin at it with impunity and smashed God's hopes

Throwing God's Son down onto the rocks, the third time

The Son who was sent to save the world

Man gave vinegar to the thirsty

But the Redeemer gets up, although insulted

He gives away the Gift of Mercy

Like treasure underestimated

Oh, Jesus so humiliated, how many falls

Do You raise us from?

You raise our bodies, our souls, distressed with sin

God has given the time of life to me, the pilgrim of the world

So that I could count my falls

And look for my Brother

The One Who carried the Cross to Golgotha Hill

He asks for just one thing

The Cross that is put into the ice of the world

Should remind you of God's thoughtfulness

When He created you to look like Him

And be similar to Him...

 

 

Station X

Taking off Lord Jesus' clothes

 

It is not enough for the executioners to have hurt You,

The robe that Your Mother gave You

Is taken off You, so that Your wounds could be seen

To humiliate Your human dignity

Someday, on Judgment Day

God will unveil our souls

He will take off our shiny clothes of the sin of pride

He will unveil our injuries, our scars

We treated them with our human ways

With forgetfulness, with going away from the cross, from God

With giving up prayers

We wanted to be nice to the world

Human medicine doesn't heal, it only suspends pain

It often kills human dignity

The executioners tore off Jesus' clothes and opened up His wounds

Look for salvation in My wounds

Not in the herbs of this world, nor in its clothing

Your silent consent for humility is crying

Oh, the Robe of Jesus, so blessed

Woven by the hands of the Sorrowful Mother

Stepped on by the executioners

Those from the past and from our times

Please cleanse our eyes...

 

Station XI

Nailing Lord Jesus to the Cross

 

Why are the hangmen pushing You?

You will lie on the Cross by Yourself

As if it were a moment of rest for Your sore legs

For your whipped and beaten-up back

But there is no rest for you

The hammer and the nails are poised

Why is there so much uproar around?

You will not escape from the Cross

You did not choose it, You just submitted

Thy will, not Mine, Lord

The sound of hammering, the legs are nailed

The left hand is nailed

You are watching when the executioners are nailing

Your right hand

You will not bless with it again

There is no salvation, no hope

Besides the Cross...

We must, like Jesus, take up our own crosses on the backs

Life itself will give us the nails

The executioners with hammers will appear out of nowhere

The Cross is the only key to Heaven

Look for the cross, man, that you once cast away

Maybe out of fear?

Maybe out of convenience?

Maybe you lacked prayer? Love?

You still have time, you - the Passerby in the streets of this world

God has chosen your cross for you, with love

He matched it to your potential

He had given the heaviest one to His Son.

 

 

Station XII

Lord Jesus is dying on the Cross

 

The sorrow of the whole world hang on the Cross

Suffering tore up the screen

Between Heaven and Earth

God held out His arms for His Son

But the Son was still saving a rascal on the cross

The earth quaked, the blood, sweat and tears of Christ

Mixed with bitter vinegar, the last gift of man

Poured down the Holy Body

John was silent

The Sorrowful Mother was silent

Even the executioners were silent

This was the blessed silence

The silence of death that we are so afraid of

Jesus died on the Cross

Our loved ones also die

We can't say - I love you - to anyone, anymore

We suffer when we see, how many nails

We have hammered into their crosses

In their lifetimes

How many times we have nailed their hands

When they only wanted... to bless, to advice

Jesus, mother, father, brother, sister, my friend

Intercede with God for us

At the moment of silence of death

We beseech the Saving Love of Passion

Please forgive us...

 

 

Station XIII

Lord Jesus is taken off the Cross

 

The body of Jesus is taken off the Cross

As a man, He is dead

The Cross is driven into the ground

Stained with His blood

With His tormented body

The Cross is still standing

It is holding out its wooden arms

The Saviour has given in His place, for your cross

Now He is standing in front of your cross

He always waits for you

He supports your mutilated body and soul

He gives the drink of the Holy Spirit, not sour vinegar

No cursing, nor mocking

He gives Love

This is the salvation Cross...

Stand by this Cross, let yourself be crucified for sins

With your offering of prayer, of suffering, of silence

Are you afraid of people's scoffing, pain, loneliness?

These are the thorns of life

And if you escape from Jesus' cross, as high as a bird

People will nail you to other crosses

There will always be people who carve

The crosses of war, violence, evil

On them, there is only pain without consolation

These are the crosses set by people

And Jesus didn't hang on them

They were carved by evil, by indifference

Only one Cross is holding out its arms

The Cross of Merciful Jesus

So pray, man, and don't confuse the human cross

With the Cross of Jesus.

 

 

Station XIV

Lord Jesus is laid in the tomb

 

You have been laid in the tomb\

The silence of the grotto

The despair of Your followers

Before, You were lying in Your Mother's arms

Departure - a painful, silent pieta

Suffering is always silent

It speaks to the heart, soul

Eyes and words don't understand it

Mother of God with Jesus on Her lap

This is the symbol of grief of millions of mothers

They gave birth to life

The world of violence gave them back the dead children

For how many human beings

The wombs of their mothers were their graves?

Oh, Jesus, why must man breathe evil in and out so long?

Why must man kill the body, the soul?

We hold out our fists to God - and ask, why?

But it's not God, it's people who dig graves

Your grave, Jesus, will be empty

The cold sepulcher will not absorb You

You will resurrect and approach man

Here I Am - You will say

I Am still alive

God didn't create man for the grave

He created him... for eternity.

 

 My local church in Nobla St. Warsaw

After the prayers of the Stations of the Cross, I had Adoration of the Most Holy Sacrament

for some time. Suddenly I saw the Pope in my mind. I felt that I am hugging Him, embracing Him. This feeling was so physical that I saw Him spreading His arms around me. It all lasted seconds. And then a quiet voice in my heart demanded: write a poem about Him, but make it simple.

 

 The Pope

 

He was made out of divine Wisdom, out of the Creator's joy

Out of His Mercy

And like grace sent down to earth

To be the Great Custodian

 

This holy gift fell on the ground so hard

The world filled His eyes with pain

Tormented His heart with thorns

The Man-Pope was getting aged for us

 

He feeds people with hope

Don't be afraid, He repeats

He, the High Priest of this world knows the Truth

Which makes souls blossom

 

He fell from a bullet, helplessly

The world was shaken, touched with trepidation

Cried sinners and saints in common:

Please rise, You, who are the Guard of Hope!

 

He did rise with the helping hand of Mary

Not so strong anymore but an old weary man

Suffering, gray-haired, patient, wary

Keeping on His pilgrimage...

 

What message do You give us; Lord

Through this old man, so hurt and ailing

Is our soul, like His, crucified

Within our earthly infirmity?

 

On His back, there is the cross of the world's sins

His step like Jesus', falls down with the effort

His spirit is defiant, people's sins are heavy

God waits and gives endurance

 

You gave us, Lord; the Sign of Reconciliation

It came in the person of the Pope

So little does His heart demand, as well as His teaching:

You have been gifted with Love, so you also give It free.

 

 

Sunday Mass near Warsaw.

This Sunday's Gospel spoke about Christians as a pillar of the earth. I was trying to imagine what our Community has become.

I saw a picture of a large Rosary with red. living fruits of Guilder-rose strung on it (instead of regular heads).

Looking closer, I saw that some fruits were red and juicy but among them were also dried, faded, blackened fruits. I was wondering if all the fruits end up-with dying?

I "heard" an answer that every fruit which passes away (it withers due to spiritual or mortal death) gets reborn. The Cross of Christ keeps feeding the Rosary, therefore, it gives the power for the rebirth of the Rosary. With my human mind, I understood that even if time comes when some people abandon their Christianity, others will be born (through the power of the Cross) and they will reinforce it with their power. (Like saints, priests and even common faithful).

 

 A little chapel

 

The mist of humility has made it

God Almighty touched it with light

He sent the Immaculate to the world

The blessed One, full of grace

 

The chapel is standing now

With the carved statue of the Holy Mary

She is waiting for prayers, sung in May

By common people, not saints

 

They will kneel before Her and pray fervently

They will decorate the chapel with flowers and ribbons

Tired of life, they will sigh silently

Someone will whisper: come with us, Mary

 

It will be warmer, more comfortable for You

In our house, in the chamber, by the flowered window

Rain won't reach Your arms, nor will storm

And the evil man will not reach You, either

 

The Holy Lady will say: Thank you, with love

For your hospitality and feeling

This statue was built for the Glory, by someone with faith

Who was grateful for his healing

 

I stand here, scoped with stone with a chisel

To protect what is holy with people

I remind you that there is someone on earth

Who doesn't despise your requests

 

Oh, Holy Mary from a roadside sanctuary

Who fortifies conscience and shows clemency

Sometimes You are so alone at this road

When we pass by You... indifferent and ungracious.

 

 Feast of the Holy Mother of Lourdes in Siekierki, Warsaw.

The Mass was very solemn, beautiful. I didn't feel impatient although the third hour passes. During a long ceremony of the blessing of the sick, I tried to meditate. I recommended all persons that I know - to the Holy Mother of Siekierki. I apologized to Her for the sins and downfalls. At one moment, I noticed in my heart, the symbol of human sin, in a form of a black stone that looks like coal. My inner voice, I called him "an interpreter", explained to me that the Holy Spirit burns this coal of ours, provided that we act through genuine repentance. But still being unsure, I kept wondering what happens to the ashes after burning our "sins". And I heard, 'it still glows in our hearts, and when it loses the glow, the Holy Communion lights up our inner "hearth" again. People, who keep inside the hard stone that is not lit up by the grace of the Holy Spirit, don't feel this peculiar praying glow.' The Holy Spirit doesn't act, I suppose. They are indifferent when they put the Holy Sacrament into their hearts, into this stone (sins); there is no sorrow, repentance and guilt in them but only coldness.

My "interpreter" presented this complicated analogy of human spirit in such a simple way that it seemed to me too simplified. But after some consideration, I thought that it contains an important idea: sins are being incinerated inside us, all the time, but the memory of them is like ashes.

 

 The stone

 

The burden of life, I felt.

It rested on my shoulders

Like a stone that makes you stop

At a place that I haven't chosen

I recall with nostalgia those who are gone

Their faces filled my heart

Life around was beating to its own rhythm

And I sat down on a stone

Even the wind was quiet

No tune

Just me and the stone

Like the examination of conscience

We were silent

Should I drum it with my head or my heart?

Can a stone grant absolution?

Once, Your cross, Jesus, was driven into a stone

You had strength and power of God

I - have only weakness of man

My stone says: - you won't make it

Unless you lift me

Otherwise, you will become a blooming weed in its shadow

Once, on Golgotha, the sacrifice of your God

Poured down on your stone, too

On your life

And God gave you strength... through prayer.

 

 I was deeply touched by the death of Sister Lucy (13.02, one of the children of Fatima). I had an impression that she was the person who protected this world against God's justice, but she passed away. In prayer, I devoted her to God and I asked for grace through her intercession. And then, while looking at the picture of the Holy Mary of Medjugorje, I started hearing words cascading down on me. First I wanted to keep them to myself but I felt sorry that the dirge might be forgotten, so I put them down instantly, giving the title: The gift.

 

 The gift

 

I am pulling my arms out to You, Lord

Asking for consolation

And You order me to close my eyes

And stay in humility

So I keep silent

Feeding myself with silence like with bread

Time penetrates the body

There is no word, no gesture, whatsoever

Only the blessed silence

And being in Adoration so deeply

Full of peaceful hope

I count on Your sign

On Your consolation

On relief in my pain

Time passes, minutes move slowly

On the clock of silence

I exist like that in hope

With empty hands

Will You fill them with gifts, Lord?

I open my eyes when You give me a sign

I seek consolation on my hands

What do I see?

A little wooden cross

 

I woke up this Friday morning feeling strange; spiritual love surrounds me. It seemed as if "somebody" wanted to convey to me that I was special. It lasted for a few seconds but it was blissful and beautiful. In my mind, I saw a beautiful flower, looking like a red rose. Some kind, inner voice "explained" to me that people's faith is contained in this beautiful bud. The flower looks fresh and beautifully scented. This is an encouragement sent from Heaven so that we love God. But the flower becomes faded, loses scent, gets drier, I imagined. But faith still exists in it, although there were no flakes, leaves any longer. This faith exists somehow in the "memory" of this flower, it hovers; nothing supports it any longer, no scent, no moisture. But it still exists. It is very hard to understand. This is the faith which gets stronger, everlasting, thanks to grace. It is not strengthened from the outside; it is strong thanks to will. This faith believes that it found its place already, although there was nothing around to support it. It is the strong conviction that in spite of lack of "consolation" (like scent, green, water) we are at the right place. I thought that it was a picture of faith of such people who have strong ties with God already. They hover like birds, feeding on grace that is flowing right into their souls.

 

 Wait

 

There are such days when you call for Love

But she is silent

There are such days when you call for Hope

But she does not come

There are such days when you light a candle for Faith

But she goes out

There are such days...

When Jesus' face is shrouded on the cross

With a violet veil

He is looking for Love, Hope, Faith for you

Through your fast, prayer, suffering

And don't say that Faith, Hope, Love, have left you

They are shaped like a cross

In the daunting desert, in torment

On the cross there are visible

Hope for your life

Love that you look for

Faith, so that you don't lose Hope and Love

Keep waiting in quiet patience

In successive Mass

In the Eucharist in your heart

It will resurrect in you

Despite your sadness of being left in solitude

It will light up, at the given time

According to the Divine Clock

Wait, even if your eyes were blind

And your ears deaf

For Jesus, the miracle of

Hope, Faith and Love

Is a daily bread.

 

 I wake up having an impression that I was falling down very fast; as if somebody dropped me with full force from a high altitude. I had a strange feeling of rhythmic breathing, beautiful, overwhelming me profoundly. Suddenly I understood what I was going through in my dreamlike vision. Somebody tried to explain the feeling to me which, if described with words that wouldn't depict what I really meant. It is as if you were at a beautiful ballet concert and then you wanted to imitate those intricate steps clumsily, but try nevertheless.

I know that God is there. He is in this wonderful, rich, colorful nature. His presence encumbers every bit of earth and man. We are in Him. He "feels" us. He sees us in every second. We "breathe"; we live together with Him, as if we were on His body. He can notice everything that is important in our tiny bits. We breathe in the same rhythm as God does. Great Love joins all this. By destroying nature, ourselves - spiritually and morally - we offend Him, and we cause pain. He feels it in His rhythm of breathing. He is the Spirit, penetrating the universe.

He is in the beauty of mountains and oceans. It is as if they were part of His body. God is not an old Man with a beard, that we often have a vision of, He is the breathing, rhythm, feelings, and even pain, because of man who destroys.

My feelings lasted only seconds, but they were inspiring. They gave me faith and trust in the Great, Divine Plan of Life. We cannot hide from God. Our breathing is in Him.

 

Memory

 

Memory bears time beautifully

Like a living flower

Like grace which life gives

In the silence when we are mature

I remember a meadow, full of meadow flowers

And a small brook

Crossed by a little wooden bridge

Clean among the green, decorated with sunshine

Not very far from my grandparents' hut

It seemed to me like the way

To another fine world

There, I was looking for You, Lord

Unknown to me then

Being wiser after all these years

A little girl, alone, among the flowers

With eyes full of sweet memories of painted colours

Not knowing words of prayer by heart

I waited quietly

Feeding myself with precious air

For the time when I get to know You, Lord

You were singing for the child, Sweet Lord

With the voices of birds

And the silence of the morning

Here, at the stream

Full of splashing creatures

You used to take my soul into Your heart

And I thought that the stream was calling

To dip my hands in it and clean them

But it was You, God, Who took care of it

And You poured Your mystery

Into the pure soul of the child

There are no more flowers blossoming

The stream got dry, as well

And the grandparents' cottage crumbled with age and disrepair

But the memory lingers on

Like a picture of a great painter

I didn't leave it in the museum of life

I look at it; focused on my prayer

Looking for the signs and pure colours

I know the Name of the One Who painted it

It is You

God - the Most High.

 

 I was to give testimony in church. Two days earlier I felt bad and experienced a terrible weakness. Therefore, I decided to give up and stay home. On top of that, one hour before the Mass, my husband was attacked and bitten from behind by a dog, when he was on his way home.

All this influenced my decision, I wasn't going. I tried to pray to Jesus. There was silence around me and I felt despondent. Suddenly I saw a picture - a road in perspective, a long one, and at the end of it - a little picture of Merciful, Jesus. Then I understood - this road means my free-will. What to do? Either I overcome my weakness of nerves, concerning my testimony before the public in church (it's about my book), or I will use my free will and get away. Finally, I overcame my tendency to resign, I gave testimony and the whole bad feeling disappeared.

 

In the darkness 

 

Give me Your hand, Lord

Because I am standing on a narrow road

I am afraid to put my foot down

When The Red Sea of Faith gets separated

I am standing alone

And Your words are deafened by the howling blizzard

I see darkness in front of me

The angels are busy, talking

They discuss important matters of the world

I am defenceless in my human abandonment

Someone is whispering: - more courage

Someone else:  be careful

I also hear another voice:

God won't perform a miracle for you

There are saints, God is merciful to them

The crashing of the waves, emptiness, darkness

And I...

If there were just one bright ray of the moonlight

Just one word...

Just one man...

A priest - assigned to me...

The stormy wind engulfed my entire frame

And my safe, little track...

There is little time for a decision

I feel like Peter in a boat, tossed by the storm

And Jesus is fast asleep, quiet...

I wake Him up, like Peter, in distress

Lord, I am drowning...

Why is your faith, Peter, so weak?

You said...

But Peter didn't know it

Although he was near Your arms

In the darkness of fear, in the crashing of the waves

Which deafen your words

Do You check up our faith, Lord?

 

 Sunday Mass. I kept wondering why I saw a picture of a dry leaf before my eyes. The leaf flew up, fell down, it was fragile and light. I tried to eliminate this picture from my mind, it disturbed my concentration. Then I saw a picture of an old horse-drawn wagon, actually I saw just a metal wheel rolling towards the leaf. It will roll over it any time now I thought. But a light blow of wind lifted up the leaf, and moved it aside. I still didn't understand the meaning of this vista and I tried to give up the thoughts that disturbed me. But I heard - just think, what is the leaf and what is the blow of wind about? My "inner interpreter" explained to me that the dry leaf means a symbol of a person susceptible to the activity of the Holy Spirit. Such a dry leaf means people who are very close to God. They soar lightly when the Holy Spirit shows them the right paths, and even protects them, like in the case of the metal wheel which could crash the leaf. Lightness (there was the picture of the dry leaf) is necessary, it gives man freedom from the emotions of the world, it lets him soar high (without the baggage of "attachments") for the Holy Spirit has access to such a ready soul. I thought that there were not many such people. Why must we be fragile, light (not burdened with the attachments to the world), so that the Holy Spirit could act on us?

And then the ceremony of the Holy Communion Giving started. This light, Holy Wafer - but what incredible power! The Holy Spirit does not act like a thunder from the sky. It is quiet, as light and gentle as a breeze. And maybe that is why it is hard to be noticed.

 

 The vocation

 

There is such a road

Lonely

There are some trees that grow on the side

Sometimes there are some field flowers

A roadside cross bends forward graciously

 

Laughter and dialogue are quiet there

No shouting, crying, nor any quarrels

Only silence sings the psalm of Adoration

On this road, there is only

God and man

Between them, there is Great Silence

And the light that does not blind

But it penetrates soothingly and is bright

Who will speak first?

I don't know

I know the people from this road

They wear habits now, frocks

And in their hearts...

They nurse

The silence of God

 

 While praying I saw two glasses filled with crystal-clean water. I decided it to be a subject for consideration. Somebody's hand was pouring the water around, out of one glass and the glass got filled with clean water again. The other glass was standing still, and after some time, the water in it got chucky. Why? I have asked myself this question in prayer many times. After many prayers I understood that the two glasses are like symbols of two Christian souls filled with the Holy Spirit - the crystal water.

The glass with poured-out water means the Christian who shares his faith and knowledge about Jesus with others. His life shows an unending tendency to know God better. The Holy Spirit keeps filling such a soul with new, crystal water. Such a Christian who shares his love for God, and teaches others - receives new gifts, new water. Prayer is grace for him. The glass with milky water is a mediocre, lukewarm Christian, who learned about God in school once, but he "stored" this knowledge, didn't share it, he didn't look for new facts which would direct him toward the Burning Love. This milky Water does not give him any strength or power. It is still the same food - and prayer becomes a boring duty. He does get bored with this drink. It is enough for him to celebrate national festivals and holidays. He doesn't desire any new teachings. The water in his glass, instead of living with new gifts and flowing on - is like still water in a pond.

Christianity is the way, is the continuous moving on, but not a comfortable stopover. Man becomes a Christian all his life; it is a development of soul and mind and constant improving and perfecting of our soul.

 

 In the cradle of the Lord

 

Hanging between Heaven and Earth

In the cradle of our Creator

We get closer to Earth

Pulled by the sin of Adam

 

Hanging between Heaven and Earth

In the cradle of our Creator

We send our souls toward Heaven

They remember their Father

Hanging between Heaven and Earth

We sow seeds of our lives on Earth

Father weighs crops in Heaven

Using His own, divine scales

Our scales indicates only kilos of pride and iniquity

Or suffering

God's scales is controlled by Mercy

 

Where is the golden point?

Where do God's and man's hands make contact

Hanging in the cradle of our Creator

We are looking for Him, sowing and harvesting

Planting the talents and multiplying

 

We are watching for a visible sign

Between Heaven and Earth

Hanging in the cradle

There is such a sign, it's like a ladder

Between Heaven and Earth

God set it on Golgotha

This is the Cross with His Son

Between Heaven and Earth

 

 There is no alarming news on TV, about the Pope's illness yet. One night I had a dream that I was in near empty, sunny room and I took care of the Pope who was lying in bed. I fixed the coverlet, gave Him something to drink. I became very happy. I was worried that a nun will come in a moment and replace me with another nurse. The dream was very explicit, my joy was so great that I was happy all day.

A few days later I tried to meditate over one Station of the Cross - Jesus was dying on the Cross. My attention was completely focused on the Cross and Christ's head. Suddenly it looked as if someone "put on" another film tape - the silhouette, of the Pope appeared (dressed in white). He was lying in bed and He did not look like a sick person but rather He was resting blissfully He sat up three times and blessed me. I was surprised to see how firmly he moved.

On another day, just after the Pope's death, during Adoration, I "complain" to Jesus that He took the Pope away from us and so many people are in despair after His death. Deep in my heart I heard a beautiful voice: 'I have taken a sick person away from you, but I give you a strong, wise Apostle.'

The next day, during Adoration I tried to find out in meditation why the Pope felt so forced, spiritually, to participate in so numerous, arduous pilgrimages. Then I received a "vision" of the Pope pontificating across the world. His every step left a trace that looked like a hole. This trace was filled with water. This water - is the source of the Holy Spirit, I heard so. Every step of the Pope, His pilgrimage's traces - it was filling up the earth with the Holy Spirit, His physical, tangible presence.

 

 The sign of God

 

He sat on Peter's throne

With the bright face and the word that is wise

He lifted His head straight, spreading the Divine word

He searched for a barnyards around the world

Like a shepherd with medicine of redemption

He trusted that man is great

And should be believed

 

His eyes, like Jesus' eyes

Penetrated everyone's soul

Millions of hands wanted to touch Him

Like a holy relic in church

He wanted to be strong, like all people do

But God didn't give Him strength

He proclaimed the mystery of love

With a vulnerable fragility of man

 

He pointed to the miracle, where to find it in man

Not in the voice that disappears

But in the cross that is like a holy walking stick in life

It gives support in silence when pain crosses up

He became silent, forever in this world

The prophet of this inclement millennium

He was the visible sign of God

So difficult to believe that He is gone

 

Oh, death, granted to everyone

To pass the threshold of hope

Please, keep praying for us, Pope

Please, resurrect for our Hope.

 

 Dream. I was on a very busy street, like a bazaar - shouts, cacophony of soliciting market noise and customarily acceptable mayhem. I have an impression that the place and the people look unfamiliar. At one moment I see a short procession. A convent nun is carrying the Monstrance which shined with a blue shade. I was the only one who knelt down and it looked as if the others were oblivious of this procession.

I asked in my heart why the nun was carrying the Most Holy Sacrament. Immediately I got the reply: 'Because there weren't enough priests.'

 

Silent church 

 

The lights went out in the church after the last Mass

Darkness resumed in this emptiness

Only the red light near the Tabernacle was on

The Angels have started the night vigil already

The saints on the pictures fell asleep

The Holy Mother is putting the Infant to sleep

Jesus laid His head on the prayers of His Faithful

He is contemplating the graces that they asked for

 

I am the only one on my knees in this empty church

Is it a dream or reality? - my thoughts flutter like birds

Suddenly I hear a voice at the confessional:

I am not afraid of the cross...

Some shadows, like angels in the dark

Keep talking like in the holy Confession

I am not afraid of the cross... I repeat the sentence

And I meditate it in my heart, like a Divine message

I am not afraid of the cross... but I am afraid, Lord

How much faith do we need, Almighty God?

How much of Your grace, how much of my will?

So that I, in dignity, could carry the cross that I was granted in grace

So that I didn't stain it with salty tears and bitter words

How to get up fast when you fall with it?

How to carry it on, once you've been assigned?

 

So many questions circulate in this quiet meditation

The worried heart waits for the answer

Sing for me, Angel, the beseeching song

For my cross that stands against the pew

Teach me how to carry it when the legs hurt

When fear surrounds

 

The Angel fixed His wings at the Main Altar

He commended silence to my words and my heart

He pointed with His hand to the beautiful cross with Jesus

Your fear?

It is nothing - He said

When compared with His Mercy

 

 Before the Mass I asked Jesus to give me a priest who would be of some help to me in my confessions. After a while I heard in my heart, a simple answer that made me a little surprised: yes, I understand you, you want a priest to help you notice the "dust" that you don't see in your soul. I got fascinated with this sentence. Indeed, even in a very well-cleaned apartment, someone else will notice more, in this case, the "dust" that I didn't see, while concentrating on my spiritual development. This "dust" sometimes covers such spheres of human spirit and heart that we don't notice when this precious jewel is coated or covered with it.

 

 Request to my Guardian Angel

 

Oh, my Guardian Angel

Please wander with me

Across the fields of my life

Show me the good trail

Don't rest

Hold my hand when I lose my way

Between truth and doubt

Lay Your hand on my wounds

Don't let them fester

Cover the scars with Angelic fluff

So that I don't think of what caused them

And don't stumble over in despair

Give me a rope if a high rock covers the light

Show me the abyss of iniquity

And hold me tight

So that a devil's gust don't knock me down there in

Wander along with me, arm in arm

Open my ears to Your soothing whisper

Wake me up with a bang if I oversleep the blessed gifts of God

Don't turn away if I am to blame

Don't complain to the Archangels: I lost her

Keep searching, always, everywhere

Every day

Put a good man on my way

Cover me against evil eyes and tongues

Don't let me get lost,

I beseech You, my Guardian Angel

You are the One whom God entrusted...

 

 Margaret, the authoress, "The Message of Merciful Love" from Belgium, was inspired in instituting "The Legion of Little Souls" located in Chevremont. Jesus was leading the way for her; she commanded with Him.

 

 On Margaret's death

 

I remember your eyes

Your last glance

Like blue bits of bright sky

We looked at each other with no words

It was a long look

Words couldn't express our feelings

You spoke a different language, not mine

But we had the same Lord

The best interpreter of Love

And He stood between us

Understood without words

With His heart that desires only

Beautiful, great things

Merciful

There was joy in your eyes

A little ray of mystery

Your eyes were saying:

Take this mystery

And carry it on

Because my time is turned to other worlds now

I felt that it was the farewell

But I couldn't believe

People like you should live forever

And they do

The Eternal Rest rocked your soul

I was left with the mystery of your glance

Of your blessing

With the sign of the cross on my forehead

Like grace that can't be wasted

And the radiance offered you as a gift

Showing you the way

May the Lord grant Margaret Eternal Rest.

 

 I was in the church before Mass. I had time for meditation. I thought about my coming pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I felt tears in my eyes. Oh, Jesus, I would like so much for the pilgrimages to the Holy Land to give people the rebirth of their souls.

I hear a voice in my heart say: I saw all pilgrims during my passage through the Stations of the Cross. I blessed everyone. I saw those from a hundred years ago and those who are now passing through.

I poured grace onto you. Though, not everybody received it the way I wished.

I couldn't understand this message. Then, like in a film, I saw people at a bazaar, crowded along the Calvary Road. They received books, the same for every one of them. Some just looked at the title, the cover - but didn't look inside. Others randomly read some of its content yet; some others began to read carefully, paying no attention to the bazaar noises. There were also people who threw the books into garbage. Suddenly I heard: do you understand now?

 

 The Holy Land

 

My hands had a dream, my mouth had a wish

To touch Your Land, Jesus

The Holy Land

My hands touched the stones only

My mouth kissed the smears of other kisses

Of the pilgrims from hundreds of years gone-by

And those who are now travelling

I followed the traces of Your journeys

Joyous, with my heart abiding carefully

So that it does not fly out

I collected Your signs like antique gold coins

For times of future meditation

Over Your Love

I was looking for food

In the wind blowing over the Judea wilderness

For the time of fast

I was looking for Water of Life

In the Dead Sea and in Galilee Lake

For the time of spiritual mortification

I touched the stones, trees - which maybe

Remind me of Your tears, blood and sweat

I wanted to feed on them, like man famished

I wanted to find remedy for my troubled soul

Oh, Jerusalem that You cried over

 

You were the hope for the heart of mine

The city of safety and the witness

Thank You, God, that You sheltered Your Son

In grottos and mountains

Thank You for their power of survival

Little chapels, statues, a small trace on the wall

Mark the Road to Calvary today

This road full of shopping stands reminds of Your road

And I felt it, like You, two thousand years ago

The turmoil of everyday life

It pierced the ears with bazaar clam and noise

It deafened the Passion of Your heart

You were dying among the blind against the miracle

Which was near

I wanted to touch Your blessed traces, Jesus

But I touched only the stones, the water, the air

The dust of present-day streets

The bells of churches and Mosques chanting

But my soul, with no hands, no mouth, no eyes

Was filled with joy

Of Your existence on earth

When You imprint the trace in the immortal soul

Oh, the Holy Land

You give the soul the memory...

That is eternal.

 

 The Most Holy Sacrament is placed in the chapel. Adoration. The nun is locking the bars.

I ask: Why must You, Jesus, be protected from people and be behind the locked bars? And I hear a beautiful answer: I Am Love and Love is defenceless.

A few days later, just before the Mass, I received a strange message, connected with my poem about unborn children. God in His plans sends down to earth the souls blessed with a "special" kiss. Their task is to lead some groups of people to God. But what if abortion takes place? Who will substitute these souls?

I  hear: every conception should be prayed for (by mother, father). It should be the prayer for the blessed soul. When a child is born - it's not just an act of nature - it's a great action of God and man. It's a creative act. Every case of birth without love is a tragedy for this soul, her great fight in sorrow. This sorrow is like baggage for life; hence we should always beseech God for His will to send us the longed-for child. The qualification is already contained in the very act of marriage, in the readiness to receive the soul, not only the body of the child.

Abortion, divine birth as a result of a momentary carnal passion which quickly passes - were not in God's plans, I think. Family accounts for "God's core", but if there are people in the family who harm the other members or are ill-wishers (anger, jealousy, curses) - then it affects the whole core and not some particular persons, toward whom these evil thoughts were directed. Then, this core begins to shake and break. We usually say then: such a good family, why is something bad going on there?

 

 The mystery of forgiveness

 

I experienced a penetrating joy

The one that life can't carry

It flowed down from Sinai with the Decalogue

In dazzling that makes darkness surrender

It lasted for seconds...

My soul received and computed it

Like sanctity given to a sinner

In time of sorrow

Like food in stock when hope was hungry

I already know how great God's Love is

Saints learned It

And they stored It in their hearts

Brightness became their Mother ever since

My heart trembled, the conscience of a sinner

It got rolled like an uneven ball of tumbleweed

In pain

Like an ungrateful child against his patient Parent

It shouted: forgive me

The longer it shouted

The longer this miracle of inconceivable joy lasted

And a bright, human thought, dawned on me

In the mystery of forgiveness...

Is Your Love, Lord, the most complete?

 

 It's a quarter before the Mass starts and I concentrate on the Most Holy Sacrament, I submit myself to the Holy Spirit, and I cleanse myself so that no other thoughts disturb my meditation. I see a vision after a while. Somebody is unfolding a colourful roll, a kind of a map covered with Hebrew letters, I think. I know that I can't read them but at the same time I have no regret that some mystery will be hidden for me. The roll is unfolding in a shape of a triangle. I can see  some trails, red flowers, forests, which are marked green. The roll has brownish edges, like an old scroll, it feels soft, more silk-like than paper.

Somewhere in my heart I hear a voice: this is the way of your life's destiny. I wonder why there is only one, small part of the roll uncovered, and the rest remains folded. Does it mean that God knows my life's destiny but I don't know my life's choices yet? What role does my free will play in this case?

Somebody continues to interpret to me the sense of this map. Flowers, forest - this is what my ancestors have sowed. It is they who sowed the seeds of flowers, trees through their good life, prayers, although they went on in their lives and didn't see the harvests of their goodness. I am the one who uses all this and because of that, my destiny road is sowed with seeds of grace which had been sowed by them, with bountiful expectations.

Will I take advantage of them? While thinking this way, I asked myself what happens with people whose ancestors' sowing is somehow "barbed" or mutated where there is desert instead of flowers of paradise?

So we must remember how important our current activity is for the future of our off-spring!

 

 The Rosary of life

 

Shouting or lamenting sincerely wakes a new life

The angel fastens a rope with pearls to Heaven

People's fate, like on the Rosary, moves along the rope

God writes mysterious signs on it

 

There are joys and sorrows on the Rosary of life

Mourning, an empty road, sometimes a stone that sticks out

God grants people with different pearls

And with different length, from Earth to Heaven

 

There are Rosaries of life with one sign only

Just one little cross and the Rosary is gone

One little blow and life decays

The memory afterwards remains in the heart for long

 

There are Rosaries of life, longer than your endurance can tackle

In the end, there are just crosses of painful disease

And though your hands hold it with confidence

There must be many prayers and other hands helping along

 

How amazingly, You, Lord, entangle the great mysteries

Into this human Rosary, which is like a trace of soul on earth

Will man recognize them on his way?

Will he find Love, Faith and Hope?

 

We are like the blind searching for divine pearls

We confuse Your Gifts with the earthly gifts

We look for Love according to human recipes

And we find... the cross

 

 

And the cross stands up like a signpost when we get lost

We read Your signs, Lord, hidden in the Rosary

Too fast and not carefully enough

We don't know the length of its mysteries...

 

But there is the Sorrowful one which God disclosed to us

Like the truth that we abandon and pretend not to remember

The Rosary of life is the gift of a lifetime

So beautiful and unique, that it can't be offered again.

 

 I participate in the Mass conducted by a priest, Jan Szymborski - the famous exorcist in Warsaw. It's a regular weekly ceremony devoted to Divine Healing. My spine hurts and I feel impatient. The woman in front of me knelt down and took up most of the space to herself so I felt very uncomfortable in this position to pray the Rosary. How will I endure this long ceremony? - I complained to myself. I asked the Holy Mother to grant me some inner comfort.

I started feeling dizzy, as if, the surrounding became distant. Suddenly I find myself in the meadow, near my Grandparents' house. I was about eight years old. I was picking red apples and putting them into my dress and carry them to my Grandpa. I felt happy and quiet, surrounded by so much greenery. When I got to my Grandpa, he pointed with his stick to the meadow in front of him. I was disappointed that he didn't want my apples. But I looked at the scene that he showed me. I could see the meadow full of flowers (it's the authentic meadow at my Grandparents' house). In this meadow, by the stream, the Holy Mother and Lord Jesus were sitting. They were talking. The Holy Mother was bending Her head toward Jesus as if She were trying to convince Him about something (maybe about the intentions of our Rosary prayers).

There was a golden crown beside The Holy Mother, near Lord Jesus, there was a cross. I had an impression that They both were resting, dipping Their legs in the spring. I didn't come close but I absorbed this scene in detail. I wanted to give some apples to Them (I was aware that in this scene I was a child with some kind of wholly innocence). I was waiting when They finished Their conversation and looked at me. My apples in the dress were so pretty and red. I saw the crystal-clear water in the stream. I was a little surprised to see so many details in this vision: the flowers, aromas, colors, flakes. All these were shivering in peculiar light. It would make a beautiful picture but would I accept it, remembering all those awesome details? Suddenly I came to my senses after a while, repeating Hail Mary, full of Grace, The whole Rosary prayer ended ... Where was I at that time?

 

 The Grotto

 

I would like so much

To come back to my youth, innocent

So that I could witness with my heart

The Miracle in the Nativity Grotto

 

I want to know the thoughts of Joseph

The longing of Holy Mary

I want to see those stars

Which once lit up the sky

 

I dream about the Grotto's silence

Meditating over the Miracle

And dream about the silence

That suddenly descended as if alarmed

 

Were you there in the Grotto, Lord?

Hidden on this very day of Nativity

You must have been there and like Your Father

You dropped not one but many tears

 

Your tears fell down on earth

With the Holy Blessing

Your Son became embodied as an Infant

In Bethlehem, the distant Grotto

 

How great is the Gift that God offered

Into Mary's hands, for her "Fiat"

She will carry it in Her heart

As the sign of Salvation of this earth

 

Immaculate, without sin

Pure, with no blemish

Her heart is like every woman's

Not free from sorrow's touch

 

What did you think about, Mary

Staring at the cradle with Jesus?

Were they the prophecies of the prophets?

Or was it the fate of Your Child?

 

God poured the Mystery of Salvation

Into the heart of Holy Mary

With this Mystery, like with the Cross

She will meditate what Love is

 

How It brings salvation in hardship and pain

How It speaks to the ears that are deaf

How It heals the blind eyes

How It has been teaching still new people

About the Truth ever since

 

 

When Heaven touches the Earth

Thank You, my Dearest Mother
For holy places on earth
For Your feet printed on a tree
For the pictures that are blessed
For Your requests to pray the Rosary
For the springs that You showed with Your hand
For Heaven that touched the earth .

The trace that You left
Is decorating chapels and churches today
And though nobody can see a miracle with his eyes now
It is still in the hearts of the pilgrims
It shines with the pearls of the Rosary
With a prayer that was sent, like a soul
For the grace of being healed
Because Heaven touched the earth there .

You appear there, Mary,
In the holy places, like God's Guardian
You bow Your head with love
And You don't forget our requests
You imprint Your kiss
On the pilgrim's words of prayer
You take the soul in Your possession
And mark . the holy places there

Your heart, Mary, is great and mysterious
When You choose holy places
In common fields or on mountain tops
You convey Your messages to simple people, children
Wiseman's mind will not comprehend Your beseech
In a wooden chapel, somewhere in a green field
In pouring rain, but how sweet
Where a simple man recognized You, Mother
I also felt Your warm touch

Then I understood, in this rain, downpour
While praying among the wax figures
You wander, Mother, along with Your folk
And never leave it alone
Like a human mother in a common cottage
You make a miracle of revelation
When Your child kneels with a Rosary
Looking for fulfilment in the holy Mass
Then Heaven touches the Earth
Although the eyes don't see it
Because God Himself marked out the holy place
In the soul that is . immortal.

During my morning meditation and prayer, I had a vision of a huge
hornet which was hanging in the sky. Little particles were pouring out of
this hornet and when they were getting closer to earth, they turned into .
people. There were millions of them. It occurred to me that we - people
created by God in a single act of creation, like seed, are dropped on earth.
We are born and grow up at the time determined by God.

Child's curiosity

A little brat asked me in the forest once:
What does it mean that soul is in the body?
And what color is it?
Blue, pink or maybe white?
I looked up at the sky
Searching for inspiration there
The trees became strangely silent
The birds stopped chirping
The child looked in trustfully
As if not hearing the silence
The bright sky was quiet .
What did it wait for, in this silence?
Only the white, little clouds
Like smiles of happy angels
Encouraged my words to get out
Of the depth of my heart

Soul . I started, feeling shy
And anxious with this question
Is . like a little slice of bread
Covered with honey
It feeds us with sweetness
It wakes us to life in the morning
It shows us fables on the screen at night
About saints who wish us well
It teaches what is good
For your brother and sister
How to earn a smile of your mother and father
How to change tears of sorrow into tears of joy
What words to sing in a song
So that people were happy
What colours to paint on a greeting card
Which we send to those that we love

I wanted to give the brat
More and more examples
But he interrupted suddenly:
I know how to recognize the soul - he said
How? - I asked, being curious
Because I didn't know much myself
Soul - the little brat began
Is like the Teacher in the body .
If we want to listen to Him
Then He will teach us everything
And what if we are deaf to His words? - I asked:
He removes us from His school
Because we know . too little

The Angels laughed about this brat's simple knowledge
The trees started humming again
The birds chirped their songs
Only the soul that the brat asked about
Being curious a moment ago
Began . to cry in me
Were they the tears of happiness?
Or strange . fear?

Maybe because of the social changes in our country, I was
thinking about our fate. Suddenly I saw a highway . leading to nowhere. The
highway was new, just built. On the roadside, there were clumps of grass, trees.
They were green, useful, still able to live, but destined for . putting
aside, dying . I have an impression that it refers to a big number of people
in Poland who are still at the working age, who could still create something
for their country, but they were "annihilated" (unemployment). This highway
was for the new generation. It seemed that it was constructed for the people
who want immediate success, career and it was leading . to nowhere.

Pain

There is such pain in man
That no medicine can fight
Surgeons won't stop
Herbs won't soften
It surprises man himself
It appears like a cuckoo in a stranger's nest
It foists the pain
And disappears
And you do whatever you can
With this pain of yours
Goodness? Evil?
Joy? Hatred?
Throw it away or think it over
Ask God for medicine
Or ask the snake
Or maybe an idol from our world?
The pain, foisted like a cuckoo's egg
Is calling to our soul
And you, look for the Truth about it
You will get hurt among the thorny bushes of life
Searching for its cause
The crowd will hurt you when you stand in line
To get some anaesthetics
Until, in the end .
Being hurt and beaten
You experience peace
Standing in front of Jesus nailed to the cross
You will put your pain at His feet
And you will carry it on, throughout your life
You already know that this pain is . medicine-resistant
God has assigned it to us
With love, hope and faith
As the great mystery.

Meditation. I am thinking about life at the old age. Old people
complain about too long life but despite that, why do they desperately cling
to their lives and last on and on . I heard: because of shame. This answer
surprised me. I started to analyse the elderly persons that I know. Many of
them are far from God, they are nervous, quite often they behave childishly.
Does their age justify them? And maybe the age is a test of humanity? Of
spiritual growth?
An old man should recognize his mistakes and have a tendency to achieve the
ideal. He doesn't have to fight for love any more, he can pass it out, be
neutral and put off his own impatience, anger. Old wounds are already
healed, old age should know the remedy for achieving peace and should have
distance against problems that irritate the young. That's why, maybe, the
shame that people feel, comes from the fact that in spite of their age, they
are still not ready to stand in front of God?

 

The old age

She always walks along the roadside
So that nobody pushed her
She can’t follow the rhythm of the sound legs
She was born too early
She can’t tell the difference between pop and rap
She doesn’t know what the hard disc is
She knows a lot about war but nobody cares
She sits on a bench in the park and feeds hungry birds
They gather close to her
More than her own grandchildren
She hides her love under the aged fur-coat
So that nobody could make fun of her
Sometimes she feeds this love with memories
With the Rosary or sorrowful prayers
She cries over the Stations of the Cross of Jesus
As if they were her own stations
She is rather worried about her old shoes
Much more than politics
Her trophy is a doctor’s prescription
And her old-age pension coupon
Sometimes there is a phone call from her children
They are busy - she proudly boasts to another old one
She slowly comes back home
She looks at the window, TV
Sometimes in the mirror
She asks her own eyes a question:
Who are you?
You, in my mirror?
But the mirror is silent
It has no voice
Nor the feelings …

 

 

Begging around

I've seen the old age walking along the streets
Propped with a stick
I've seen the old age sneaking around the house
Not to disturb
I've seen the old age on a church pew
Begging for a little more hope
I've seen the old age in a wheelchair
Being pushed impatiently
I've seen the old age that wanted to advise
And was looked upon unkindly
I've seen the old age bent over the graves of the close ones
And talking to dry leaves
I've seen the old age with bitter eyes
Life has mocked at her
I've seen the old age that wanted to be strong
But nobody believed
I've seen the old age that nobody loved
But it wasn't dying
It still existed
The old age that I met on my way
Is still striding all over the world
Like God "mutilated" by man
Who knocks on our hearts
Asking for love that is the last one .

I was thinking about the difficulty with understanding the idea
of the Trinity. I wanted to know this mystery better, in a simple, human
way. During meditation I heard an inner voice: I will explain it to you, it
will be a present for your birthday. Indeed, my birthday comes on June 5th.
You are a person-I, but as a person-I, you are also a mother and a daughter.
As a person-mother you give your children devotion, but you don't stop being
a person-I, having your secrets, your individuality. Out of your person-I,
you somehow radiate a person-mother, having definite features and tasks. You
do the same as a person-daughter. You are a person-I, a person-mother, a
person-daughter.
God is One in three persons. He sent His Son-Jesus down to earth, He
radiated Himself out and took on the person of his Son. They form unity,
although Jesus becomes a common human being, but still He is the Son of God.
Jesus teaches: who will get to know Me - he will get to know My Father. God
suffers the same way as humiliated Jesus. You also suffer as a person-I, and
a person-mother, when you experience sufferings from your children.
There are a few persons within us, although on the outside, we have one
face. We suffer when we are offended as a person-I, but don't we suffer more
when the children offend a person-mother? The worst sin is to offend the
Holy Spirit (New Testament).
The Holy Spirit is the sublimation of the feelings of Father and Son. It is
the Great Love. In the Old Testament, God of Justice punishes, in the New
Testament, God offers Himself, personified as Jesus. He dies for our sins on
earth and comes back to His Father. He leaves the Holy Spirit on earth. The
Gift for the world - the Love of Father and Son. This Love, Father - Son
isn’t only a mutual adoration. It is active, It creates, directs, offers (seven
Gifts of the Holy Spirit), influences human life. Hence It is the Person,
and not the feeling itself. It looks as if the Holy Spirit were the most
beautiful gift of God for people, it is His unlimited Love - personified to
act. One God but in three persons: God-the Creator, God-the Offering,
God-the Holy Spirit.

The mystery of beauty

Man reaches for stars today
He looks for their secrets to know
But I got a strange message
From an Angel, on an ordinary day:

Leave stars, planets for others
Let them count them in the sky
You look for mysteries in man
Without telescopes, maps and diagrams

Don't assess the face and the clothes
But how many holy feelings he has
How many renunciations and offerings are taken up
How he changes pain and wounds afflicted, into humble-free crystal

Notice how he, with his gratitude and faith
Reaches for God in prayer
Look for Jesus in man
Even if Judas sheltered His cross

Find the key into the soul's beauty
The world wants to hide it from us
How to find this key, my Angel?
Where to look for it? Beyond the sea or the mountains?

Stick it together yourself with your tears
Out of the thorny crown, afflicted
Put loneliness upon your hand
Ask Jesus for mercy

Holy light will be lit up
Over the key that was formed this way
Place it at the heart of man
Then you will know . the beauty of soul

Like sesame that was opened with a magic spell
It will show the splendour of secret treasures
It is worth knowing the soul of your fellow man
The Artist has created it - the Greatest One.

 

 

Jobless Angel

There is too much crying in the world
And depressed faces
Too many hungry children, mothers that are left
Too much cold and indifference
Too few friendly hands, too little love
Too little praying, too much violence
Too many fears, sleepless nights
Evil grins openly, enjoying his victory
People say that God . forgot about us

But there are moments, like flashes in the sky
When Angel sends a golden rope down to earth
And an old man and a depressed mother catch it
Looking for hope in the Angel's arms
And then the Angel, God's sender
Finds people who want to give away
Man stands beside man, enchanted
Indifference disappears in the warmth of joined hands

And the Angel, surprised with this miracle
Can't understand this beautiful change
He wonders how fast fears and bitter tears disappear
When a common man starts fighting evil
Just a few cordial words, sometimes a little money
Prayer, Rosary, pearls of Divine Chaplet .
If the world had these miracles in its standards
Then the Jobless Angel would sleep soundly today.

During prayer (my eyes were closed), I had a vision of Jesus
sitting on a big, flat stone. The picture was changing like in a
kaleidoscope: now He was in royal dress and then He was maltreated,
bleeding. Around Jesus was a large area of grass, intensively green. I had
an impression that Jesus was very lonely and waiting . There was a town and
people in a distance, but this picture was blurred. Jesus was waiting . I
was sure of that. I tried to concentrate to understand this message and hear
a voice in my heart, about the "truth" of this vision. I received the
following interpretation. Jesus is waiting for people, He is waiting for me,
too. We are afraid to come up close to Him, across this lawn. If someone is
courageous enough to come up, even halfway, to awaiting Jesus - he has no
return. He must come closer and closer. This "approaching" Lonely Jesus
occurs in great silence, peace accompanies man then, but also great fear
whether he succeeds in casting away all that is around this green lawn -
cities, people.
On this way to Jesus is loneliness, but it doesn't have a dimension of
suffering but only self-knowledge of your soul. We must stand in front of
ourselves, without any help from others. Courage is necessary on this way,
and free will, so that our "approaching" Jesus was complete, without looking
behind . This is the very stone where God gives grace. I was informed that
it is very difficult to enter this lawn. Saints have done it already.

It's so difficult .

It's so difficult to follow You, Jesus
Although You repeat - I Am Love
But we bow toward man
Looking for consolation
And receiving indifference, hatred
Gestures of patience only, a sneering laughter
Sometimes even love
For the seconds of life

It's so difficult to follow You, Jesus
You ask for our presence at the cross
You don't require us to dress Your wounds
But we are afraid to look at them
And to look at our sins as well

It's so difficult to follow You, Jesus
Although You asked the women at the cross
Just to whisper prayers quietly
You asked for a little tear, not for noisy weeping
But we prefer loud scream
About our  harm

It's so difficult to follow You, Jesus
Although You just want mercy from us
And not the offering
For our hearts, human justice
Is more important
For this cause, we wage wars, break families, kill

It's so difficult to follow You, Jesus
We still don't believe that Divine Love
Is . for man.


It's no use

Once the world seemed to me to be the truth
Once, the might of the rulers - the power
And science - the strength
Once I looked for the truth with philosophers
The minds of the famous meant authority for me
But I didn't find the place .
For my own happiness

Once I stood at the cross
A man was suffering on it
Alone
He was hanging out of the power of court, authority, science, crowd
He was looking at me, petrified in wood
One cross in the church aisle
And I - one person

One leaf in the tree, but how important
A little tear, as worthy as great despair
One hand held out, but how precious

It's no use having thousands of hands extended
It's no use having a big fire against a flame of a candle
It's no use having a big crowd against one man
It's no use having huge waves against one drop
It's no use having big cemeteries against one grave

Once I stood at the cross
And then, You, Jesus spoke to me:
It's no use knowing all the truth about people and the world
Against the truth . about you, yourself!

 

 

Exposing of the Most Holy Sacrament at the altar of the Heart of
Jesus in my local church in Saska Kepa in Warsaw.
After a few minutes, a nun came and took out the faded bouquets. Adoration
was going on and there were dozens of people. At one moment I heard an inner
voice: Always put fresh bouquets of flowers near Me, and not the faded ones.
What does it mean? - I thought while adoring the Most Holy Sacrament. I
understood it after a while. Bouquets of flowers are like our prayers, they
must be always fresh - it means - living, sincere, spoken with love. The
faded bouquets - these are our faded prayers, spoken with routine, in a
hurry, out of duty. We often pray, looking around at the same time, being
inattentive about what is essential in church. Lord Jesus "receives" these
faded bouquets of our prayers, bur actually He is waiting for us to bring to
the altar - the fresh, beautifully smelling bouquet of flowers - sincere
prayers, full of love and good deeds.

Church

There are such safe places on earth
Where evil stops at the threshold
Of your soul
Maybe it waits but it doesn't touch
In the brightness of the candles
In the breathing of the incense
Jesus is sitting beside you
Close your eyes, listen to His words
He enters the altar along with the priest
And the miracle of Transformation occurs
There, even your tears feed you
And your afflicted soul finds relaxation
There, you kneel down at the cross
And it lifts you up, out of the ashes
Toward the Most Holy Heart
There, nobody falls down, nor loses hope
Nobody experiences hunger, fear
Jesus Himself feeds him
He heals the heart and the body
It's enough to pass the threshold
And leave the door open
The thief of your humility will not follow you
He might only
Wait .
Close your eyes, send your soul to the altar
Your Guardian Angel will carry it
And you - just wait for the miracle
It will be born out of faith, love and hope
Sometimes on one cloudy day
And sometimes it takes many years
Sometimes the hands of one priest are enough
With the Holy Host
But sometimes it takes dozens of hands
But you, keep on going
Until you reach the only safe place
For you, man
Mark it with your tears, leave your traces there
They will not disappear
The Angels mark it with a luminous circle
There are such beautiful places on earth .
There, God Himself is on His Holy Duty
Offering Himself to us, humans.

A human icon

You said goodbye to me, Jesus, after the Mass
With a human icon
As if there were too few holy pictures in the church
This human icon, like a living picture
Fell deeply into my heart
There was a gray-haired woman, deep in her prayer
Beside her - her son
People call them "downs"
Disabled .
He was holding his hand on her head
As if he were protecting her
He was waiting with patient love, with pride
Until she finishes her conversation with God
They lasted .
Indifferent toward the people flowing out
Like a stream, after the blessing
He, the son, seemed to be like Jesus
Who has the command over the Truth
The living icon moved
The son helped his mother to stand up
They walked out together
The Humility followed them, jumping happily
Thank You, Jesus, for the gift of eyes
Thank You for the gift of the Holy Mass.

Holy Mass. During the prayer, suddenly I saw a vision of an Angel
in white robes, who was dragging a man behind Him. The Angel was holding the
man's head under His arm and it looked as if the man were resisting. The
Angel passed by the pews, heading for the altar. This vision had some funny
element in it, in spite of the seriousness of the Mass. It looked as if the
Angel were wrestling with His inferior .

The sinner's prayer

Forgive me, God, for my sin
Although I struck on my chest with faith
Forgive me, God, for I trusted
My memory more than my heart
Forgive me, God, sins and stumbles
Dip my eyes in Your Mercy
Grant my ears with the grace of Absolution
Teach me how to count Your forgiving
Show me how You wait patiently
For those who look for treasures on earth
Hand me the cross
Which is the hope for my stones
And give the holy time
So that I could grasp it in my hands .

Questions

How to stand before You, Lord?
What to do to be more dignified?
Should I hide behind the Sorrowful Mother
Or behind Suffering Jesus?
Or run up crying, with no fear
Or with the beseeching prayer?
Should I look for You at the holy places
Or at a roadside chapel?
Maybe I will try to hide in the crowd of pilgrims
Or shall I kneel alone in prayer?
Should I carry my own cross with no complaint
Or help the others carry it?
How to stand before You, Lord
So that I didn't offend You?

As long as you ask, the Angel said
Your heart is not dressed in pride
You ask questions loudly
God . gives answers in silence
Discover this Silence in you
And protect It like the holy place
God is a frequent visitor there
And there He leaves . the answer.

Adoration. In ecstasy, I send to Christ, the words of my prayer,
and my readiness to be in adoration at His Throne. I feel the beauty of this
"vision", the light, the pure colors, joy. I become down-to-earth when I
hear some words in my heart, which I must reconsider later: you want to be
with Me at the beautiful Throne, but when I come down to earth, people cover
Me with their mud. Will you be with Me then? - I thought over these words
trying to grasp the right meaning. Jesus wants to be adored as the Son of
God but also He wants to be recognized on earth, when He, being subdued,
offended, despised (covered with mud) - asks for love.
How often - I understood - it happens that we have no courage to defend
Jesus here on earth .

Hope

God has sent Hope into the wooden cradle
It was the innocent Child
He gave Him into the hands of Joseph and the Holy Virgin
So that they could cuddle Him
Human weakness was no stranger to Hope
And crying in the wooden cradle was born, like man
And It came to man for glory
It has moved along Its paths for many years
It has touched many people with Its word
And in the end, with despair and pain
It could rest Its head on the wooden cradle again
This cradle wasn't the Nativity manger
But the big cross, built for Hope
Your Mother's quiet singing didn't lullaby You
But the human voice, loud and revengeful

There were two cradles in Your life, Hope, sent by God
The little manger hidden in the grotto
And the big cross .
Driven into the rock, on Golgotha
First the hay, next the stone cold
It was Your bedding, Hope
But God, like Love, hidden behind the cloud
He sends . New Hope to the world every year
Merciful, Just, Patient
He is still waiting for people who are ready
To give their hearts to Hope
And will not crucify It with sin.

 

Banneux. Belgium. The first day, before the picture of the Most Blessed Mother. I am here for the fourth time but I have never had such a feeling before. How can I describe it? I fall into a kind of lethargy, an immense peace. I thank the Holy Mother that She invited me here. I feel a touch on the left side of my body but I don’t want to turn around, I am far from everything. I just want to be only with Mary. I “see” a gray dress, there are folds on this working dress-apron. I ask in my heart: why do You, Holy Mother, wear such an ordinary gown, like a woman-servant? I “hear” the answer: I am the Holy Mother - the Nurse. I dress the wounds of the heart, soul and body.
In Banneux there is a Nursing Home for the sick people. They come, using their wheelchairs, to the Holy Picture and the Holy Spring. Many pilgrims who are ill, put their petitions before Mary. How can we not believe that the Holy Mother of Banneux is still alive, still listening to our requests, still caring!

Santa Maria of Banneux

When the night turns off the last lights
Silence spreads over the alleys and chapels
The candles, lit up with the hope of the pilgrims, go out
The Holy Spring is murmuring quietly
It  rests after people’s hands touch
The tall trees tell stories that they heard
Mary sits down by the Spring when the night is silent
She sends prayers to Her Son
In a carefully arranged Rosary
Saying the mysteries of man’s tears, thanksgiving, love
She won’t miss any bead
Then as the Great Nurse
She will hug the sick in the nearby hospital
She will count wheelchairs, crutches and will bless the sticks
Which were put aside for the night, like crosses
In the morning, people will take them again
She will cuddle those who must keep their heads
On the hard pillow of Loneliness every day
She will sing a beautiful psalm to them
The gown that Mary wears is ordinary, not royal
A gray apron of a nurse, common sandals
The Mother of the Poor …
She passes by the pilgrims with no rustle
Making miracles of healing
Please touch me, Mother, the pilgrims whisper in the chapel
And She … touches
With the hands of the devoted caretakers
With a compassionate glance of man
With a smile that unites
With a prayer or a sign of a cross
She sits modestly beside a priest during a Mass    
And listens …
Holy Mother of the Poor of Banneux
You pray the Rosary of human hearts and requests every day
Please take our tears and thanksgivings, our souls
With our sincere gratitude and …
Pray for us.


Hard answer

I took bunches of flowers from You, Lord
When I was a child
Like a bride that is spoilt
I waited for them like for a gift
That I deserved …
I thought - God works for me
In my youth I loved my independence
And worked for myself …
God looked at my efforts
He smiled like a tolerant Father
But time has come for spiritual maturity
Gifts and tolerance have disappeared
Now I hold out my hands to Your bouquets, Lord
Through the thorny wires of life
Sometimes groping in the darkness
And it’s hard to reach them
I hurt my knees, hands, and my soul
And the light shines like a flashlight’s poor light
The bouquets of flowers of spiritual joy
Are like illusion in the hand
The further I go, the further they seem to be
And I ask You, Lord
Why?
You answer …
It’s high time you worked … for Me

Banneux. Holy Mass, Adoration.
I turn to my Lord, Jesus, saying: I envy the saints and the blessed all
graces that You send upon them and I feel so imperfect. At this moment ,
deep in my heart, I "hear" a joyous voice, so to speak. This voice is . so
human: I Am also "jealous" because of you, when you don't remember about Me,
when you don't care about Me.
I felt so enormously happy because a person like me may be worth . Jesus'
jealousy! How could I dare not love Him? How could I dare favour things not
connected with God when Jesus provides so much happiness!

The key

I was looking for the key to the heart of mine
Giving love that is imperfect
I was looking for beauty in man
And the scars I got must be treated until now
I expected happiness from my life
But I gathered a few cups of tears
I tried to cure with my words
But they were too impaired
I calmed quarrels with silence
But they came back like hard stones
Living my life in different rhythms
I didn't find . the blessing

I was looking for the key to the heart .
And the little white Holy Wafer made the miracle
It clung strongly as the sign of Divine Love
The heart opened fearfully
I received the blessing
For the life of mine .

My soul adores my Lord

My soul adores my Lord
For the life .
It is the gift given with hope
That I will appreciate it
And I will not lose my soul
At the corners of the world
My soul adores my Lord
For the faith .
That I will carry the given cross
Even with moaning
My soul adores my Lord
For the love .
Given in my falls
For the eyes of God, thoughtful and trustful
While I fight with evil
My soul adores my Lord
For the life .
While living, I can speak to You, Lord
And experience the miracle .
Of Your messages.

Adoration of the Cross in Tetremont.
I am reading aloud the Prayer to the Five Wounds of Jesus. Next comes the
prayer of the priest. I am not in the mood of ecstasy, I am even a little
deconcentrated. After a while I feel such an enormous, irrational state of
happiness that I have never felt before. It would be difficult to express it
with words. My heart wants to move out, it can not hold inside .Enormous
cleansing sob overpowers my body. I have an impression that in a moment I
will start crying and weeping loudly because I am too happy to bear it. I am
anxious because I don't know what the reaction of my fellow pilgrims will be
like, since I am in front of the Cross, everything is within their sight,
and what is important, I don't like hysterical behaviour which is too
emotional. This feeling resembled boiling water in a vessel while the lid
was moving and the hot feelings were flowing over. What a beautiful,
cleansing feeling! I will never forget this gift .

If

If love had arms
You would feel its warm touch
If love had eyes
It would look at us tenderly
If love had the body
It would embrace you all over
But you are standing at the crossroads
Full of fear, you are looking for the eyes, arms
Still waiting for the touch of love

Once God sent such Love
Upon the world
He had arms that were blessing
Eyes that were healing
Words that were bringing hope
Man has put Him on the cross!
He did not believe in the grace of Love!

But Love never died
He has resurrected
His eyes see you through
His hands bless you
His lips speak to you with Love
Don't crucify Him, man
Before you show your soul to Him
He will touch you
Embrace you
He will gaze at you.

Last day in Banneux. I thank the Holy Mother for this pilgrimage. How can I repay my
gratitude? - I ask this simple, human question, adding - it is obvious that everything
that is beautiful, belongs to You, Mary . And then I "hear" in my heart:
Pray for the people of Belgium, they are good people .
Rosary prayer for the souls in Purgatory (still during the pilgrimage).
One of the pilgrims takes up the initiative to pray on the coach - for the
souls in Purgatory. We are all tired, another hour of our coach journey is
passing, another part of Rosary.
Suddenly my soul is overwhelmed with great despair. I see strange faces and
the faces of my late close relatives. There are bags looking like purses on
their chests. These bags are made from strange, eastern - like cloth. Their
silhouettes are bowed as in  great humility, like beggars who beg just by
their posture, without words. I can feel the weight of their request, their
immense hope as if this prayer meant a lot to them. My heart experiences
great sobbing, the despair can not be stopped. Their suffering becomes mine.
I feel that I have been given this experience so that I could better realize
how important the prayer for the Purgatory souls is!

Oh, Mother of Grief

You wander around the world, hurt and sorrowful
As if Your life has not experienced
Enough suffering
The Holy Mother among sorrowful mothers
Immaculate

You gather souls for Your Son
Injured and diseased
You warm dead souls with Your hands
You wipe off tears with Your Holy Gown
You give drink of hope from the springs

The beads of Rosary that are faded from prayers
You change into roses
And decorate them with aroma
And put them on wounds that can not be healed
You bless pictures with a kiss
In sanctuaries that are built for Your Glory
And leave marks of miracles of healing soul and body

Your Heart travels around the world, tied with thorns
You manifest Your pain in the pain of earthly mothers
They pull out their hands to You, Mother of Grief
And You hold them and like in a holy dance
You lead to Your Son, for the blessing
For receiving pain, for thorns of life
For humility in love .

The excuse

I would like to place you, my soul
In a beautiful garden
And surround you with the noble smell of scents
I would like to protect you, my soul
From the world, like a powerful man
But I can only be your host at the cross of life

I will follow you as a bride
Along the way which is too difficult for me
Lead me along the traces of the words of Christ
Let me stop when I can't follow you
Let me keep my repentance when I forget the words of Jesus
Let me rest in the blessed consolation

I will carry you, my soul depressed
To the altar of our Lord
I will say: give Your blessing, Jesus
Hold the soul in Your hands
Dip my soul's impatience in Your Mercy
Tell her please, tell her, my Dear God:
You have the wings, you - the pretty soul
But she has - only two tired legs.

Loneliness

Plunged in daily life
Melted into the city's indifference
Of passing-by people
We feel loneliness
Running behind us

Like a gazelle running after its young one
Even when they confuse her tracks with thousands of jobs
And fill her time
With earthly love, still new

It follows the old ones like an injured hind
It gives a sign of living with a sound of the cane
It needn't run
Its step is the same as the step of the old age

It is like a veil, transparent, invisible
But painful, when touched
Even if you surround yourself with noise like oblivion
She, the loneliness keeps whispering:
What are you on this earth for?

Maybe it is worthy to stop and tame this stubborn loneliness
Transform it into an Angel
Let it change into a Guardian, and not an escape
I will offer you, my loneliness, the prayer
The offering of Holy Mass, hope and faith
I will give you my hand
Maybe then, you will become a smiling friend.

I can't fall asleep, which is not typical for me. I pray for the
dead and I ask my Guardian Angel to talk with me. Suddenly I hear a
beautiful poem: A fairy tale about man.
Then I hear: get up and write it down, otherwise you will forget. The next
day I write it down and "smoothen" it. While continuing talking with my
soul, I receive a picture of man who lives in this world. We live not only
the inner life but also we live our physicality. We have senses in order to
survive. But . too many of us get rooted too strongly in this world. We
become its slaves. We succumb to passions, pictures, we get attached to this
world. I saw a root in a shape of a spiral sticking in the ground. These
strong physical attachments deprive us of the Freedom of action toward our
spiritual needs. In order to know God, we must free ourselves from these
"spirals". We can use them, but we mustn't get rooted in them. God wants to
lift us, to displace us, to teach us. How can He teach anybody who is a
slave already?

Don't say

Don't say that God has left you
And you carry your cross alone
Don't say that He hasn't listened to your prayers
Do you know how to pray to Him?
Don't say that your heart got cold
Because Jesus has died for your heart
Don't say that you don't know God anymore
Because He has just sat by your side
Don't say that He has forgotten your crying
He knows your desperate sobbing
Don't say that you are alone in this world
The living God is beside you, in the Holy Host
Don't say: I've lost my rosary
I can't pray with it
You are at the Heart of Mary
She will make it out of your tears
Don't you say .
Don't say: I've been praying for years
For God - years mean nothing
He acts in a split of a second
And your cross - He changes into prolific graces.

During the Holy Mass I saw a vision of a quiet surface of water.
Suddenly a small stone disturbed it, next, a large boulder did the same.
First I couldn't understand this message. Once more I saw in my mind a
picture of a calm surface. During this second vision, the water surface
moved a little but it quickly regained its calm and flowed on smoothly. Two
pictures, but so different - what do they mean? Somewhere in my soul, a
voice explained to me that in one type of water, even a small stone can make
a big mess  while in the other type - the water moves but it still flows
along at its own pace. This is a picture of man's soul, his heart.
Obstacles, tragedies destroy our peace, our smooth water surface, they can
even distract man's faith in God and his trust. They confuse the soul. It is
too weak, it yields to the whirling of the stones that life has provided.
The soul, full of trust in God, even when touched with a boulder, keeps
staring at God, its waters are flowing quietly. Although the stones,
boulders are on the bottom, they don't confuse the soul, they might trouble
it, but they don't take away the strength. It is a wonderful grace.

The other side of the mirror

I went through to the other side of the mirror
The Angel was leading me through
I didn't look at myself anymore
I didn't think how to please the world
In my mirror, other people began to see themselves
They were setting their hairdos, and I saw
How they were suffering
They were changing clothes
I felt their fear
They were making up faces, making serious grimaces
But their hearts were begging
And then they were locking their houses and leaving
Being decorated
So that they could see themselves in other mirrors
Like in their own .
The transfer to the other side of the mirror hurts
Oh,my Guardian Angel
It is not an enchanted trip into a fairy tale
You can't see faces on the other side of the mirror
Neither old ones nor young ones
Neither pretty ones nor ugly ones
You can't hear words
On the other side of the mirror is . the truth
I send my "faces" from the mirror a prayer
Please
Go and see yourself .
In God's Mercy.

The wall

I know such a wall in Jerusalem
The weeping wall .
It is filled with begging sheets
It gets feed from prayers
Which support old walls
There is such a wall that everyone stops by
It is in life, not in Jerusalem
You are holding out your hand with a sheet of wishes
But it falls off the wall
And lies on the ground
You pick it up, all crumpled, and you're not sure
Of your own requests anymore
Sometimes a gust of wind lifts it up
It's hard to catch up with it then
You drop your hands, like defenceless wings
You can neither soar nor fly
There is such a wall in life
Not in Jerusalem
Not on the traces of Jesus, but on your own
When you have to bend down in prayer
With your hands ready to receive God's wishes
Sometimes it is . the weeping wall.


The tent

You have put up Your tent between
Faith and doubt
Between hope and fear
You have put up Your tent between
I and they
Somebody and something
The mind and the heart
You have put up Your tent between
A child and the Father
Life and death
You have marked it with a high cross, Jesus
Your Father has given us a present
Noble, difficult
Free will
It ticks like a clock, wound by the hand of God
It shows the time according to His Hope
We mix up the tents
When we get lost, or doubt, or love
We are hurt with our minds, with our own crosses
We carry our own free will
Like the responsibility for God's Hope
You have put up Your tent, Jesus
Between God and man
Between me and my soul
And You are still waiting patiently
For Your guests .

I wake up at dawn and I still hear the words but I don't know
whose. I am awakened, but at the same time, I feel as if I were in another
world. I hear: in this tragic world, the only safe place for a soul is - the
convent. You also go through spiritual storms there but you are very close
to the source of Truth. It protects you. Lay people enjoy life only
seemingly. Just look around . Are they really cheerful? They are entangled
in the cult of money, passions - they are rather like slaves of this world.
Quite often, they are passed by in the family and easy to be replaced in the
office. When you give away your day to this world - you are worried about
tomorrow . Of course it takes time to make up your mind and enter the holy
order. For some, it is out of the question, their cross is the outside
world. One is lucky when he has a genuine vocation, although it's a pity
that it is quite rare. The world tempts with coloured lights, which,
strangely enough, get pale when touched with our life. In my opinion, we try
to get back the illusion of the worldly colour - when we reach for the
virtual world: cinema, TV, music, Internet, frequent social meetings. Then
we are left with the sediment in our souls, of wasted time, of grudge that
it wasn't the way we dreamed of. And finally we have serious doubts and
concerns as for the sense of our existence.

The window

I think that God looks into a soul
Like a man, through the window
I think that God wants to send a soul
The glance of Merciful Jesus
How can God look into a soul
Being curious of its interior?
When the soul has no window
Like the house, locked by people
What are you, the window of my soul?
How can I let the holy ray inside?
So that God could warm you with His glance
And light you up with gifts .
Hot prayer, patient - my Guardian Angel said
Builds windows in souls
It sweeps terrible darkness away
When you build the prayer's window
Into your worried soul
Then God will look into it, like sunshine
And will leave His divine ray there.

 

There were days when I felt very bad, as if my Angels left me. I
felt as if I were on a desert, all alone. Maybe it was this November mood
and some problems with the family? A psychologist would explain it this way.
During my praying meditation, a poem was born, entitled: "On the way". I
thought that maybe God provides us with such a desert - that is, being with
yourself. It is a kind of freedom to choose your own way, the way without
consolation. Doesn't He verify us through our "desert-like" status? Doesn't
He check our strength? Our soul? Our love for Him? The love that is
non-profit, that is without the golden toys of fun.

On the way

On my way to You, Lord
I came across beautiful gardens
You treated me with sweet drinks
You cared about me like about Your favourite child
I got used to this Paradise
My prayers were like birds
Grateful and swift

One day I wake up on a desert
No flowers but just darkness
I am holding out my hands blindly
I am strolling along carefully
I am listening for any voices
Now I know, I am all alone
I see Jesus in Gethsemane
When He is crying, because God is silent

You expelled me, Lord, from the Paradise of gentleness
Now I am wreathing the Rosary made of thorns
I am nailing my sins into them
I am praying the Divine Mercy Chaplet
I am wearing Your silence, like a robe
The echo from the lost Paradise disappears
Even the Guardian Angel has flown away
There was an inscription on his wings
Like a motto for a man:
Everyone has his lonely desert
Free will .
My eyes are blind, my ears are deaf
I tell my soul:
Please, go on
Show me the way
I trust you . because you belong to God.


The world and the cross

I touched you, my world, with my child's hands
You seemed to be sunny, safe
My parents' warm hands warmed you up
They removed your cold fear
But .
My parents' hands also taught me the sign of the cross
As if they predicted that you would blow with cold
And the cross of Jesus would give me courage

I touched you, my world, with my adult hands
You seemed to be indifferent, freezing
You drew stony tracks
And marked the roads with crosses
My hands were still looking for warm childhood years

I touched you, my world
As if you were the Doric column
You were haughty, enormous, absolute
My hands were freezing from your cold

I heard my Guardian Angel say:
Touch the world with the cross of Christ
Warm up your heart with His Love
Your hands will get frozen without this sign
Thank You, my Parents, for Your teaching about the cross
Thank You for this holy dowry .

The Mass is over. We are having Adoration now. I try to calm down in
meditation. Suddenly I see, in my imagination, a bouquet of small, colored
balloons. What does it mean? - I ask. And I hear a voice in my heart, that
explains to me the sense of this vision. - These balloons are like
individual families. In these small balloons, we are like in our families,
concentrated on our own problems, troubles. The family has been created not
to isolate themselves in their balloons. Within the family, we learn love,
the rules how to treat other people, and surely not to be such a balloon
which functions separately. In the family, we must learn to go beyond our
egotistical love toward the members of our own family. The family is only an
introduction to the knowledge about love toward other people who are not our
relatives. This is only the first stage, as important as knowing how to read
and write. We have learned the letters of love, now we have to write
beautiful essays about . what's going on around us. We must learn how to
break balloons of family egotism, in order to get to know the Merciful Love
toward your fellow human beings. It's very difficult. Lord Jesus sent His
beloved apostles to people, to pagans, He didn't keep them for Himself. He
gave His Mother to the humanity, so that She brought love and care to
others. The saints and the missionaries act the same way. They extend the
meaning of love. It radiates to all, it doesn't choose good ones or evil
ones, strangers or your kin ones. We get irritated with the faults of
others, but aren't ours irritating? To know how to look at your fellow man
from a perspective, from a distance, to look for the cause of his bad
behavior, to help with friendship - this is the great task for a Christian.
To offer Love . is also difficult, but . it gives you freedom. When we love
beyond human attachments, like Jesus does, then we look at our fellow men
differently, their faults don't touch us so strongly, we don't lower
ourselves to the level of their bad deeds, when we criticize with
indignation. In fact they exist, but  we, through our own distance, a soft
look, we ourselves become free. Faults of other people don't stick to us, they don't touch us with evil. We try, in our freedom, to offer our peace, our friendship, a word of
encouragement. With our attitude, we try to educate cordially, and not sting
with a needle of moralizing. It is also very difficult, but it is worth
making an effort to challenge this difficulty.

A city scene

A red cap, a violet jacket
Green trousers
Worn-out tennis shoes
That mark footsteps in the snow
Bent down like a pocket knife
Which will get folded in a moment
A man is on his way
A moment ago, he closed the door of hope
With the inscription: social care center
He stops, smiles
He looks at the treasures put in funny-colored bags
Maybe he got a new cap?
Rice, bread?
He takes whatever people offer
Some give out of their hearts
Some others give out of their wardrobes
For him, it's enough, he lives on leftovers
The homeless child of social care
Where is his Grotto of Nativity?
Where is the place where he will lay down
The gifts . for survival?


"Small money change"

I knock on the door like a Pilgrim
Sometimes somebody opens it ajar
He doesn't even ask
But pushes some "small change" into my hand
It happens that he shouts with hatred
He can't recognize the Pilgrim with his proud heart
With the "small change", collected like in church
I try to come back many times again
But people don't want to meet me
They think: a beggar, I've given enough

Sometimes when I knock, I look into somebody's eyes
I stand in the door so that he can't close it
My suffering face looks at the man
And he holds out his hand with a gesture of love
There is no "small change" pushed in carelessly
No words like: I've given already, what else do you want?
He opens the door wider, invites like a brother
And says good-bye with words: come back more often

How can the Pilgrim knocking on the door, explain
That he doesn't want "the small change", pushed in reluctantly
He just wants to come back to the threshold of your heart
And not wait, like a beggar, at the door of your house.


The imploration

Hold out Your hand, Lord, to the peoples' world
Wake up the Knights of Good, asleep in the mountains
Let them come to protect the grain
That was sowed by the rocky roads
They will help to grow the wholesome crops
I know that You have sent Love, Good Lord
The world crucified Him on Golgotha Hill
You have given saint martyrs to help people
Now they are on the pictures, hanging and locked in churches

Give Your hand, Lord, to this ungrateful world
Where evil blossoms abundantly and good disappears
Where there are more tears than dew on the ground
And more injured hearts than stones

I dream of the world, my Lord
That is as beautiful as the angels choirs
Where man hungry for daily bread
Shares it lovingly with his fellow
In the world like this, weapons don't destroy people
And defenceless hands lift others and cure them
There are no lonely hearts, no old, sad people in such world
No abandoned children, with empty faces

When I send my imploration to God Almighty
Then my soul speaks to me, in a light breeze:
God is holding out His hand to this world
It's enough to catch it in a daily prayer
God will never let us down if we send Him our hope
He will not put your human love on the cross
He will not give you stones when you ask for bread

Don't ask, Lord, my soul, why
This world is so quarrelsome and thorny
But ask your fellow men, who live in this world
Why, in spite of so many gifts, bestowed upon us
They still cast away the miracle of ... God's Love.

Dream. I am in a church. Maybe it is the night Adoration, because the church is dark, and there are bent down heads in the rows of pews. There is a big cross with Christ at the altar. I kneel down, pray and after a while I see that Christ becomes alive and comes off the cross. I begin an inner dialogue with Jesus. He is smiling while we, in church, are sad, with bent down heads. I ask: why did You come off the cross, Jesus? Because you are sad - He answers. I have an impression that Jesus is sorry that people in church are sad. It is like going to a party (Mass) and feeling no joy at the presence of the One who invites. Then He leaves the church (the faithful don’t even notice it). I follow Him like a hypnotized person. I know that He speaks directly to my soul, teaches me but I don’t remember what. I only feel physical warmth in my heart. I closely watch His silhouette, I know every detail of His clothes. He wears a long shirt - light, typical for the Arab gear, the trousers are cocoa-colored, His hair - dark-blond. Strange but I don’t remember the fragments of His face, as if His eyes hypnotized me. I follow Jesus around the city, cars and noise are all around the place. We get to a building on a busy street and there is a school nearby. Jesus unlocks the door. I am surprised and ask: Jesus, do You have to use a key to open the door? He replies: I don’t have to, I can enter any place without a key. But then, what shall I do with you? His face had a grin of a friendly mocking.
When I woke up the next morning, I remembered the building because of the nearby school. Yes, it was the convent of the Sisters of Mercy where we attend the “Faustinum” formation, where they teach us about Divine Mercy.
The next night the dream was going on. I ask Jesus why He comes off the cross and why I see it. He answers: Many people treat Me like an embalmed mummy, frozen on the cross. And I Am alive, I move among you. When you leave the church, I go with you, I Am not left there like a dead person. I Am dead in your hearts, only when you don’t remember about Me.

The rock

I can see You, Jesus, in the Olive Garden
You leaned Your back against the rock
The Angel is standing by and consoling
Your Companions are asleep

Many years and ages have passed
And God has chosen the earth for me
We live in the street clatter
Like You once, in Jerusalem

History hasn’t wiped out those numerous rocks
And man hasn’t changed much
The world hasn’t powdered the rock
Of treason, illness, hostility

There are the happy ones who believe
In a painless flight over the rocks
Youth gives them the wings
And pride lifts them up in the air

But although a bird has wings
It must come back to the earth, anyway
And man, even the strong one
Loses his parachute of carelessness

And he falls down, not like a bird, softly
On a rock or a roadside tree
But violently, painfully
He strikes against the stone that is his destiny

This is the grace, Jesus, to see You leaning against the rock
And know the place, where and at which rock
Your merciful hands will catch and …
Protect the one who is falling down.

I have a vision - there are something like three steps with inscriptions (from the bottom): word, music, silence. I don’t know what it means and I hear: This is the way that man adores God. The highest step is - silence. Man, filled with words, music and his adoration for God (but probably only the saints), moves up onto the step - silence. In this silence - God speaks, being “not deafened”. A few days later I think about my vacations at my Grandparents’, many years ago. It was warm, sunny, beautiful nature, a feeling of safety … And suddenly I hear a voice: this is the way that we must fill our hearts with Jesus, with good, and still extend the sphere of our hearts with this filling. Then we become better, more mature in God. When good covers only a small part of our hearts, then we take a risk of being penetrated by evil. This evil persuades us that suffering, praying make no sense, we should live only … for ourselves. Evil is contagious and affects this small piece of good that is within us. Maybe when the heart is filled with good (the power of grace), then it is not so willing to “be poisoned”?

Reverend John

Bent down at the altar
With love
For God and people
He looks carefully
At the faithful
Like father, anxious to save everyone
He blesses
He orders to adore Lord with singing
Laying his hands on our heads
He asks through his intercession
And the power of his priesthood privilege
For our salvation
The heads are bowing
Being depressed, full of care
They give themselves away to his prayer
With a childlike trust
They give the whole burden of life
So that he could transform it
From the daily water
Into the wine of the feast
He - the priest and the exorcist
Who drives away evil with the power of Church
He teaches the poor the words of hope
So that they became the rich
He - the great priest, the soldier of Christ.


Prayer of the one who suffers

The day put on the streams of rain
And it weeps like my soul
Lord, You are the hope
For my distress
Like a raindrop for a dry ground
Like water for a withered flower
I want You to be my soul’s feed
Please pour a drop of the Holy Blood into it
Let me stand at the cross of Jesus
I will hang my fear on this cross
I will wrap myself up in a silent prayer
With no superfluous words or gestures
And I’ll stay like that, with the Rosary in hand
Listening to the raindrops
Repeating to the soul in pain
The holy words of the Chaplet:
“For His Sorrowful Passion” …
And trust, only trust
Like a child staring at his Father
That fear and pain
Which the soul was afflicted with
Will be protected with Mercy
By God Himself.

During the Holy Mass, I see a sphere rotating non-stop. I am outside, motionless. It all resembles a model of the Sun and the Earth. Various events, places appear in front of my eyes, but I am still the same, with my “interior” child. I think (maybe I am wrong) that man is stable in his essence, he is still a child - sincere, returning to his early feelings despite the age. It is the world which rotates and shows the variety, new events, places. We “choose” good, beautiful things out of this sphere, but we also look at evil, cruelty. We feed our souls with current events. Quite other events shaped the people a hundred or five hundred years ago. Didn’t the man that lived five hundred years ago, have dreams? Didn’t he love? But yes, of course … he was still a child-man inside. In our XXI century, our sphere rotates with the “multitude” of events, but does it “enrich” us more, does it get rid of evil, doesn’t it make it more attractive? Isn’t our “interior child” deluded more than the people living a few hundred years ago? Deluded with the multitude of choices which pass by and go on rotating? Maybe it’s wiser to look within us, for the values given us by God, in the immortal soul. Maybe we are this stable Sun? And the other things pass away like on the revolving sphere. They call: “look at me” (social events, history) - they change man, but they shouldn’t kill his essence - the child of God, the Sun that exists motionlessly … The Sun (man) is very important here. Without it, the revolving sphere - the Earth would freeze.

A little grain

You walked by my side, Jesus
But I couldn’t see You
For I was squeezed in a crowd, on my life’s way
Like a grain with other grains
The grace divine, like a holy hand
Pulled me out of these marching grains
It lifted me to a grotto on the side
It pushed me a cross of suffering into my hand
And a flying-by bird sang:
Wait for your Lord here
He wants to meet you …
I am standing near the altar, during the Mass
And I still feel like a little grain
A tiny one
I fold my hands and wait patiently
With love
For You to come to me, Jesus
And …
We will get to know each other.

“Somebody” inside me tried to force me to go to the morning Mass. My “laziness” put conditions: it’s cold, you attended a Mass yesterday … Suddenly I decided to go, although it was very late. I didn’t race but I made it which was surprising. At the end of the Mass I heard: you helped a dying person … whom? - I asked. The answer was short: The name is not important … I think that it didn’t necessarily have to be a person who was dying physically. Maybe my Mass saved someone from making a wrong decision … from sin. We still don’t know how powerful the Mass is, and how effective, our intentions that we leave at the altar, are.

 

Medicine for the soul

The clay vessel of my soul
Lifetime broke into pieces
You ordered to put it together, Lord
During a beseeching-requesting Mass

I took the Rosary into my hand
A few prayers to the Holy Spirit
The Masses that were offered for the dead
And my longing for God Almighty

I was sticking the jug of my soul drudgingly
With fear and uncertainty
Strengthening it with the Stations of the Cross
And with casual daily care

And when the sticking was over
And the clay jug of my soul was ready
I saw many scars on it
Out of old wounds that were still hurting

How can I bring it to You, Lord
This jug which is so crippled?
How will You pour Your gifts into it?
They can evaporate through the scars .

A quiet whisper reached me
Like a blow of a summer breeze:
I speak through My Son's wounds
I heal your soul . with these wounds.

I was thinking about strange „loneliness” of people standing close to one another at some Masses. We are at the altar with Jesus and we should be happy, but during the exchange of “peace be with you” sign, people don’t smile, they seem to be “far”, no eye-to-eye contact, the peace gesture is formal, artificial. Jesus walked with the Apostles, He needed people. During the Mass, people shouldn’t be “singled”. Even being strangers to each other, they should show cordiality through their gesture of the hand. I remember a Mass when I felt very sad. The woman standing beside, passed on her peace gesture so beautifully, with a cordial smile, that my all sadness was gone. It is so important!
I also wondered why people yield to bad emotions, aggression. In fact, they form themselves their world of freedom, they themselves mark its boundaries. Morality, Decalogue stop being the norm. These days we can do almost anything we want to, we are forced to look at the world in a tolerant way. If we are so free … then why are we so aggressive toward other, more moral opinions? Modesty, honesty are not valued. Pride, conceit - yes. Satan likes to sit on human conceit and freedom. The rule of the “more beautiful and the stronger” wins on the screen, in sports, in life. Such are the times - say the young, the rat race is going on - until the final success. The weak who can’t step on the others - drop off. Self-assurance wins, but not the talent. We create values for “today, for here, for now”, we cast away the Decalogue because it forbids momentary pleasures. On the contrary, the Decalogue doesn’t constrain, it has been given to sustain human dignity, it protects man … against man, his pride and egotism. I deeply believe that the Decalogue will be rediscovered again some day and people will abide by it. But the rat race is going on, so far, they have been on the run, but do they know where the finishing line is? And will they get prize at all? And Satan is chuckling … His giggle is deafened by music and noisy voices of the conceited people.

Difficult questions

Lord, it is so hard to understand
The Love that You sent down to earth
Why does man desire It
But doesn’t want to cuddle It?
Why is he so afraid
To yield to Its noble laws?
Why does he prefer to suffer
And lives with sin every day?
Why does he walk into darkness
Passing by the light and the truth?
Why does he cry alone
And trusts his own power?
Why does he believe in idols and kings
Who reign over him?
And he constrains his soul’s freedom
Although God anointed it with miracle?
Why does he feed himself
With the deceiving world
And doesn’t want to recognize its illusory glare?
Why does he think that power is his hope
And the cross is his weakness?
Why doesn’t he trust Your Love, Lord
When he feels the pain?
I ask too many questions today
And Love listens to them patiently
Somebody whispered, maybe it was an Angel
He gave a simple answer, but difficult:
God wants the love of man … but not of a slave.


Purgatory

It is like hands held out toward Love
That is passing by
It is like a beloved tree
Which we cut out
Because it hasn’t given fruit for years
It is like a forgotten grave that people step on
While lighting lamps for their close ones
Purgatory is like a man with his luggage
That was left behind by the last bus
It is like a sleepless night
Like an empty confessional
Like a bird which doesn’t sing
Purgatory is the silence
When we need words
Like sin which hurts our memory
Like mother’s love
Swept under the carpet of daily life
So that she didn’t disturb us with her waiting eyes

You also know this world’s Purgatory
You can send a letter from this Purgatory
With prayer and a stamp of Hope
To God
My Lord, please write back …
To the address of my Purgatory
I’ll be waiting
At the beloved, cut-out tree
At the empty confessional
In the sleepless night
In silence
With the memory of sin
At the forgotten grave
With the bird which can’t sing.

During the Stations of the Cross prayers, I “saw” a sphere and a little cross on it. The cross was attached loosely and was sliding to the sides although the sphere was stable like lead. I was thinking what it meant. At the Station: Jesus dies on the Cross - the vision of the sphere and the cross changed. The cross was standing on its top motionless. Then I understood that the Stations of the Cross - is my divine service. Through these prayers, we recommend the souls of the dead to God. These souls are together with me during our prayers and they beseech for the holy time to get closer to God.

A conversation with an Angel

I have an impression, my Angel
That You walk in front of me
Just a few steps further ahead
And I can’t catch up with You
I stumble over the hours, years of life
Like in a sandy dune
I stop, being often tired
And You leave me behind
Sometimes I can’t see You
Through the fog that appears like an enemy
Who attacks without any cause
I stumble over my own thoughts
I hold out my hand - and beseech
Lift me up …
You are standing just a few steps away
And waiting for my effort
To get myself up from my knees
Of my weakness
I hear: I am your Guardian Angel
And not your Savior.


My Angel’s birthday

You’ve been with me so many years, my Angel
You’ve fought many battles with me
You’ve been my consolation in many sorrows
In many joys, You’ve been my companion

How many times I’ve moved off Your wings
To follow my own ways
How many times I’ve turned away from You
And didn’t listen to Your advice

Many times You have cried with me
Over the recollection of the past sins
Many times You have led me to the altar
And You asked: Please, Lord, help her

I hope that You got much stronger
In the sanctuaries that we visited together
You rested on my knees
During Masses and the Rosary Mysteries

I was leading You, my Angel
Along the winding paths
And You, with God’s map, prepared for me
Often got lost, while running after me

We’ve been together so many years
My dear Friend, my beloved Guardian
I recognize Your Heavenly voice
Among the humming of others that I hear

I would like to thank You, so much, sincerely
On this consecutive birthday of Yours
I would like to reward You so much
For Your unnecessary tears

I would like, so much, to sew the wings for You
Out of my prayers and deeds
I would like, so much, to thank God for You
For my faithful Guardian Angel.


My Angel’s wishes

You thanked God for the gift of your Angel
Your faithful Guardian, on His next birthday
What shall I give you, in turn, as a present?
The Angel asked me, gracefully
I have no gold, no diamonds
Nothing that is of value on this earth

I can offer you pure tears
Which do no harm to your heart
I can wipe them off with my robe
And your eyes will see again
People’s faces, joyous and beautiful
Without grimaces, wry faces, hostile and stubborn

I can touch your ears with a whisper
So quiet, gentle and nice
Then prayers will reach them
And not quarrels and words ungrateful

I can shelter you with my wing
Even with two
Against the world that man himself creates
Paying no attention to God

What else can I offer you?
I can make, if you let me
That daily life will be a little feast for you
And Jesus will be the king of your heart

I can hang on your soul
The bell offered you in Heaven
So that it rang for the Rosary and Masses
And for the people who call for help

I can, although you won’t feel it
Hug you tightly
Embrace you with my wings, like a nestling
I hope that you aren’t allergic to feathers

But when you sneeze loudly, all the same
I will shout out loud: God bless you with joy!
This is your Guardian Angel in your world
I always remember about you.

In my dream, I saw bluish brightness and a column of figures moving toward this light-blue brightness. I was standing in the back and heard a voice: these are the Purgatory souls that were saved thanks to the intercession prayers. You also have your share in this.
Suddenly, a silhouette of a very tall man appeared out of these figures. He had a very penetrating eye-sight and looked extremely elegant. His long, leather coat was shining. I also remembered his perfectly short-cut hairstyle. He was perfect in his appearance. He looked at me threateningly and said: you will be sorry some day, because of these souls. Strange, but I didn’t feel any fear. It was as if these persons moving toward the light gave me more strength than the fear of the threats of this “smart-looking guy”. We might add a reflection here that evil often looks extremely elegant, spotless in its outer looks.

The Day of the Divine Mercy

How many times I wanted to feed you
With the food of My Mercy
But My hand touched the emptiness
How many times I wanted to quench your thirst
With the drink of My Mercy
But you didn’t feel thirsty
I knocked at your door but you were asleep
I was waiting for you but you didn’t come
How many years?
Why do you want Me today
To feed you and give a drink?
Is it because your world has disappointed you?
Yes, Jesus
I was drinking and feeding myself with my own pride
I was dying of hunger …
I was mounting locks on my soul
And the soul suffered in slavery
Today I unlock the door of my soul with the key
Of Your Grace, Jesus
I put my pride out of the door
And I come where You feed
With Your Mercy, Lord
And I bless the moment when You knocked
On my heart
Just on time when it didn’t become deaf yet.


Conversation

You are looking at me from the painting
You, Merciful Jesus
You ask me about trust every day
My days flow on like a melancholic stream
Washing around my heart, leaving the stone
But I feel in the gesture of Your hands, Jesus
In the rays that come down to earth
That although I am nothing, You want to
Speak to me …
And You wait patiently when I answer You
With trust …
In Your Mercy

I already know that You don’t want the words of love
That adore You like a dead statue
The painter contained the question in Your eyes
That ask for the courage of faith in the valley of darkness
When singing of solemn psalms is dying down
And suffering puts out the candles at the altar
Then You come out to people, with Hope
And take them into the arms of Your Mercy

When I close my eyes, I hear the words of request:
Help Me carry My cross
Wipe off My sweat with a veil
Don’t escape in terror from My Olive Garden
Suffering … has power
I will help, when you fall
Only give Me your heart, agree to be trusting
And let Me touch you with My Mercy Divine.

I “saw” large surface of water in a beautiful, light-blue colour. I “heard”: this is the source of the Holy Spirit. Whoever drinks from it - will never be thirsty and will be strong enough to fight the obstacles and the attacks of evil. But he must constantly draw from this source. I complain to Jesus that I feel left alone, I don’t feel His presence. Then I “see” a little elevation, something like a step and Jesus is standing on it. I “hear”: I don’t leave you alone. I Am moving ahead of you and I Am showing you the way, so that you could follow Me and didn’t just stand still.
A few days later, during the Holy Mass in my local church in Warsaw, I “see myself” kneeling down. Jesus is standing over me, on a very high step - He is waiting for me to follow Him. I complain that the step that He is standing on, is too high for me. Then Jesus holds out His hand and says: I will help you. I complain again, saying that it’s too high and I won’t be able to climb up to Him. Then Jesus smiles and holds out His both hands. I feel extremely moved and a little amused with my childishness. I thought that this “vision” indicates that Jesus is always ready to help, but we should ask Him like little children …

Little love

My love is little
Like the heart in my body
As little as an ear of corn
In a corn-field
My love is little
Like a field-flower in a meadow
Like a bird in a fully-grown tree
I lock my love within myself
So that I could teach it who to serve
I put it under the cross on Golgotha
Let it blossom with hope, like a flower-bud
I am giving my love to You
Let it wait patiently for the moment
When Your redeeming tears, Jesus
Change it from little … into the great love.

During Adoration in my local church in Warsaw, I am strangely concentrated, calm. No thoughts, ideas disturb me. Suddenly I see a colorful scene. Jesus is walking across a green meadow, I can’t see His face. The meadow and the common road are separated by a beautiful, narrow stream. How can I get across this stream? - I think, and what does this “vision” mean at all? Then, the inscription “death” appears. Yes, Jesus is on the beautiful side, in the green meadow, while we, people are moving along our road. I see that some people turn toward Jesus and walk over the narrow foot-bridges to Him. The others go forward as if these foot-bridges didn’t concern them. I think that these foot-bridges mean “the time of death”, the hour of turning off of our roads. Everyone has his footbridge from Jesus’ side. I also think that God gives man a chance and sometimes we can “pass by” our foot-bridge (sudden recovery) through the grace of Mercy … People who are influenced by disease or psychic problems commit suicide, they themselves put the foot-bridges of death from the side of their human road. Sometimes God saves them … and their foot-bridge breaks down. They return to their road. Everything happens according to some purpose. I think that God in His love, gives man many chances and waits … for his acceptance of death.

The Holy Complaint

I am trying to break the noise around me
Get rid of the unnecessary words
Reach the silence of Golgotha
Reach the words of the Holy Complaint:
Oh God, my Lord, why did You leave me? …
I hurt my heart
I give my soul to silence
This silence hurts
The Angel orders me to stand under the cross
And not fall down, with my eyes
Staring down at the ground
But look …
At the last glance of Christ
And hurt my ears with the Holy Complaint
“Oh God, my Lord …”
God - the Holy Love
He left His Son for the moment … of death
And then
The Holy Love rested upon people
In order to touch
You and me.

At dawn, after a short prayer, I „saw” a peculiar scene: a man was walking along a road, looked as if he were supported by a cross. He was walking straight ahead and the cross wasn’t any burden for him but on the contrary, it looked rather like a strong construction that he supported his body on. Other people, in other places didn’t have such reinforcement except for their bodies and they did different jobs or had fun. Seemingly they looked “free”. I heard a question: How can God raise a man to Him? He can do it easily when there is the strong construction of the cross. The people who are not supported by this construction, who are within the power of their elastic bodies, can somehow “slip” out of God’s reach. Maybe it is strange but … the symbol of the cross is like belonging to, or rather our readiness to meet God. This cross is like our suffering that life afflicted upon us, but at the same time, it provides power - leaning on it gives strength. It gets you closer to “the eyes of God”. What will God lift the people on, when they rely only on the strength of their own bodies (often virtual), their own pleasures? Where will they find support if they are disappointed by their bodies, lives? Will they roll up in a bundle of weakness? I understood that the cross doesn’t mean suffering only, but also it is the gift of God’s trust. It is often hard to understand when we only rely on people’s logics which “imposes” us, first of all, to be happy.

The cross of Christ

I catch the wood of the cross with my hands
It is cracked with storms and rains
It’s been standing over twenty ages
And people’s love has been around it
Millions of human beings, at this cross
Wetted it with their tears
And warmed it in their thirsty hands
So that it was as strong as an oak, for generations

When evil, like a typhoon, wants to disdain
And kill with hunger, those who adore You
You feed, like birds, the hungry ones
With drops of blood, dried in the cross
You quench the thirst of the rushing pilgrims
With water that gushes out of Your side
And those who fell painfully on the way
You pour hope with Your gentle word

I hold myself to the cross like a ship to its anchor
Millions of people have survived there
Common people and sinners
And with them - the saint-martyrs
The ground is battered under the cross
With the hard trust, for centuries
And Your arm, Jesus, from the cross
Will pull us higher … to our Lord.


Mother’s Day

Mother’s return

You are no longer with me
You’re dancing with the angels
And although they tell me:
She doesn’t cry anymore
I don’t believe you, wise angels
What do you know about mothers?
Only God understands them
And although they wear wreaths
Like songs sung in the spring
They don’t take off the earthly glasses
They can see the earth, their children through them
Sometimes they can’t recognize them
They grew old so much
They whisper: my little son, my beloved daughter
Why are you so sad and worried?
She cuddles them to her heart with her warm hands
She tries to possess her treasure on this earth
But she is from Paradise
And they are from this earth …
Although sometimes a miracle occurs
A little, tiny one
The son hears somewhere the words of his Mom’s song
The daughter has a dream about a meadow
Her Mom is calling her there
The earthly time touched the Heavenly time
In the silent memory
Mother, as if she were standing by …
Is rushing by, along the way
This is a little moment but somehow a holy one
Then the words of the song get more silent …
And the dream is gone …
And Mother is taken by the angels … to Heaven.


Pope’s visit in Auschwitz.

He walks over the place of torture in silence ... Where was God when the Germans were killing? - people asked this question … I keep wondering … God was present when the Savior, the Son of God was dying and there were also the people who killed Him.
The Germans gave us great culture but they also gave Hitler. Maybe God wanted to show people that all they create - music, poetry, culture - should tend to “kill” evil, otherwise, it’s of no importance, although it seems important to man. Man’s “creations” are valuable as long as they can destroy evil. And evil is killed … only through the redeeming pain, not through wonderful music or beautiful words. Satan can also create … beauty, but not the beauty of the soul. The beauty of German culture didn’t oppose to evil. Once, two thousand years ago, the Son of God “redeemed” the world - with His immense suffering. Auschwitz - the place of torture, is like the dungeon where Christ was suffering, personifying millions of people. The redeeming power of suffering - this is the mystery of God. The world without suffering, without Christ’s Passion, without people’s suffering - wouldn’t have been saved, and wouldn’t save itself any longer. The redeeming power of Christ’s suffering … is going on. We can see it in the history of the world. The Polish who are particularly experienced by suffering - might be “the chosen” ones. Maybe God … has trusted them? Poland as the Christ of the Nations - said one famous Polish poet. Over there in Jerusalem, the Son of God was suffering, He was saving the world, and around Him was sin and people-killers. In Poland, there is suffering, pain (people feel it as injustice), there is the Cross, but also, like in Jerusalem, two thousand years ago, there is sin, evil going round very intensely. People say that “God was silent”, but maybe then He was shouting loudly: only the Truth will redeem you, man. Look for It in the Divine interpretation of manhood, such as the Manhood of Jesus, and not in your false truth, which you create out of fear of the Truth, or out of lack of knowledge about this Truth, although your truth, man, would be as beautiful as the music of German masters or the most beautiful poetry or the advanced scientific achievements. God demands so much from us … He demands our souls to be like His Son’s soul. Between the ideal that God wants, and our imperfection - there is God’s Mercy. There is the arm of God, held out to man whom He loves so much. God gives free will to every man, to every nation, to the world … so that we, like His Son, did the “redemption” of ourselves.

Bouquets of life

We offer You bouquets, Lord
Made out of flowers of our sanctity
They are like passing scents
Temporary, shy and delicate

We lay our bouquets of life at the altar
With despair, imploration, request
Wheat and weeds mixed together
Tears and shame wet them …

With love, we put our bouquets of sanctity
With fear, we put those with weeds
We must cross too many fields in life
We want to harvest too many crops at once
Greedy and far from perfection …

Mark out the tracks in the fields for us, without weeds
Send us an Angel who will thunder loudly
And will warn us, with power, with the trumpets
Not to enter the fields with weeds
That we are attracted to …

During Adoration, at the meeting of the “Faustinum” formation, I heard: Participation in a religious formation is very important. The prayers in the intentions of other members of the formation have a redeeming power, much greater than our own prayers for our own salvation. I thought that Lord Jesus Himself came to this world and was saving through other people, He was in the family and then, in a group of apostles. Sometimes it may seem that such a group isn’t very united and the members are rather indifferent. Then - don’t wait for good reactions, for a smile - but apply it yourself. For example, you have three children and you are having a birthday and only one of them wishes you all the best. Don’t you think more, then, about those who forgot? As long as you live, your salvation lives as well, because after death, there is only justice, but still, through the prayers of the living - the dead are being
saved … It looks as if our prayers excused them against justice. You are saved through the prayers of the others. It is like that with the rest of the children who didn’t come to express their wishes and they are justified through our love. And hence there are such sudden conversions. This is a real miracle, but doesn’t this miracle result from the prayers for the unbelievers? Jesus needed people to create great things, but He also needed the man who made the cross for Him… In other words, people who make crosses for us, are also necessary for our salvation.

Like a child

I want to love You, Jesus, like a lost child
Who, in a crowd of hands, looks for this only one
And although the world lures us like fata morgana
I want like a trusting child
To follow You, hiding behind You, among the people
I want to feel Your hand on my shoulder
And have my ears deaf to any temptation
And my eyes covered with Your hand, Lord
And my will submitted to Your will, Jesus
I know …
It won’t protect me from any suffering

I don’t want to look for the gifts which
When I touch them
Become like dust soaring in the wind
I’d rather have Your pierced hand in my hand
And not carry the color of this world in my arms
I want to love You, Jesus, like a lost child
Who, when he found the hand once chosen
Prefers to wander with it along the desert route
And not wait, being lost in a wonderful oasis.

Adoration at the Most Holy Sacrament in my local church in Warsaw.
There are only two people in the church. I am on my knees, alone, in front of the Most Holy Sacrament. I am trying to convey to Christ my problems, worries, concerns. And suddenly I “hear”: you talk too much, let Me say something. I became silent and felt ashamed … I closed my eyes. After a while I saw a picture with awesome light, like a photo taken with a very good camera. The colors were hard to define. One could say they were “shining”. I see a stream among the green landscape and a thick tree nearby. I am sitting on it as a child, beside me is Jesus dressed in white clothes. I ask Him to cuddle me. I have a feeling of an immense safety, great silence is all around. I “hear” a voice: you can see that the stream flows like the time in your life. You are motionless, you just observe what the water is carrying. Sometimes there are dry leaves, sometimes broken branches, some dirt, all these flow on … These are your life experiences, troubles, failures. Sometimes you can catch sight of the gifts … petals of roses dropped by the Most Holy Mother. Watch out for them and don’t waste them. Try your best to catch sight of them. Years pass by like flowing leaves, branches in the stream … Don’t rush after them … They have flowed by already. Wait for the new ones and learn how to cast away all that have flowed by already. Don’t lose yourself in bad memories. The stream will sometimes show you new challenges, new aims. The most important thing is to perceive them… Don’t run after the things that the stream carried ahead and don’t overlook the grace that is flowing beside you. You can’t influence the time. The past time is like learning to find where evil occurred. Look for the gifts - the petals of roses of The Holy Mother. Sometimes they flow together with the dry leaves among them. The prayer that is patient will open your eyes. It is not good to see only the things flowing in the stream. We should also see its clear current. It is like My Mercy which is lasting and forgives all that has passed by in time, so you persist with me and look around as if you had My eyes. Life is flowing on, it will bring on many beautiful things yet, but also not beautiful ones. They will be carried with the current of the stream. Persist in what is beautiful …

Life is moving

Life is moving along a road, sometimes It stumbles over a stone
A passing man can push Him painfully
It hangs dark thoughts like Christmas balls on the trees
Life would like to forget about them forever

Life is moving along a road which is too difficult
The sun set long time ago, darkness came round
Without a candle, a torch, on a strange road
Life is searching for light so that It didn’t get lost

The Rosary in the pocket shines with artificial light
Once Life bought it in a sanctuary
The seller encouraged saying: it lights even at night
But Life didn’t pray on it for long

The night is dark, starless and Life is searching for the purpose
My Dearest Mother, the Queen of my heart
I am lost on this empty road
I will sit under a tree and wait over this hostile night

With the Rosary shining like a glow-worm in the marshes
Life sits down and waits for the miracle of a signpost
It whispers: Hail Mary, It touches the pearls
The Rosary started with the cross … and the cross finishes it

And Life fell asleep, tired of Its terror
Only the Holy Mother didn’t sleep, watching over It
How could She leave Life that called Her?
How couldn’t She show the way, so that Life wasn’t lost?

Life will smile on many roads
On many, It will cry, will fall in love, escape
On many roads, illusion will mess up Life
It will whisper: Hail Mary, get me out of darkness.

During Holy Mass in the suburb. The value of the prayer doesn’t depend on the place where you say it. God receives our prayers that are sent from any place. For some people, it will be a comfortable armchair, for some others, it will be a green meadow. We must accept it as a natural praying environment. Unfortunately, people sometimes are not satisfied with their place of praying. They think that in more beautiful places they will get more inspiration. When they have a common armchair, they dream of a beautiful, decorated place. At other times, a common meadow is not enough and they want a palace … Man should understand that the most important is the essence of a prayer, its authenticity, its ardor.
During another Holy Mass I had a vision of a man as a vessel made of glass. There were two openings over this vessel. Black stuff was pouring into one hole and it got stuck to the walls. The vessel was filled with evil, dark thoughts. It was an answer to my bad feeling that I had been oppressed with for a few days. And the second opening? What does it mean? - I wondered. Drops of blood were slowly falling through the second hole … “Somebody” was explaining to me the meaning of this vision … Free will and the mind rule over the vessel. It is we who decide what to fill our interior with. Lack of will, lack of positive thoughts “open up” the opening with black stuff … This opening with black stuff may be opened by bad, insincere people, and we are weakened by their “power” and let them do it. Every decision, resolution should refer to our free will. With the help of prayer, the Holy Spirit and Holy Mass, we receive power, strength to open up to the “drops of blood of Christ”. They fill us with this strength. The decision depends on us, this is the most difficult task for man … to shut the opening with black stuff. Not always can we succeed. Our habits, comfort, convictions, laziness, lack of courage - all this opens the access to the “darkness” of the outside world. And then we live with what is inside us. We tolerate “darkness” inside ourselves because … it is more comfortable, we don’t fight for the purity of the “vessel” of our manhood.

Suffering

It is like a bird that sits on the green grass
But it doesn’t see it
And suffers from hunger
Suffering is like a blind, thirsty pilgrim
Who gave up at the clear stream
He reached the source …
But he doesn’t see nor hear the noise of the stream
He forgot the words of prayer
Or maybe he doubts its power?
Suffering is blind and deaf
Wrapped in golden paper
Produced in my world of success
Tied with a colorful ribbon of the mind
Suffering is silent, it doesn’t sound with pain
A saint must cry over suffering
One teardrop will fall …
Then suffering begins to see and hear
It is praying
And Jesus dressed in shining garment, like a priest
Gives the water of life in His hands
The Holy Food of the Eucharist
Suffering gets up and goes on in his pilgrimage
Toward the green pastures …
Toward the shining in the sun, streams.

It seems that I have a dream but the vision is so unusual. It needs some deep thinking. I see a wide alley and people are moving on, like on a pilgrimage. Many people who… sing. This wide alley is like a tree and there are many narrow paths on the sides, like
branches. I can see a signpost with my name on it. I go along this new path and I am surrounded by high, green plants which form a kind of a wall on both sides. At the end of this narrow alley, I see the door which is high and very narrow. There is an inscription on it: The way to God …
I am thinking about this vision. We are going together, all the faithful, along the wide alley, like on a pilgrimage. We are a part of church. In our faith, however, there is a place for an individual path, for a “conversation with God” through the entrance through the door that opens up only for us. And we receive tasks from God on this individual path. I think that going in such a great pilgrimage is an honorable thing. But we must have the knowledge that we will stand before God … alone. Recognizable as individuals. Everyone has his own, mysterious, “Godly” path, because God Himself puts the signpost with our name on it. When will we find it? Some people will find it earlier, some others - later. This is the happy path that gives freedom and confidence that God “took pains” … only for us when He chose this narrow path, as a branch coming off the main tree.

The name

We come to this world following the traces
Of our parents and ancestors
We wander together with the history of events
We step over the traces of the nation
We make mistakes like others made mistakes
Believing in false truths
We often hide in the crowd
Not knowing where they are going

And the day of maturity comes
When strangers’ footprints don’t lure
Then we look for the ways to reach Love
We want to kneel in front of God
How many paths we have passed along carelessly
Following the strangers’ traces
And taking others’ tears and dreams as our own
But the heart is still anxious …

God in His Love mysterious
Assigned a path to us by name
There are no footprints of others
There are only mine … and His
On this path, so pure and so virgin
The beautiful encounter occurs
God tells you about Love
He wants love from you, too

And hugging this truth like delicious food
You keep wandering through your life
You know already, God calls you by name
You are not … just a footprint on earth.

During Meditation I felt as if somebody conveyed some thoughts to me. The Eyes of God created the world which is good and beautiful. So, why is there so much evil? From the original sin. Disobedience of the first parents against God. God didn’t want man to “know” the fruit of the forbidden tree. Why? It was not that He wanted to limit the free will of man. He-God didn’t want man, tempted by Satan, to see the world through the “eyes of Satan”. Satan showed man his nakedness, his defenselessness against the world and the hardship of work. Sin was born. Man gets confused between good, when the world is perceived with the Eyes of God, and evil, when the world is seen through the glasses which Satan put on. Saints know the world of good, but we - sinners are still stumbling over our choices. Sometimes Satan shows us the “beauty” of the world and advices us: do this, make these choices and you will be happy. He cheats and we fall down when we see that such “beauty” was not what we meant. The next day, during the Mass, I saw a man as if he were surrounded by space. The text of the liturgy spoke about love. “Somebody” was explaining to me that this space is the space of love. This is your attitude toward man. You meet somebody who is malicious, bad, you look at him and … you are protected from him with the “space of love”. Then you try to look through him, get to know him. You don’t pay attention to his words, his attitude, you try to understand him. The space of love is a gift. It allows you to have distance, but not indifference. Jesus talked with people this way. Paradoxically, this space “protects” you from your own reaction, which is often similar to the behavior of that malicious man. Smile, gentle words flow out of you thanks to this “space of love”. You don’t feel offended, your egotism doesn’t show off, no feeling of revenge. You know that you are rich because of the gift of the “space of love” . Is this gift for the whole life? I don’t know, but it is worth asking for it in prayer.

Child’s dream

When a child is asleep, a beautiful angel
Sits at his bed
And covers him with the wings like a caring mother
He sends colored dreams, like a peacock’s tail
And puts into the child’s hand
A piece of the sky in a balloon on a string
He fills the dream with the world of fairy tales
Where good is smiling
And evil is wiped off by an elf with a magic wand

When dawn ends the dream like frost does
To a plant that just started growing
The child wakes up with a piece of the sky
With a smile recalling the fables, with hope …
The world outside the dream is just an echo of the footsteps
Of adults and children
Of those who are in a hurry and who dream
Haste and dreams mix up
Along the way that is marked with thousands of feet
And with many words, good and bad
A big man leads a little one
The angel follows them
This is the angel that we know from the dream
Both the child and the angel smile
They recognize each other …
They both believe that dreams come true
Although they are not aware of which ones, yet.


Feast of the Assumption of The Most Holy Virgin Mary.

Mary’s Child

I am holding out my hands to You, Holy Mother
I put my requests like it is at the Weeping Wall
I search for Your eyes in so many pictures
You are our Consolation, Mary, our Healer of the Sick
Every day I send tens of best regards
From the beads of the Rosary, to protect the close ones
And I deeply believe in the heart of Yours
Oh, Immaculate Mother of Perpetual Help
I beseech You for Your Motherly care like a child
I give You all my pain and worries
Because I forget that You are also the mother from this world
And You know every day of our common life

One day while looking at Your statue
Carved in stone, in a posture so humble
Wet from the rain, like from people’s tears
I heard a quiet whisper, maybe an echo of the raindrops:
I Am holding out My arms with The Little Child to you
And I ask, please, don’t do any harm to His godly limbs
I Am His Mother like you are the mothers of this earth
I ask for love for Him, like you do for your children
For prayer, for hugging in the cradle that is made of love
For defending The Little One against a scoffing sin
For the hot and faithful heart for Him
For the words which bless and don’t hurt Him
And I, The Mother …
Will help and protect from Evil.


Adoration in the chapel in Banneux

There is a big candle, that is lit, on the altar, next to it, there is a little Holy Host (without a monstrance). There is little light in the chapel. Only the candle is well-seen. This candle is prevalent over the modest “dwelling” of Jesus. Suddenly I “hear” in my heart: this candle is like a beautiful, large apartment in which we “lose” the essence - the place where Jesus is present. The candle draws our eyes (like great church cathedrals), but the most important, essential in church is Jesus in Eucharist. Sometimes I watch people in a church. Very few kneel in front of the red little lamp indicating that there is Jesus there in Tabernacle. Being “deafened” by wonderful interiors of cathedrals, we forget who is the most important! We just watch paintings, pictures, ceilings, sculptures …

The house of dreams

I dream of the house on a green mountain
With the windows made of clouds
And the door shaped like the mouth
Ready for the kiss
The cloud-like windows protect from the evil wind
Of people’s thoughts and words
The door will not open for the hostile
Guest-comers
My house is overlooking the sun and the stars
It will be guarded by the cherubs in the stork nests
The colored birds will bring the letters
Only the hearty and the happy ones
The colorful flowers will give shadow
The gentle breeze will tell beautiful stories
In the dream house, I will drink clean water
From the spring of the holy prayers
My heart won’t be squeezed with fear after waking up
The Angel with the silky wings will be as an alarm-clock
The picture of a genius-master will be as a table
That speaks through the poetry of the psalms
The dream …
I dream that I climb the stones, shining with the morning dew
I want to get to my house
The silence gives strength to hold on to the protruding rocks
I go through the successive Stations of the Cross of my life
Like in Medjugorje
I stop, I feel tired, I think over the crowning with thorns
My house is high up there, waiting
There are the windows made of the clouds
Which don’t let the evil come through
The door is like the kiss for the tired pilgrim
And along the way, there are the next Stations of the Cross of life.


Praying before the Holy Mother in Banneux.

I “hear” in my heart: you ask for graces, gifts. Very often you have already received them (like good health, children, etc.), but you don’t appreciate them. You want such graces, gifts but you don’t necessarily need them, it is only your “imagination” about happiness. Ask for the grace of love, for fulfillment of God’s Will in your life. When you beg for a gift, it may be granted, but will it be important in your life? Will it influence your spiritual development?

One thing that I fear …

One thing that I fear, Jesus
That I pass by You sadly
When You Are joyously standing on my way
One thing that I fear, Jesus
That I could be indifferent, when passing by
When You, suffering, Are pulling out Your hand
One thing that I fear, Jesus
That I could confuse Your wishes
With my dreams
One thing that I fear, Jesus
That I may adore my tears
While Yours flow uselessly
One thing that I fear, Jesus
That I stare at my cross
While You, standing near, fall down in Passion
One thing that I fear, Jesus
That I could drop Your Truth
And lose It … and go away
Please stop me, whenever I do it
With Your Mercy
So that, on my knees, I could again
Be searching …
For Your joy, sadness, cross, tears
Your Truth.

The night after returning from Banneux.
This night is full of beautiful dreams, colorful pictures, much telling in their symbolism. The most awesome picture: I see the face of Christ. The face is so beautiful that you can hardly describe it with words. I have seen many painted faces of Christ. And even the faces painted by genius painters reflect only in a small percentage of what I have seen. The face that I saw was on tulle-like cloth and had a three-dimension shape. It was a “living” face, in motion … On the head, there was a kind of cordon (worn by nuns) in green. The green of this cloth covered the forehead of Christ, His cheeks and went on, as far as His shoulders. His face was yellow-orange, I had an impression that it was lit by the setting sun. I wanted to look at Christ’s face much longer but it disappeared and then I woke up from this unusual dream. I sat up in my bed and tried to contemplate the beauty of the face. Earlier in my dream I asked: Jesus, why do You have this green cloth covering Your Head? I heard the answer: to hide My Crown of Thorns … Did Jesus want to show me only His beauty and hide His “symbol” of Passion - His Crown of Thorns? It is strange because I participate in the Stations of the Cross route every week and this divine service is still a great mystery for my soul. The face of Christ in my dream was so beautiful that if I wanted to describe it in a simple way, I would have to say that everything in this face was sheer proportion. The eyes, the mouth, the nose were arranged in wholesome beauty … I wanted to look on and on, but I heard: you won’t endure this gaze.
I was only left with … a twinkle of God’s Countenance, in order to remember and reflect upon the Beauty of our Savior.

I search for You, Lord

There are days when I lose You among daily chores
As if I stood on the desert sands
I reach with my arms around like in fog
And in my hand … there are just my fingers
I turn around, looking for Your eyes
This little warmth, joyous in my soul
But next to me - the indifference of a human glance
And the usual everyday noise
I try to pull out my hands for You
And look for You in strangers’ faces
In an early morning, when a bird is singing
In a slice of bread, being cut for breakfast
Among the clouds high in the sky
Remembering the dead, as if they stood nearby
And in the setting sun like a fireball
In a flower that carelessly sprang up just by the road
Hoping that it won’t be stepped on by passersby’ shoes
In a cup of coffee, a conversation, a sincere smile
Even in the faces that are sad and worried
I call You with my prayer, like with the open window
Come to me, God, in my daily chores
And don’t let me lose Your Sight
So that I could be like a ticking clock
Or an hourglass filled with sand
Marking monotonous, mechanical moments
I do want to be with You, my living Jesus
In my soul, in my life
Even if everyday chores press on me like a burden.

On our way back from Belgium to Poland, we visited the sanctuary in Kawnice (famous for its many graces), near Poznan (Poland). At night I had a dream. In this dream I ask my soul what “Mary’s consolation” means. I know it’s a difficult question. Does consolation mean fulfilling our requests? Our dreams? Our healings? Then I am “transferred” to a high mountain near the Sanctuary. On this mountain, The Holy Mother shows me how small the world is from this perspective, how small our problems are. But, Holy Mother - I say - down there on earth, they are important. Then I am penetrated with the meaning of the word “consolation”. Not all of us leave the Sanctuary with the concrete gift in our hands, like healing, fulfillment of our requests … although there are such lucky ones. The majority of us receive the consolation of the soul, something like power, strength, faith, hope that we will overcome our difficulties. We still suffer because of the illness but it is the suffering that “doesn’t complain” every day, doesn’t accuse the world but submits itself to God. This “consolation” - is like a transfer from an old, horse-driven cart, where we carry our worries, pain - to a beautiful stage-coach. It carries our soul, which is strengthened with the grace of Mary of Consolation. We must strongly believe and look for this “healing” within ourselves, in order not to overlook the grace. The Holy Mother “gives” us, surrounds us with “the space of love”. We draw life’s strength from it … to fight our imperfections, pain, illnesses.

Searching

Why do you believe when this world is full of disbelief?
Why do you kneel when others run?
Why do you love what is invisible
When others cut the visible world
Into small pieces?
Why do you fold your hands in prayer
And don’t stand in a queue to fulfill your dreams?
Why?
This question sounds in this world
And goes with an echo like a lost bird
Why do some people love God more than their lives
While some others put their lives over God?
When some people search for the truth in silence
The others try to use noise to deafen
What is in each of us …
And is invisible
And doesn’t let us forget, whether in silence or noise
The question - still painfully stuck within us:
Why can’t you believe
That you are a drop but not the ocean?


The harvest

You say to me, my soul:
I sent my prayers to God
But God was silent
You whisper to me, my soul:
I called God loudly
But God was silent
You cry, my soul and say:
God doesn’t hear me
And my prayers are hanging somewhere
Between the earth and Heaven …
Maybe the wind dispersed them over the fields?
I answer you, my soul
God blessed your prayers
He sowed your every word on earth
They fell like fructifying seeds
They will grow, will blossom and give fruits
In the place where God wants
Prayer is not a check by name
Sometimes it doesn’t return to a given address
It is like a priceless gift
Out of human mercy
It sows poor fields of people’s souls
It makes a miracle in the fallow
It feeds
God is silent because He listens …
He keeps listening to our prayers.

Before the Holy Mass. During Meditation before the Mass, I asked why it is me who experiences these visions, dreams? Why do I have to write these poems? Then I heard in my heart: it is a beautiful gift, but very painful. The person who experiences such things is somehow removed from a protective layer. Such person feels everything more deeply than other people, has higher sensitivity. This may be a cause of painful injuries.

Poems

They come to me
Like swallows with stalks in their beaks
In order to lay a nest
Why do they swirl around me?
I have no time to write down all of you
On a piece of paper
Move on, please, with the wind
With the roar of the woods
Further ahead, to other people
Or just sit on the flowers
Maybe someone will find you
And will pick you up softly
And will love you
You will bring him happiness
But they buzz like wasps
Just beside my ears
They keep obtruding themselves, keep asking
Please, cuddle us
We are only yours …


Silent love

My love for You, Lord
Isn’t so loud as singing of The Angelic Choirs
It is quite shy and quiet
Just a few notes that sound in the heart

My love for You, Lord
Isn’t so big as a grandiose cathedral
It is quite little, like a raindrop
Just a few beseeching sighs at Holy Mass

My love for You, Lord
Isn’t so devoted as the priests of Yours
It is quite tiny and so grateful
For their hands, in which You put the Holy Host

My love for You, Lord
Isn’t like music of a genius
It is like a resounding echo
Of the noble sounds in a thirsty soul

My love for You, Lord
Isn’t like Jesus’ despair in the Olive Garden
I just wipe a few tears off my face
In memory of His Passion, during the Eucharist

My love for You, Lord
Isn’t like an apple tree, plentiful of fruit
It is just a little, green apple
Waiting for the merciful sunrays

My love for You, Lord
Isn’t like the cross on Golgotha, redeeming
It is just a little cross, carved painstakingly
For You - in our daily quarry.

Holy Mass, before the altar of The Sorrowful Mother in Riga, Latvia, on the Eve of the Feast of The Sorrowful Mother.
The picture of pieta is beautiful. I contemplate it as the work of art. But … the hanging arm of Jesus, out of the Holy Mother’s lap, draws my attention, annoys me. It looks alive, inviting. I feel an overpowering need to touch it and move it up to the Holy Mother. The hanging arm of Jesus is defenseless in its gesture. I hear in my heart: Who will give Me a hand? Who will have enough courage to come up to My Sorrowful, Suffering Mother? … She is so lonely in Her pain, in this picture. I have an impression that Jesus is waiting … He is still waiting for those who want to participate in His Mother’s grief. Then I hear a quiet voice: giving a hand is not an act of a single compassion. Although I Am dead as a man lying on My Mother’s lap, I will hold the given hand, I will pull it and will treat it as help in salvation … Consider in your heart whether you have courage? Are you ready to trust Me completely yet?
I felt greatly alarmed and I reflected upon my own faith. What is it like? …

Pieta

I won’t understand Your pain, Sorrowful Mother
I only know the beautiful pietas
I won’t count the tears that You poured on earth
I know only my own tears, sorrowful
I won’t know the touch of Your hands
Like Jesus did, Your Only Son
I hold out my hand, to the stony hands
In the chapels where pietas stand
Although the stone is cold
I feel surprised with the warmth
That You give away to those
Who ask for care, in trust, with love
It looks as if You were alive
In these pietas
I close my eyes in this lonely confrontation
Whispering: oh, Sorrowful Mother
I don’t have to use many words
You are close to me when we are silent
I am giving You, Mother, all my own worries
And You, please, share Your pain with me
And the miracle occurs
In front of the stony pieta
My tears and Yours, flow down to Jesus
I pray silently, not to wake Him up
Oh, Maria, my Mother, the only rock!
And I know, this is Your voice that I hear in my heart:
I’ve been waiting for you so long
My dear child …


The difficult gift

Wandering through the life, the pilgrim of this world
He gathers the treasures, shining on the way
He puts them into his heart, like precious diamonds
He hides them from people who could steal them
And when this careless pilgrim
Loses the treasures so changeable, unsteady
He will sit under a tree like a despaired pauper
He will look at his empty heart, with his empty hands

Sometimes the Angel will send a song known from his childhood
To the fearful pilgrim in pain
Then the pilgrim will jump up, will kneel at a small chapel
He will hang his empty heart on a cross
He will look at Christ who is hanging high
He will ask Him for a priceless gift of love
Then Christ … will point to the cross

And the pilgrim will go on, carrying the cross in his heart
He will ask Mary for strength and courage
So that he could carry it on, despite mocking and laughing
Of those who look for treasures on earth, that are shining
And sad Jesus stayed in the chapel alone
With the pilgrim’s empty heart, hanging on the cross
He was lost in thoughts over the pilgrim’s fate
Does the pilgrim know?
That the cross, being an anonymous gift, though …
Is not the wing that protects you from pain.

Holy Mass in front of the picture of The Holy Mother of Ostrobrama in Vilno, Lithuania. During the Mass, I hear in my heart: The Holy Mother is like the gate … What does it mean? Gates are usually opened, it was my first association. In front of my eyes, I see a picture of a country cottage. There is a woman standing at the door. She spreads out her arms, protecting the door of her house, like a guard protecting the house from evil … Do you understand? - my heart asks. Yes, I understand now. The Holy Mother of Ostrobrama is like the woman who closes, protects the gate of our soul from evil. Indeed, we ask Her in our prayers: Into Your protection we rush … When evil, our passions, evil thoughts, open the gate of our soul, She stands by and like the woman from the “country cottage picture”, with the power of our prayers, our requests, She locks our “gates” that we ourselves, open for sin. The Holy Mother of Ostrobrama is our defense, the guardian of our hearts and souls. It is the gate against evil.

Little, great miracle

Give me peace in my heart, Holy Mother
Give patience for the hours that clocks strike
And let me not make prisoners out of my days
While waiting for a miracle which could change my life
I am just a common man
I don’t know the star where God placed my sanctity
Sometimes when the fog of my doubts drops
I see this star, run toward it, although it’s so far
Beside me, life wanders in gray
As if it asked me to find the color
But I still raise my eyes toward Heaven
Waiting for a miracle, like for a holy sign
There are days when it occurs
So tiny that almost hard to notice
I hear singing, joyous, angelic
And these words:
“She was silent and beautiful like spring
She lived modestly, as commonly as we did
She brought God to this world, to us …”
I already know what to say to my heart
When days are gray, shrouded like a cloud
Look at The One that God made a miracle
She became The Offering for us …
As if we were
The miracle for God.

Holy Mass. Remembrance of St. Francis.
During the Offering, I have a beautiful vision: a man is surrounded by dark, navy-blue fog. Over this fog, there is great light, shimmering in different shades. Then I think how lonely and overwhelmed with darkness man seems to be … Suddenly, through this dark fog, a gold-yellow Cross, like a star, is moving toward the man. This cross resembles the Cross of Jerusalem with its shooting off rays … Then I hear: this is the only way that man can know the true light - that is God. The dark, navy-blue space is being filled with golden dots - symbols. I think that this is the symbol of the Eucharist. The golden-yellow symbol means the monstrance. But I think that man also has his own light in this dark, navy-blue space. This light is like the light of a torch, it lights up only the “close surrounding” of man’s life and it resembles a little, the moves of a mole. The true light is given to man from “above”, from God, through joining Him in prayer, in Mass. The picture that I saw was not like a poster that spreads out in front of your eyes. I had an impression that I was within this picture. It was alive, it was breathing. The light in this “symbol” penetrated into every single person, sometimes this dark, navy-blue field was filled with golden symbols, and sometimes its fragments were only like dark space, the golden symbols were missing. Does this mean the lack of faith?

Men’s little chapels

The soul’s way to God
Isn’t as simple as traveling in the rays of light
We often travel by night
Getting lost in ordinary lanterns’ reflections
When we are tired and look for some joy
The little chapels lure us … but they are human
There are no crosses in them, nor Jesus’ countenance
There is clatter of people having fun
The shining screens that lure the eyes
The noise that deafens the conscience
Music, flowers, lit up candles
All this makes you believe in man
There, pride sits at the main table
Ambition is ready to serve you
There, youth, strength, are great stars
There, everybody is talking …
But nobody hears

In a man’s chapel
Like in a roadside hotel
People stay, believing in their rights
And instead of love … they get the bill
For the candles, the flowers, the fun
How many human chapels
Will the lost soul encounter on the way?
How many bills will it pay with a check
Until the account gets empty?
In how many chapels that people made
Will the soul leave its hope?
In how many, will the soul pray to common people
Seeing a beautiful idol in them?
Oh, Heavenly Angel, throw down to them, sometimes
The Rosary and the cross while they are on their way
Maybe they will bend down, will touch, will think …
And they will set off on their journey to You, Lord.

During the Holy Mass I saw a picture of The Holy Mother and golden rays around Her. The picture resembled The Holy Mother of Guadalupe. The rays around The Holy Mother were shining like the Sun. suddenly The Holy Mother withdrew into the back of the picture. An oval hole, like a door, opened up. Some bent-down people dressed in black clothes, climbing upwards, were moving toward this door. They were carrying crosses in their hands, big and small ones. Some had small, wooden crosses in their hands and they were carrying them like bouquets of flowers, lifting them up. At the end of this procession, a person with a big cross on the back, was going. This person was pulling it with some difficulty. I asked: what does it mean? I heard a beautiful explanation in my heart. These are the dead people who are heading for their world now. The Holy Mother welcomes them. Their crosses which are the gifts from their lives, are being burnt in the fire of Mary’s love. These crosses are, at the same time, the protection against punishment for committed sins. Who hasn’t committed them? … Their crosses are burnt in the fire of love of The Holy Mother. Maybe they will suffer less because of that? They haven’t cast away their earthly crosses. I asked: what about those who cast away their crosses and they wander empty-handed, with empty backs? I didn’t get any answer. Do they burn themselves and their souls suffer because they don’t have any gifts for Mary? October is Mary’s month, besides, there will be The Feast of the Souls soon. This vision came upon me as a reflection over our daily life. What we are left with is everyday sincere prayer for the dead.

 

Feast of the Purgatory souls.

On The Souls’ Day

I go through the gate of the cemetery
That separates the two worlds like a threshold
Between those who learned the mystery of death
And these who haven’t touched it yet

Are you painful, you - the mystery?
Or maybe you feed with hope?
Covered with a slab, decorated with flowers
You are silent … for us, the living ones

There are names, dates, crosses around
Of strangers, unknown, but strangely close
It is your world that my loved ones are in
They are with you, not with me, and celebrate the mystery

I, with the lamp, burning with memory
Want to sanctify this mystery
Autumn leaves on the slab of the grave
Try to say about it too silently

We light up the lamps with the prayer of love
For graces for the dead, for forgiveness of sins
We send you our tears, because love is still bleeding
Oh, Jesus, we beseech, be Merciful for them

At this Souls’ Feast meditation, we penetrate the worlds
We try to probe the mystery of death
And although we look for approach, reviving memories
The horrified heart is afraid to know it

When the evening sets on the cemetery ground
And darkness roams among the burning lamps
Songs can be heard, of our faithful dead ones:
“The time will come and you will know our mystery”.


The visit

Once You sent me an Angel, Lord
I thought it was a beggar
I gave him some small change, a few pennies
And I closed the door behind him
My days passed with my life
That was as ordinary as can be
And the Angel knocked at the door again
This time I didn’t close the door

He was holding a letter, covered with black shroud
Instead of a stamp, there was a shining cross on it
And I just had one wish
I wanted the address to be wrong
He said: God sent me with a grievous message
And looking deeply into my eyes
He showed me a sheet with a signature
I believe it was Yours, Lord

God Himself wrote my name and the exact address
As if He wanted to remind my despair
That His Son also suffered a lot
For me and for those that pass away every day
The Angel held out His wings to me for consolation
I flooded them with tears
And He couldn’t fly up to Heaven

He stayed with me in my sorrow
God’s Heavenly Postman
He was teaching me how to live and pray
For those who passed away too early
One day He flew away when dawn didn’t start yet
He left a few words on the sheet of paper:
Remember …
About The Divine Mercy.

During my prayer I saw an unusual picture. There were high mountains and a few people climbing drudgingly. Each of them was secured with the ropes. In spite of that, they kept falling down. Some bounced back against the rock and were hanging on the rope, in the air. They were defenseless, their lives depended on the supporting ropes. I saw some ropes breaking. I didn’t know how to understand this vision. Somewhere in my heart I heard the words: only God is holding the main, securing rope. Our ropes are - pride, self-confidence, belief in our own power. These are the “human” ropes that we use to fight for life, but they fail us. We bounce off the rocks because of the illness or the loss of what we were fighting for or our weakness. God is holding us on His rope - the most reliable one. When we refer to “God’s rope”, we preserve the safety of salvation, in this case it is to climb to the top of our dream mountain. Not with conceit, over-selfishness, ambition. God saves through love, not the law that we would like to believe in, like the laws of physics, or social laws. When we allow to lose “the human rope”, then we direct our thoughts toward the most important one - to God.

Like a bird

Sometimes You move me away from You, Lord
As far as the arm’s length
You watch me severely but with care
You say - I give you a day, a month and years
For your acting
For your will

I move around rapidly like a bird with an injured wing
I try to fly higher and I fall down
The Angel protects me from the enemies
The wind is bringing dry leaves
Like the feelings from the past
I can’t see any light around me
Birds are flying up toward the sky in a happy dance
I am waiting

In the darkness of the night I am trying to cure my wing
I am looking for medicine with blind eyes
For the cross that will work like cast
The Angel will dress the wound or maybe a saint?
I don’t want the bones to grow together awry
I do want to fly high again sometime
And dance around Your Will, Lord …
It doesn’t break birds’ wings.

During Adoration I saw Jesus with a black band on His eyes. It was just a moment. My common sense prompted me : but what you see now is The Most Holy Sacrament. And then I heard a whisper: I Am blind when I go to people, I don’t choose the better ones nor the worse ones, the saints nor non-saints - Love goes to everybody … I felt great pain. How defenseless Jesus is in His call for approaching him, for receiving his Love.

Difficult choice

It was raining, the clouds covered the sun
And I was standing at the crossroads
Without a map
The roads so similar
Neither tempting nor deterring
There was no bush, no tree that could call me
I can go straight ahead
Or to the right or to the left
But my will is silent
The Angel’s voice got silent
Satan was watching with curiosity
The lonely indifference
Silence without the humming of the trees
The eye of the cyclone of my choices
To go or to wait?
The eyes are blind for the signs
The ears are deaf for the songs
Which way did You go, Jesus?
Where did You fall for the first time?
So that You could wait for me
At how many crossroads will You leave me blind and deaf?
So that I wasn’t called with my eyes, my ears and songs
But despite that I could find the Stations of Your falls
My will is silent, my mind is silent, my senses are silent …
I hear: follow love
At the crossroads
In silence
Love … is speaking.

Adoration in the chapel of Sisters of Mercy in Warsaw.
We are praying The Sorrowful Mysteries on the Rosary. I can’t feel the concentration that I usually feel. I just repeat the words of the prayer. In the Mystery - Jesus is carrying the cross - I see an unusually painful picture: Jesus is lying in mud under the cross. Other people are passing by as if they didn’t notice Him. For a few painful minutes I can “feel” His suffering. He suffers because of people’s indifference. Jesus is looking at every passerby as if He asked for help. I have an impression that He doesn’t ask for help for Himself, although this is He who is so humiliated in this scene. I feel great emptiness and the appalling sadness of Jesus. I have been “experienced” with this vision only for a few minutes. It pierced my heart with enormous sorrow, and I feel that if I participated in it longer, my psyche wouldn’t stand it and I would start crying loudly. I have kept this vision in my heart, it is reflected as the blessed seal.

Halfway

Why does man’s love
Stop at the foot of the altar?
Is it afraid of the offering?
It desires but it doesn’t reach
It stops halfway in its marathon to God
It says that it loves
But it kneels too early
Not at the feet of Jesus
But at the foot of its own desire or fear
Why does it believe in sin more
Than in forgiveness?
It doesn’t hold on to the outstretched arms of Jesus
Does it lack trust?
Oh, the soul of man
Dressed in the rebellious body
Give the wings of grace
Don’t begrudge the miracle of the union
Between the Creator and the creature.

I had a very strange dream. I was in a strange place or a strange country. I didn’t know anybody. A man came up to me and said that I was going to have a lecture in a moment and he warned me that my students were … a little strange. I enter the classroom. There are 15 or 16- year-old boys, dressed in black, leather jackets, Iroquois hair, long, black boots. It looks like in hell - I thought. What am I doing here? Oh, here is this woman from God - I heard threatening murmur of voices. Then I started this difficult dialogue. We don’t need God - one boy shouted. We have freedom, we do what we want, we have computers, cars, everything is at our service. The special sponsor gives us all this. Anything we demand is ours.
I wanted to run away. At the same time somebody ordered me to stay. I breathed in deeply. I still remember this moment, it was as if I inhaled some power … I said - you are the slaves of your sponsor. He gives you whatever you want so that you didn’t have freedom, so that you were constantly “busy” and didn’t think. Your freedom is in his hands. He decides how you should live, he gives you his “toys” and you play with them. You are limited in your freedom, you look alike and you think alike. You are like the uniformed army of your sponsor.
Only God gives true freedom. He listens to your souls that are immortal. Each one of you is different, has different needs of his heart. Your sponsor’s computers, cars are constructed for the whole groups, masses and nobody thinks about you as being a concrete person. You are the mass that is ruled by the sponsors. You are worth as much as you buy … And nothing more. Strange silence followed and I left the room.

Golgotha of the XXI century

Two thousand years ago, with a cross on His back
Man-God was going
He was injured with stones
So that He could die in pain

Two thousand years later
Man-God is going, the cross is on His back
His wounds are bleeding
People are passing by, they look even nice
They don’t pick up stones
They wear crosses on the chests for decoration
Sometimes they give you some bread
And tell you where to find a doctor
They don’t know any Simon of Cyrene
They are in a hurry
Indifferent …
Sometimes they console: wait for Christmas or Easter
We will honor You when Your time comes …

Jesus is going along the Stations of the Cross
Of the XXI century
Nobody beats Him
Or puts the thorny crown on His head
He stands alone, disturbs
When the crowd is running
People stumble over the cross
Sometimes somebody shouts:
What are You waiting for?
And then He silently asks:
Where is My Golgotha?
Where are My hangmen?


A devotee woman in a moiré beret

Leaning on a stick, she is striding heavily
The Mass has just ended
It is her daily feast of joy
Very often - the only one
She was laughed at because of the moiré beret
The symbol of intolerance of simpletons
And she
Has no time for fashionable reflections
Even her own legs are a hindrance
She whispers her litany prayers
She shifts the pearls of the Rosary
She trips around the home
Of her children and grandchildren
She grumbles when they have a divorce
She covers her aching head with the moiré beret
She protects it from the new world
So that the faith of her ancestors didn’t fly away
The faith that is so precious and unchangeable for her
At a daily Mass, there are bowed-down rows
Of the moiré berets who pray
For the scoffers …
She puts flowers at the holy figure
And lights candles under the cross
But there is one thing that worries her
Who will replace her when the time comes
When the moiré berets …
Are dumped out by her grandchildren!

The Holy Mother’s Offering Day.
I received a very unusual, spiritual “lecture” after the Mass, during Adoration in front of The Most Holy Sacrament. Human body together with its emotions, needs, passions, habits - acts according to its peculiar egotism. It wants to fulfill its needs. This is the physical part of human nature. Man also has soul - the gift of God. This is the soul that strives after the superior perfection. Common anger, jealousy - these are the physical emotions. When soul is “pulling us up” toward perfection, our body responds to its call through prayer, Eucharist. We become something like “oneness” with our soul’s intentions. When we are at the stage of higher spiritual development, then we look at anger, jealousy and other emotions from a distance. Soul, its beauty as the gift of God, moves us further from our physicality. We know that our body reacts with bad emotions but soul doesn’t permit them to act aggressively. We just don’t want to be angry or furious. We are ashamed of these feelings ourselves. But soul protects us. What is the cause of sudden transformations? One day man acts “bodily”, and another day he can’t recognize himself, from what he was earlier … Now he thinks and acts differently. He is directed by the command of his soul, by the command of God. Now there is peace in man. The hymn of love of St. Paul is a perfect illustration of this state: love … is patient … It is a long process for many of us. We should pray for the grace of acting according to the commands of soul, the commands of God.

You are strange, my soul

You are strange, my soul
You cry when others laugh
And tell me to wait patiently when others escaped
You order me to be silent when people speak
And close my eyes so that I didn’t see
What others look at with interest

You hear the words that people don’t hear
And order to see the beauty that is not visible
You show flaws in the beauty that people acknowledge
And tell me to pray when others have fun
You don’t prompt me any answers although others know them
You stop me halfway although I run with others
And show me the difficult paths when the simple ones are near
And you don’t let me step over the battered ground

You show me tears when the party is full swing
And show happiness when others feel bored
I have hard life with you, my strange soul
To go along through this common life …
And when in the darkness I complain about you
That I lack courage and I am not strong enough
Then you, with a smile, like a faithful friend
Whisper into my ear:
I do it out of love!

It has seemed to me so far that we are all born as souls that are similar to each other, having the same chances of development. During the Mass I saw a picture of trees. Some of them had built-up roots, they grew abundantly while the others had poor roots but they grew high, still others, in spite of strong roots - were dwarflike. I thought that only God knows the “roots” of a human soul and what crops of spiritual development it can produce. Therefore, we mustn’t assess our fellow human beings. What is easy for some (strong roots), others achieve with difficulty. Maybe poor spiritual growth of a man with strong roots is assessed by God more severely? God gave man an immense variety of spiritual growth in this world. Some people waste these graces (strong roots), some others, in spite of weak roots, grow above their possibilities. This is the beautiful plan of God for our souls, free choice in growing, in perfecting ourselves to achieve more than our potential. Prayer, Mass give graces for the weak, and those who are strong (strongly rooted) may be stuck in this world, without the chance to grow toward God, because of their conceit and a false feeling of power.

I ask for a helping hand

I ask the saints for a helping hand
On my winding way
Please push me at the road bend
In the right direction
Please cover my eyes being too fascinated
Looking at the splendor
Which burns the heart

I ask the saints for a helping hand
When I sit down, tired
When the fog covers the signpost of hope
Lift me then, the holy hands
Even with the use of force

Lead me, the holy hands, like a crippled child
Who sometimes gets blind
From daily life
Show me the holiness that I miss

In the corners of everyday life
Please light just a small candle-end
It will become a glow-worm
On my pilgrim’s way

And I ask your hands, all my great saints
Please be with me faithfully
Even when
I don’t give you my hand.


Good words

Why do I see more when I close my eyes?
Why do I feel Your Love more strongly
When I put my hands on my heart?
Why are words for me
Like stones in the field?
It’s so hard to express the true feeling with them
Mix up my words, Lord, in Your hand
Put a transparent veil on my eyes
Let my words be according to Your order
And let the veil protect me from ugly thoughts
Give me sometimes, Lord, a thought as clear as the sky
Then I will gather only good words around it
Let them be my way of adoration
Although a common sinner
Created them.

Just before the Holy Mass I see a picture: people-crosses are going toward the altar. There is Christ on these crosses, with the face and the silhouette of a particular person. Strange but some silhouettes on the crosses have thorny crowns on their heads while the others don’t. Some silhouettes have pierced hands, legs, sides, just like Jesus, the others have their bodies without any wounds. I think about this vision and try to interpret it. We are sinners and we constantly hurt Jesus on the cross. Jesus redeemed us for all our sins and took them on His body, as it can be seen on the Turin Shroud. Or maybe each of us receives a cross for his pilgrimage on this earth. And on this cross we mark our own sins, we whip and hurt Jesus. Not all of us have the same sins. There are people who don’t hurt Jesus with anger, blasphemes, they don’t put a “thorny crown” of sins, thoughts, passions on Him. Their Jesus on the cross is not so cruelly wounded. Maybe, as late as on the Judgment Day, we will see “our crosses” and what we did to Jesus with our lives.

 

A conversation with a stone angel

He was standing on a square in Rome
Carved by the hand of a great artist
His wings were darkened from smog
Rains have carved their own prints on him
The angel’s eyes watched the bouncing pigeons
Look at me - I demanded
He looked …
His stone eyes have spoken:
Angels don’t have luminous wings
Or white gowns
We pay visits to the hell of your souls, hearts, too often
Our gowns are torn
From your lusts, sensualities
Our wings are held down in sorrow
Angels’ hands are hard and strong
From wrestling with you
Over the source of good and evil
The legs are petrified from the pain of running
Along your thorny paths
Since we are united with the human world
We often have faces of your fellow men
We speak about love through their mouths
We dress your wounds with their hands
Our wings are hidden under an ordinary coat
God has done it.

 

Before the Holy Mass I saw a picture of a lonely house among green grass. Its  windows overlooked the east. There was a forest around it. Through the windows I could see the light of  the setting sun. The windows were shining with a light-orange light. There was  wonderful silence around. I was approaching the window, being attracted by this beautiful sight. And what a great surprise! The window was open and inside I saw a table with a white tablecloth on, and a figure of a man dressed in white robe, with the shoulder-length hair. He was proceeding with the mystery of the Mass, like a priest. However, the table was empty.

This vision “helps” me in my concentration during the Mass. A few days later I realized that the “window” means the monstrance with the Holy Host. While adoring The Most Holy Sacrament, we really and truly adore Jesus who looks at us, at each one that is on his knees before Him. I was aware of this fact but the picture of “the house” helps me look more deeply into my soul, direct it more strongly toward The Most Holy Sacrament. The awareness of the fact that Jesus is looking at us, makes Adoration much deeper. Our physicality, that is our human dimension and the Divine dimension meet together in front of The Most Holy Sacrament. The two worlds communicate through love. My human dimension, the face, the eyes, the thoughts are recognizable by the Countenance of Jesus that is hidden in the Holy Host. We look at each other: He and I. I direct my soul but also myself, the physical person, toward the concrete Countenance, the concrete Person. We talk to each other. Adoration is not a ritual, it is the real … Meeting, when we recognize each other, as if we were at a great feast, where friendship and love reign. Suddenly I hear in my heart: come to Me, I Am lonely so often. I look at the church columns, pictures. My eyes look for your eyes - talk to Me, I hear you.

 

 A sculpture

 

I carve You, Jesus, as a living statue

In the gray clay of life

With the Bible on the knees …

 

I form the shape of Your beautiful body

Out of the happy days

I – an incompetent sculptor …

 

Many years have passed in this act of creation

But the lines in the sculpture are still curved

There is still so much work ahead …

 

I paint the tears with the sadness of the days

They add warmth to the gray clay

And mark their prints …

 

I change Your Countenance every day

I want to know the secret of beauty

But the sculptor’s chisel is so miserable …

 

Sometimes I see Your eyes open

In the mystery of the encounter

But the chisel slips out …

 

I forget Your looking with love

The patient smile, the blessed gesture

And I pray …

 

I stretch my sculpture on the cross

I nail the hands and the legs, like the hangmen

And mark the wounds with red paint …

 

I put the cross with my sculpture and look for

The face that I want to see

And Your lips say:

 

We carve each other, in every hour

I – with the chisel of Love

You – with the chisel dipped in gray clay.

 

During the Mass I asked in my heart how The Divine Mercy “touches” a person. It was connected with the death of a close person. I saw a picture of the scales. There was a golden coin on one scale, on the other one, there were human sins piled together. The scale with sins didn’t turn the balance down … So just one little coin balanced the scale with sins. I knew how to interpret this picture, but at the same moment I saw the same scales, but instead of the coin, there was lying the white Holy Host (light and frail). I thought how great the Divine Mercy is, if God is ready to forgive us our sins which we are sorry for and we do penance. The Divine Mercy can’t be assessed, weighed by any human means, with any material scales. It is the great Mystery of Love.

 

Prayer for the dead

 

I received You, Lord, during the Remembrance for the Dead

I offered the Mass and Communion for my mother

The taste of the Eucharist evoked a tender prayer in me

Maybe it was a prayer of her grateful angel?

There was no pathos in this prayer

No great and sublime words

Its words were arranged in a string of sweet tears

Like the pictures of memories from my childhood

This prayer tasted like strawberries and apples

That my mother used to pick

It had a fragrance of bread and blooming flowers

It was like the food that she prepared

With her hands that were always busy

The prayer had a fragrance of tomatoes 

That were ripening on the window sill

In the morning sun, warming up her garden

It was like the dress that she put on before going to church

Or like a prayer-book, worn-out by her fingers

This prayer had a fragrance of her poor, human life …

But the Communion that I received in her intention

Has poured out with richness in my soul

With richness of Your, Jesus, and her maternal love. 

 

 

Pearls and weeds

 

Rich is the man

Who doesn’t water the weeds of the land

With the bitter tears of his life

So that they couldn’t grow abundantly in anxiety

He gathers the tears of bitterness in his heart

And changes them into the pearls of a Rosary prayer

And lays them down at Mary’s feet as a noble gift

So that Her graces could bloom like roses

With a smile of a victory of love

 

Poor is he who lives abundantly

His heart is made of clay that breaks easily

His bitterness leaks through the cracks

Onto the hearts that live around him

The weeds of anxiety, nourished with his egotism

Grow up richly, polluting the area

Until his joy gets lost

Among the weeds of bitterness

And love passes away

 

Strange is the heart of man

Who  reaches for the gifts of this world

One can even change bitter tears into the pearls of victory

The other is hurt with the gift of wealth

Some multiply the hard gifts

The others watch over their riches like slaves

Getting lost in the field of weeds

Oh, Holy Mother, take one pearl of a poor man

And bestow it on a rich man

           May it turn into a blooming rose among the weeds

           And may it transform his heart.

 

During Adoration I am considering the problem of the spiritual world that is not tangible and we, people are so physical in our existence. We recognize the world by touching.. We want to touch the object of our love. I pray to Jesus and I say: I would like to touch You so much … Then I hear deep in my heart: but I touch you in the Holy Communion, I Am in It, did you forget about that? I remained on earth in the form of the Holy Host. When you, people receive Me, you forget about the holiness of this “touch”.

I continue my considerations about human existence. We are physical in this world, imperfect, susceptible to diseases, injuries. But thanks to our “physicality”, we can get more and more perfect. This is what God wanted when He created us as human beings. And only here, on this earth, in these conditions we can try to live with dignity – holding the Decalogue in our hands. Whenever we don’t follow the Decalogue – then our human dignity is wasted and we suffer. Our egotism “comes back” to us some day in a form of despair, reconsidering our bad deeds or we lack friendly people then. God has given us free will, the mind so that we could direct ourselves toward positive values. Our passions, anger, hatred “kill” dignity in us, we also hurt our own body that is so important for God. He created it with love. He sanctified it through Baptizing. Jesus, by taking on the human body, didn’t “humiliate” Himself by becoming man. He showed man’s value. He showed how good man can become using his own hands, his own mind in this world that is so physical indeed.

 

Transition

 

Is our life like a large granary

In which we gather people and events?

Or is it just a tiny corner

Where our soul should be taken care of?

 

Where have you gone, the world of my youth?

The songs of the past years haven’t got silent yet

And I still hear the tremble of those voices

Although I see empty seats at my table

 

In the granary of my life I tried to shut

The reserves of love for the time of hungry feelings

Somebody unlocked the bolts, they might get rusted?

Time itself has given out the loafs but the smell is still with me

 

When I close my eyes, I see the world of my youth

And those people dancing with their lives

When I open my eyes, they disappear like a tired pilgrim

I touch a cold stone with their own names

 

There are more and more pearls in my Rosary of life

Which I sanctify with prayer in memory of the dead

There are more and more chairs that won’t be seated

By those who were like a common day in my life

 

I don’t gather stocks or look for the granaries anymore

To store in them whatever the hand touches

You, Lord have granted me with such a teaching:

It’s time for you to store the treasures in the world that doesn’t pass away.

 

 

Free will

 

Free will is not the running after the power of the mind

It is the courage to bow in front of your own weakness

Free will is not the space for our flights

It is the stone where we stumble over another man

Free will is not free choice

But it is the wall on which God has written the Decalogue

Free will is the wonderful gift

Which must be offered, otherwise, it will lose the splendour of the gift

Free will doesn’t have wings, although some say so

It has the legs that get tired

It has the eyes that cry

It has the heart that loves

Free will is the altar …

At this altar, The Love of God blesses the love of man.

 

I am falling asleep and I pray to Father Pio to protect me day and night. At night I have a dream. I see John Paul II in a silver armour, he has a golden covering on his head (like a bishop during a ceremony). He has a red stulla around his neck. I am surprised and I ask: why are you dressed like a knight, like Archangel Michael? He smiles, his face is young and he looks strong and so royal in his posture. He is sitting on the throne. He answers: I am dressed like that because I am going to defend Polish church.

The next day, after the Holy Mass I pray in front of the picture of Merciful Jesus. Suddenly I hear a voice nearby: they offend Me, persecute me … I turn my head, because the voice is exceptionally strong. I listen up … I love You – I say it to Jesus in my prayer. Then I hear as if someone replayed a recording in my head – Love is not the beautiful voices of angelic choirs. It is suffering! The Merciful Love that I bestow upon you, is not satisfaction, ecstasy – it is responsibility and devotion. Only the saints know such Love which is absolutely obedient to My Will. Look at the cross and there you find The Merciful Love. Man gets to know such feelings as justice, treason, hatred more easily. It’s more difficult for him to embrace and get to know Love of God. But – I answer – we have a longing for Such Love, deep in our hearts …  This longing gives sense to our faith.

A few days later, just before the Mass, I heard in my heart: cast away evil that surrounds you. Don’t think over the thoughts that depress you. Don’t fill up your heart with them. Leave some room for Love. Leave human affairs to God. When you keep the space for Love in your heart, then Jesus will act, will bring peace, will “lift” you over common worries. You will see them as little, in Love’s perspective. All assessments of other people’s activities bring confusion in our souls. Go along the right way, although “an evil voice” prompts that it is naivety. God’s Justice doesn’t work like the human justice, so let God’s Justice work and not the human justice.

 

Prayer for help

 

I am on my way to You, Lord

The way isn’t straight and friendly

The glare of the day and frequent worries

Cover Your light like fog

Sometimes I meet people on this way

They hold my hand with love

We wander along, assisting each other

We pick up those who fall down

There are also moments when Night falls

And I must stop, tired and lonely

Those who assisted me so much

Keep going on, looking for the light

On this way there are still many temptations

They come like ghosts out of the side roads

They tempt: stay with us, have some rest

Your legs aren’t strong enough to cover this distance

I try to be deaf to their call

I call back memories of encounters with You, Lord

I light up with faith, a little candle-end

And I pray:

Come out into my way, Jesus

Stand a cross that I can lean against

And a modest chapel with Holy Mary

So that I could be sure that I am going toward You

Along the way

On which once - You had been going.

 

 

Light and darkness

 

It’s so beautiful to stride along the way of faith

In the procession of lights, with the sublime sounds

Every step … is like a victory

The Angels’ wings carry like the chariots

The comrades like the knights with the Archangels’ shields

The wind-storm carries the holy hymns

And the soul soars toward The Most High

 

When lights go out, hymns get silent

The Angels go away to rest

Friends fall asleep, tired of this journey

Darkness covers the way of faith

We look for strength and hope blindly

 

Instead of a wide road, there is a narrow path

Quite near, there are dark waters with unknown depth

And the devilish whisper of the outside world: return!

Where are your friends, where are the helping hands?

 

A soul is striding painstakingly along a narrow foot-bridge

Like Hob, the soul accepts God’s conditions for the trip

It strides in silence, it listens to God’s whisper

And then a holy thought is born, with painful courage

 

In deep waters

On a narrow foot-bridge

You put me, Jesus …

Do You trust me, on this way of hardship?

 

 Today before the Mass, I told Jesus that I came to Him on St. Valentine’s Day to offer Him my heart. I experienced a feeling of “closeness” with Jesus, as if someone in my heart were saying: your eyes are like mirrors in which I see your problems and other people. You recommend your close friends to Me. I receive them like photos and store them in My memory. I remember, although not always do you get what you ask for. At this moment I recalled St. Monique who had asked God for many years to convert her son Augustine. How precious the intercession prayer for other people is! The very awareness that the prayer doesn’t soar up in the space (as some think), but it directly “touches” Jesus and exists in His Memory – this is a wonderful religious experience. Your eyes are like mirrors in which I see your needs – I keep hearing it in my heart. I’ve been praying to You, Lord, for some person for many years … Then I see a strange picture: there is a box filled with the photos of this person. I see that Jesus is smiling and I hear in my heart: I remember … Sometimes these requests are difficult because they concern the people who are far from Church. Then we ask The Holy Mother for intercession. Jesus never refuses The Holy Mother, She takes over our “photos” and brings them to Her Son, She “shoves” justice away. Jesus receives Her requests.

I am surprised with the simplicity of this vision. Our eyes can’t be empty, like an empty film. We go to Jesus and we recommend persons, affairs to Him out of our hearts, sometimes out of our will or the mind. We “show” Him the “photos” of our desires. Only then can a dialogue occur.

 

Thanksgiving

 

Thank You, Lord

For the beauty of mountains, oceans, and streams

And for a little clearing in the wood, bathed in the sun

For the wise-men’s holy books and beautiful paintings

And for the simple words in our daily life

 

Thank You

For the cathedrals richly decorated

And for a small roadside chapel, adorned with flowers

For the martyrs and all the saints

And for a sinner who kneels down with humility

 

Thank You

For those who pray in churches piously

And even for one “Hail Mary” of my mother and father

For green forests, immense wilderness

And for the little tree near my window

 

Thank You

For psalms and songs that ring like a bell

And for quiet lullabies that are hummed in the evening

For the great Miracle of the Offering of The Holy Mass

And for the crumb of this Miracle, received through the Host

 

Thank You

For The Love of Heaven, for the Light and the Angels

And for the Son who descended to this ungrateful earth

For the people who carry their crosses patiently

And for my cross … I couldn’t carry it without Your help

 

I can’t embrace Your Greatness, Lord

But you did show us one of Your Mysteries

Although You are The Might and The Power

But You favour our little life with Your Love.

 

 Tuesday, before Ash Wednesday.

In our local church, the Most Holy Sacrament is put out all day. About 4 pm, I was in front of the Most Holy Sacrament alone and the church was empty. During Adoration I give over to Jesus the problems that I can’t manage myself and I ask Him for consolation. Then I hear loud and urging words in my heart: it is you who should console Me because people hurt me. I hear the words: console Me – several times. I ask: how can I console You, Jesus? I hear: console Me through the rewarding prayer, through penance, through fast. I say to Jesus: there are people who love you. Then I hear: where are they then? If they loved Me, they would be here in front of the Most Holy Sacrament!

On the same day in the evening, a priest is reading a fragment of St. Faustina’s book on the radio. There is a quotation in this book about the so-called end of the carnival in 1937. St. Faustina saw the range of sins committed at that time. She was horrified with this vision and she was surprised that mankind still existed. Then she heard: you still exist thanks to the chosen souls full of grace.

 

Amazement

 

I offer my soul on the Altar

During the Mass, like in the Holy Ark

And I ask: take care of me, Jesus

Speak to me every day

And then I hear a whisper that flows

Over the unknown waters, like the humming of the sea:

Maybe I will live in your heart

Like in the Ark?

I will not take up much space …

Maybe you will protect Me

From the world that is often so hostile to Me?

You will allow me to rest for a while

Looking into My heart

 

I was astonished and very alarmed

My soul trembled with fear

How is it possible, my dear Lord

That I – the sinner, can be Your shelter?

When I send my request to the altar today

I give You my soul under Your protection

Your look follows me trustfully

And a painful question sounds in my ears:

Is your heart ready

To be My home?

 

 The Feast of The Annunciation of The Most Holy Virgin Mary. Before the Mass I thought about love and hatred and how these feelings affect us. Love is like a spark that lights up the heart for God. It is like a torch that can be lit up, but the “material” should be flammable (like in Nature). Wet wood can’t burn … The flame will be put out. Our hearts must be “prepared” for the flame, must be “dried” from the moisture of our attachments, sins, evil feelings. Our souls must “pile up” Holy Communions, prayers, confessions – they must try their best to light up the flame of Love in them.

Hatred and other evil feelings hit like a missile (in war), and hurt the attacker and the attacked one. Hatred has many “missiles”, it is a destructive force. Hatred is a “contagious” disease. Love gives strength, it even burns down what is “wet” (sinful), when we put it into the “fire of Love” that is already burning in us. Love in its nature is ready to “burn” evil, but hatred still “produces” new evil which grows larger and larger.

 

 When I fold my hands ...

 

Today I fold my hands for prayer

Let them give warmth to each other in this gesture

So much time has flown through my fingers

When You wanted to sanctify me with Your grace

And I still had in my hands

The problems like granite clods

And an ambitious thought in my heart

That I will crush them without help

 

Today I know when I fold my hands in prayer

In this gesture so beseeching

That You Yourself with Your grace

Crush the granite that hurts my hands

You turn the sadness of my ambition

Into the joy of humility, into the trust of a child

You, Lord, pour the warmth of Your grace

Into my hands, when I pray today.

 

 I think about the sense of human suffering. It often seems to us that we suffer for no apparent reason. But I think that every suffering serves something. Maybe it deepens our sensitivity … We don’t know God’s plans, we don’t know what burdens are offset by our suffering … We don’t know which and whose sins will be forgiven through our suffering, if we offer it for a concrete intention. I also thought how difficult it is for a man to be “devoted” to Jesus. In spite of the acts of penance, we commit the same sins, mistakes, although we want so much to achieve a higher level of spiritual engagement. I saw a picture of the stairs, almost vertical (like a ladder) – on top, there was the monstrance with The Most Holy Sacrament. The part of the stairs that was near the earth had the railings on them, the part that was higher, didn’t have them. What does it mean? – I asked, asking for the light of The Holy Spirit. I heard a very interesting answer. The people who begin their spiritual way toward Jesus, toward Truth – need a great support, maybe from a prayer group or a charismatic priest or sometimes it is a direct grace of a sudden conversion. The railings on the stairs are  meant to be this “support”. Many people want to begin their “way to Truth”. They need the railings, that is the people who will help them and will accompany them on their difficult way. At the very beginning of the stairs, there are many difficulties and temptations to stop us from climbing these stairs, in spite of the “railings”. Once you step on them and start going up – you must fight for purity of your soul and you must trust that this is the only way. The saints who achieved a high degree of their spiritual development, don’t need the support of the railings any more, they climb toward Jesus with faith and trust, staring into His power. They don’t turn back and look for help of others. Their strength is in Jesus. They move on courageously, with no fear of falling down. What is the value of our painstaking efforts for Jesus? – I asked both these who begin their way and these who are close to God. I heard in my heart: Jesus puts His feet on all the steps of this “ladder”. For Him – the important ones are both these who still hold on to the railings and these who keep moving on to Him courageously. He moves along all the steps with the same Love.

 

Human beings

 

Who are they? ...

They have been weighed and measured

For centuries

By a scientific “eye”

And they are still … un-measurable

They carry their secrets like a burden

The mystery of the immortal soul

And the question: believe in it or deny?

 

Man is going, he changes the rhythm or stops

As if his legs impeded

I look at him, I know him

He smiles

He has lived many smiles and glooms of life so far

Maybe he learned the secret of man’s hope?

And  locked it with prayers

He bound it with the Rosary, like with a strong chain

And covered it with an old-fashioned coat

He has been dragging it for dozens of years

Or maybe not that long?

I see his faith, it leads him, hand in hand

It is as trustworthy as a day, as a night, as daily life

Hope supports him when the heart ticks

Like a broken watch

Hope and faith lead him

Toward Love

So that Love … weighed his soul

And answered the question:

Who are you, man? …

 

 

The answer

 

I prayed:

Move the suffering away from me, Lord

But it came along

As if the prayer got stuck in the fog

And the Heavenly messenger was going on foot

 

I prayed:

Be in my suffering, Lord

And You were

As if the angelic choirs carried my request

On the fiery and speedy chariots

 

I prayed

Silently asking: Why me?

Bowed in humility and straightened in rebellion

And You waited

With the answer that was too difficult

 

You waited when my rebellion, my humility

Fly up high

Like the sacrificial birds

And you waited

For the peace of my heart

 

I prayed

And You answered in songs, psalms

That suffering teaches how to love

And it reaches The Heart of the Son

As the offering at the altar

 

I prayed:

How many more rebellions, how much humility will I go through?

So that I could accept Your difficult answer

A sunray suddenly lit up the altar, like a sign

And out of the windows, the tears of rain were falling down.

 

 

I Am

 

There is such love …

Held in the hand like a flower

It dries without water, soil

It loses petals, beauty

There is such love …

It clings to the heart strongly

And beats with its rhythm

It loses freedom like a prisoner

How greedy human love is …

 

There is such Love …

It doesn’t get dried from people’s hands

T looks for the heart to be a guest there

Even as a prisoner

Stretched out on the cross

Locked in the Tabernacle

It whispers quietly

Sometimes It shouts:

I Am!

 

Early in the morning, after a prayer to the Holy Spirit, I felt strong ties of my soul with God. This feeling was even painful. At the same time, it occurred to me that each soul is connected with God, like a child’s navel cord in the mother’s womb. God feeds us with many graces through this “spiritual” navel cord, provided that we want to use them and we ourselves don’t block its passage. Many people tighten up this navel cord at their hearts (souls) and can’t use these graces. It can be caused by the influence of man’s will, social conditions, numerous sins – but man still exists in God’s memory. And every opening-up to God, brings about new graces. Sometimes we have an impression that God is too generous for the newly converted sinners, while He simply “stopped” the intended graces, and He waited for the conversion of man. He waited for the “relaxation of his clenched fist” that was blocking the ties with God.

 

White coat

 

I spread myself on earth like a white coat

Earthly nails fasten me to the grass

Sometimes a wind blows softly

And it moves the white coat

Life tears off the earthly nails slowly

And important things become unimportant

I permit by the power of undeserved grace

To make the white coat soar

Toward Heaven

I look for You, Jesus …

There are still marks of those rusty nails

On my white coat

I still look for them

Sometimes …

But my soul has already learned the beautiful flight

Toward You, Lord

I feed my soul with the crumbs of Your bread

I teach her how to pray

So that she didn’t get lost …

Let her fly in space, like a bird

Looking for the kiss of Mary.

 

 

To the Holy Mother of May

 

Oh, Mother of special services in May

In churches and at small chapels

You – filled with goodness

Like a bowl with the Holy Hosts

Inexhaustible

I ask for one drop of Your goodness

For my life

Let it light up the pile of bitterness

That I have been putting together for years

Made up of the sins of giving up, conceit

Of the moments without prayer

Let the flame light up in me

Inflamed by a drop of Your goodness

And don’t let the tears of a dark night

Extinguish it

I beseech You, Virgin Mary, for a drop of Your goodness

Let it be like a pearl in the shell of my heart

Like the immortal memory

About The Most Holy Mother.

 

 

 A blue curtain

 

It streams by the window, in the wind

On the one side is my world

On the other, is the world behind the blue curtain

I am waiting by my window

For a light blow

I ask the Angel:

Hold up the curtain with Your wing

Set apart the space for the soul that is hungry

For Might and Love …

 

I am holding out my hands with crumbs of prayer

Let them fly in thanksgiving and beseeching

At this little moment of exhibition

My world is touching the world

Behind the blue curtain

And I stay in merciful silence …

 

A gentle request is breaking the silence

It’s hardly heard

It’s like a ray that penetrates in pain:

Pass on the ardent prayer in your hand

For those who bolted the windows of their souls

With the shutters of indifference

Let them open these windows for the song about God’s Love

The Love that is behind the blue curtain.

 

I thought: how does it happen that some people achieve perfection and are worthy, but others just live and don’t care about anything. I was curious to know how God assesses people, and according to what criterion. Then I heard a witty answer to my doubts: a bird will not roar like a lion, and a lion will not chirp like a bird!

A few days later, when I was at The Holy Mass, I heard a strange sentence: I offer you My loneliness on the cross … I didn’t understand this message although I know that Jesus as man, was alone on the cross, during His Passion. Each of us is lonely during his “passing away to another world”, even if his close ones accompanied him. The next Mass helped me reconsider this sentence. Man exists in his body (emotions, feelings, living status, social, cultural status) but … his soul belongs to God. And only in his loneliness, man stands before God and presents Him his life. God is the Father of our soul. Man has a choice whether to devote himself to this life on earth completely or not? People, ideas, feelings may fail him badly. Then he suffers and even curses, he feels “betrayed” by life. When he has awareness that his soul belongs to God, then he “gives back” his intellect, abilities, help, feelings to the world, so that he could perform goodness. But he doesn’t forget at the same time, that his soul belongs to God, and he can’t “sell” it to the world for his desired goals. And here we have this loneliness of man and his standing in Truth before God. God gave each man a peculiar jewel – soul, and we come back to God with this jewel. We mustn’t use it to “buy” the world with it. We must give back to God what is His … This loneliness of Jesus on the cross reminds us that although He redeemed us with His Passion, we, each of us separately, posses by ourselves, this beautiful gift from God, this soul-jewel, and we present it to Him. Not through the medium of the others but on our own, standing in front of God. We are responsible for the given-to-us jewel, each of us, separately. The world will not excuse us “how much” we sold this jewel for, so that we could enjoy life on earth. We forget about gratitude to God for this jewel (soul), that is unique and hence … alone. We try to trick the world and we suffer when not we, but the others take something from it. We feel poverty then. We forget about the richness of our soul and the following-up power. This power is superior, strong because God Himself is its Father. He doesn’t forget about the jewel that He offered us at our birth. Sometimes He “helps” us regain it again through “taking away” the joy of this world from us. But when we are not able to “carry” this jewel by ourselves, taking all the richness out of it, then we give away ourselves to the world, we sell ourselves to the others and quite often we want to forget that this loneliness with this jewel – is our greatest treasure.

 

Feast of The Holy Mother of Perpetual Help

 

To The Mother of Consolation

 

I am not an angel, full of sweetness

I don’t have clean robes, not stained with sin

I don’t have the mouth, full of prayer

Or the eyes staring at You, constantly

My heart is often filled with bitterness

My robes are washed in daily life

My mouth speaks unpleasant words

The eyes see evil that is all around

I am only a helpless man

Against the world which goes round and round

And although I wish to put the beam out of my eyes

It is stuck there, like a hawk, ready to jump 

When I have no strength to fight any more

Then I kneel before You, Mary

And staring at Your lips and Your eyes

I want to hide, all in Your robes

At these moments, I beseech You, Mother

To give me Your hand and console my soul

And when I rise from my knees and go over the world

Follow me along the way that I must go

And I don’t ask You to lay roses on it

The roses of unconcern and human consolation

I just ask You, my beloved Mother:

Give me Your hand, so that we could go along together.

 

  

 The Land of Trust

 

I look for The Land of Trust

The Land where I enter without fear

The Land without rocks that hurt

Without deep waters where good sinks

The Land where people live

Their eyes are happy and gentle

Their hands are full of gifts

The Land where downfalls and wounds don’t hurt

 

This Land is covered

With a carpet of moss and flowers

A man talks to a man there

Like a child who misses his father

Where are you, my Land of Trust?

Are you a dream only or the truth?

My heart longs for you so much

But my legs stand down to earth

 

Lend me your wings, my angel

Let me fly up, even in my dream

High up, toward my Land of Trust

Don’t be afraid, I will give you back your wings

I know that I am not an angel

I just want to feed my earth-living soul

With Hope

So that she didn’t stop believing

In this beautiful Land of Trust.

 

 During the Mass, I stared at the picture of The Holy Mother, there was peace in my heart, I was free from any confusing thoughts. And suddenly in front of my eyes, I saw the face of Jesus with beautiful, light, curly hair. His eyes were covered with a big, black band. I exactly recall the outline of His beautiful hair and the light that reflected from it. I thought: why are His eyes covered? Somewhere in my heart, it occurred to me that Jesus wants to point out to me that man’s eye-sight may “disturb” this man in understanding God. We can “evaluate” others by means of human aesthetics. On the other hand, Jesus with the “band”, not seeing, seemed to me to be the One Who will go to each one of us if we only want to receive Him. He shows His “readiness” to go any place, to go to anybody, with no exception, if only our hearts felt the need of His presence. He doesn’t choose “the prettier”, “the better”, “the wiser” ones. He comes to an encounter with man with the grace of offering Himself. What we will do with this “encounter” – it depends on our heart, our will. Jesus is always ready for the encounter, He is like the “blind-man”, defenceless in the presence of man. We can “bring” Him to our heart or to another man at any time (even in the situation of a great downfall or sin). He will lift us up, greet us, heal us. All we need is to believe in it.

Oh, Jesus, who art blind in the face of our offences and Merciful for our downfalls – convert us in this “encounter of the hearts” which is more precious than “the encounter of the eyes”.

 

 Grace

 

The grace of God looks for the heart of man

God wants to lay His gifts in the man’s cradle

When people’s mouths sing psalms

Which become a beautiful lullaby for Virgin Mary

 

Man’s heart is like a drop in this world

It is like a pearl of the Rosary

When he sincerely whispers one Hail Mary

The whole Rosary flows down the golden thread

 

When man asks for a slice of bread, for trust and faith

Looking into Her eyes

Then Holy Mother feeds him with a loaf

And fills him up with the food of love

 

When our mouths are dry, without water

They desire some fruit, a drop of enlivening Spirit

Then we have a downpour of beautiful gifts

And it’s hard to hold them in the hands

 

How bitter the tears of despair are

How poor and empty the heart of man is

When his blind eyes can’t see

The graces abundantly flowing down from Heaven

 

But one Hail Mary is enough

And a look at the cross with adoration

Then graces will flow into the heart that’s empty

And Mary will wipe the tears with Her Heavenly veil.

 

 

 The unusual house

 

This house has no walls

I move around it, following God’s will

I don’t rebound against the walls

I don’t hurt my body

The sun shines brightly

The rays don’t go out on the walls

The wind sows the seeds like friendly children

When the night falls, the stars look with curiosity

I don’t feel offended when it snows or rains

I don’t look for protection from You, Lord

The darkness that You send

I change into hope, into a shining star

The rain washes the tears off my face

The frost freezes my smile

Which is so precious during the time of despair

When the cold of human hearts teaches humility

I love this house without walls

It is not protected by the walls

That are resistant to Your plans, Lord

I have no windows that You must wait for me

To open them when I am ready

I don’t pay anybody any taxes for this house

It is You, Lord, Who send me the bills

Sometimes they are too high

As if You believed that I am able to pay them off.

 

 During the Holy Mass, I got a subject in my heart to consider: time. What is time for man and what is it for God? Human time is arranged in a straight line, hours, years flow on. We try to fill our human time with our own plans, aspirations. We are happy when we can “bend” time according to our own needs. But can we be masters of our time of life? The situations that we didn’t plan – occur, the “quality” of human time changes. What we planned, becomes unimportant. Among our daily events, other events begin to appear, which change our spirituality. For example, we decide to change something in life, in our human time, make it our new way to God. When we don’t succeed, we come back to the previous “human time”. But …

there comes the moment, like a flash, when the grace flows down on us, like a gift that changes us completely. And we didn’t plan it. Some didn’t even think about it. Suddenly somebody gets rid of a long-lasting addiction, somebody becomes a strong believer although he was indifferent about God. The “time of God” entered our human life, the time of transforming our hearts, souls. It was God Who decided to liberate man from “his time”, He granted him the grace of changing his life. God decided – it’s high time man went along the way where our desires are aimed at God. And it is He Who becomes the clock by which we count time, looking for the will of God and not our own will.

 

Human suffering

 

It has a human face

The eyes are closed with pain

Sometimes they are wide open with surprise

Like a heart that beats too fast

And at last … it dies

 

Suffering, in the beginning

Is sprinkled with hot tears

As if it wanted to dissolve it

Into oblivion …

Suffering that lasts

Changes tears into icicles

Hurting the soul and the body

 

Suffering needs time

To get spilled and get melted

And it needs the prayer

Which changes human suffering

Into the memory

Like into a dry, beautiful flower

Which is a trace of human suffering.

 

 When I looked at the people who were praying during the Mass, I thought that each of us is like a book which, in some cases, is thick because it is written by many events of life, in other cases, it is thin – with only few events. Every book is of value to God. He knows its title. Maybe He wrote an individual scenario for each of us? Do we carry it out? Do we write down only trifling things and make thick volumes out of them? Isn’t it worth “reading” the events of other people, their experiences? Maybe then we wouldn’t get lost? When we stand before God with “our book”, He will show us the “note” about fidelity, honesty. But we didn’t notice it. Maybe God entitled our book (life) with a beautiful word like: the call, the courage, the heroism? And actually, we didn’t fulfil the call, we changed courage into cowardice. Maybe we should read our own book more carefully and “look for” the words of God in it. Especially, when we know that we won’t receive another “book”. Everyone is entitled to one volume …

 

My poems

 

My words flow, arranged in poems

Out of my hot heart and the longing soul

They are like birds in their first flight, often clumsy

They look for the truth, how to fly higher

 

I let out my words and put them as the offering

For the love of the Trinity and The Holy Mother

If any man wants to hug them

They will be like a guest in the heart, in loneliness

 

As long as I don’t lack words in the cage of my heart

I will praise The Lord and ask for graces

For those whose words fell asleep soundly

And it’s too hard for them to say: I love You, Lord

 

Perhaps I count on a miracle, a tiny one?

Then the bars which locked love, will break

And the sleeping words will flow out as prayer

With the tune more beautiful than the words of my poems.

 

The chapel with the picture of Holy Mother of the Poor in Banneux.

In this successive pilgrimage to Holy Mother of the Poor, I devote much time to praying. I dedicated this pilgrimage to the intentions of Holy Mother, I put aside all my requests. During my prayer I had a feeling of great gratitude for being in this beautiful place again. In this sanctuary one can feel unusual peace and individual, strong ties with Mary. Maybe it is caused by the modest-looking chapels, located in the park, the nearby hospital with seriously ill patients. I have an impression that Holy Mother of the Poor is waiting for everyone in a modest chamber, listening and rewarding …

During the prayer, with my heart full of gratitude, I “devoted myself” to Mary. And then, as if with the humming of the wind, I heard a voice: I shall take care of you …

I was happy and enormously grateful because, during this pilgrimage, I didn’t come to Mary with my personal problems. I wanted to devote the hardship of this pilgrimage to Her intentions … Especially when you see seriously ill patients in their wheelchairs, moving around us, along the alleys – their pain is so visible. Their caretakers dressed in white aprons, look like angels when they bring the ill to the Spring of Mary. I have understood the message that came to me. Mary - the Nurse takes care of people, but we should “devote ourselves” to Her Care. It is like in hospital, where we are taken care of. And it cannot be just a moment, with a light genuflect and a short prayer. We must pray to Mary every day, with trust and faith, asking for the remedy for our soul and body.

 

Sin

 

It falls into man’s heart

Like a bird with broken wings

It tries to be a guest

And demands food

 

We feed it with an excuse

For weak will, coveting, deceit

And the bird grows stronger

The wings grow together awry

The man’s soul beseeches: get it out

Leave it in the cage of a confessional

Clear your heart of sin

Let it breathe with a pure rhythm

 

A beautiful tune will touch us

Like a memory of a child’s prayer

A friendly smile, a good word will embrace

And the bird of sin flaps the wings impatiently

 

It hurts the heart with pain, we look for medicine

Collecting the treasures of the Divine words of the Gospel

We feed the sin with the seeds of love

Sin is afraid of them like of poison

 

The hurt soul looks desperately

For the Gift of Mercy

On Its beautiful rays, like on the wings

The soul kneels at the confessional

 

Jesus – the soul asks:

Give hope for the freedom from sin

Give my soul the wings

So that it could fly up  toward Love.

 

 Friday. Morning Rosary prayer on the radio. There is one woman who declares one ten with an intention. She is crying. It’s hard to understand separate words out of her sobbing. I hear a voice in my heart: this woman’s life lacks the presence of God in surrounding her people. I start to think about it and I feel as if someone wanted to explain this situation to me. We are constantly on the run, engaged in our problems, we have no time to “receive” other people into our hearts or to listen to them or to accept them as they are or to look for the causes of their suffering in their lives. Sometimes it’s enough to spare a few moments so that the despaired man could open up and talk. We say: pray. Isn’t our bending over this man a worthy prayer as well? Maybe then, there would be less crying during a Rosary prayer?

On the same day, during the Stations of the Cross prayer, which was devoted to the family intentions, I heard a sentence: we offer You, Jesus, young families so that they were able to and wanted to carry the cross together, as married couples. I thought that we talk too little about it. We want to have only joy out of our marriages, hardship breaks us down. We can fall under “the cross” of marriage, but at the same time, we must be aware that we can rise – like Jesus during His Stations of the Cross. There are too many of us who simply run away. Can we run away from the cross?

 

 Penance

 

It sits by a dark road

Of our life

It has the face of sin

That we want to forget about

It has been mute since birthday

We try to pass it

With our eyes diverted

Then penance gets up and overtakes us

It wakes up sad music in the heart

Tears – in the eyes

The conscience shouts like a child

Awakened by a bad dream

It doesn’t allow to be passed by

Even if we sped up our step

Penance is like a pinching thorn

You must come up to it

Shake hands with it

Admit that it’s yours

You will say: get up, let’s go together

With prayer, with good deeds

We will bring reparation

To those whom we harmed with sin.

 

 During Sunday Mass, I thought about a woman sitting in front of me. She kept looking at the sides. It looked irritating to me. Suddenly I heard in my heart a sentence which was a good teaching for me and taught me “cordial” tolerance: be tolerant to others, as I Am tolerant to you. Leaving the church, I saw some beggars. They sat on a bench and they were counting money. I heard curses used by them and I felt great annoyance. How is it possible, Jesus, that these people can stay in church and behave like “devils”? Does evil go round the church, too, and does it attack people inside? I would forget about this question but I heard an answer during the Mass: Satan dwells in the human heart. With “such hearts” some people bring Satan into the church. So it is very important to “enter” the church with love, forgiveness …

 

 The street cross

 

I love You most in the rain

When You hang on the cross

Lonely and defenceless

In the street bustle

Rain washes dust off Your body

And off the artificial flowers

Under Your feet

People under umbrellas

Don’t raise their heads

Their hands are busy

With the shopping bags

Their heads … with thoughts

They don’t greet You …

You are like a part of a city landscape

Like a nearby house …

Defenceless at the crossroads

And often, very lonely

Like many of us, passersby

Lost in the city’s indifference.

 

 Pilgrimage to Banneux, Belgium.

 We have a Holy Mass in the chapel of Holy Mother of Meditation. The chapel is very small, there is a big cross over the altar, a golden silhouette of Jesus is on the cross. I noticed that the arms of Jesus don’t stick to the horizontal beam, they hover a little over it. It seems that the artist, while creating “golden” Jesus, did not “adjust” His arms to the cross … I asked in my heart: Why are You, Jesus, so shiny, golden, almost hovering over the cross? I felt annoyed by this cross with Jesus … During the Holy Mass, in meditation, I “heard” an answer: contemporary people “gild” Me, they don’t want to see My wounds, My pain … They want to see Me as a beautiful symbol, tradition … but not as someone who suffers every day … 

 

 The hidden treasure

 

I thought that love for You, Jesus

Is flowing down like fire and water

With a cascade of sparks and waterfalls

And is as violent as a storm

It overturns old trees which are our sins

It brings back light after darkness

Like grace that we don’t deserve …

 

My love for You came in silence

It stood by me like angelic protection

It stopped my thoughts, time

And surrounded me with warmth

A strange hand dropped

A little pearl into my heart

I keep it like hidden treasure

It sets afire when I think of You

And sometimes it gets cold

When I yield to the world

Then it pulses with pain of injury

Hidden, invisible, like love without gestures

It radiates with thoughts, prayers, bends our knees

It continually searches for You, Jesus …

 

 The Holy Mass on Chevremont hill.

There is the miraculous cross, before which the authoress of “The Message to the Little Souls” was praying. At one moment I saw the picture of this cross, and below the cross, there were flowers, grains – rambling toward Jesus. Jesus on the cross “saw” ears of grain, flowers that were growing toward Him. Under the cross, there were people kneeling and they were “sowing seed” – as little as our prayers, requests, resolutions. But only Jesus “saw” their final growth … a beautiful flower or an ear of grain. Sometimes we don’t realize that our “little love” for Jesus – grateful and faithful, can produce a beautiful flower or an ear of grain.

 

 When Heaven descends

 

There is the hill in Belgium, Chevremont

Lord Jesus sanctified it … with The Message

Margaret has written down everything

Jesus called her a little soul, a daisy

For many years, every August

In a big tent

People have prayed here, for peace

In the world and in people’s hearts

Just like Jesus wished it to be

And just on this very day

Heaven descends onto Earth

And beautiful Jesus of Chevremont

Blesses the world with the hands of a bishop

Holy Mother of the Poor from nearby Banneux

Sits in the lodge of priests

The believers’ mouths whisper their prayers

In many languages of the world

The tent is like a chapel

That was built with the hands of angels

This is the time when Heaven touches the Earth

And visits the sacred

Green hill of Chevremont.

 

 The Cathedral of Holy Mother in Luxembourg.

It is beautiful, rich, full of tourists with cameras. There are rather few people who pray extensively, more visitors just look around the richly decorated interior. There is always someone with a camera or a loud conversation that “interrupts” me in my meditation. Holy Mother … in the museum – that’s the impression that I have. Holy Mother as a beautiful figure ( I associate it with “golden” Jesus). Well-off people from the west take photos of themselves with Holy Mother … They are in this particular place because many hundreds of years of existence gave extra value to this temple. I pray: Oh, the Most Holy Mother, please remain in our hearts, and not only in our photos …

 

 The children of Mother of Grief

 

In Your eyes, Mother of Grief

There are stones of sins of ours

You dissolve them with Your tears

And bring them to Your Son, asking for mercy

 

Your hands, Mother of Grief

Are waiting for requests and promises of sinners

With faith and love, You reach for them

And bestow Holy Memory and gifts upon us all

 

Your heart, Mother of Grief

Is entangled with thorns of ungrateful children

But despite the pain, You cuddle them

Waiting patiently for moments of mutual love

 

You stand, Mother of Grief, like a living statue

On the way of every man

And we step along the traces of Your painful tears

Blinded - by our own tears …  

 

 The Abbey of the Cysters in Clervaux, Luxembourg.

It is beautiful, simple, monumental, crude-looking. This is the place for a profound prayer. But our reality is to continue our pilgrimage, to move on, we can not stay here longer.

This place is very modest as for the Adoration of the Most Holy Sacrament, there are a few benches. While approaching this place, I can feel embracing, constraining warmth. I kneel down, I lack the words of the prayer, I just want to be in this place and submit myself to “the breath of Jesus”, adore Him without words. A few minutes have passed but it seems that I could last like this for many hours, without words, feelings, emotions. It is a very profound sensation. I think that if I gave in to it totally, the other pilgrims would have a delayed departure. I am “pulling myself” out of this state, only thanks to the will of my mind. The longing remains …

 

 The Holy Time

 

Life is like everyday tripping

To a rhythm of a clock

And turning sheets of a calendar

Daily life turns round like the Earth

Giving light of joy and darkness of sorrow

It pushes you forward irresistibly

As if it were afraid to die …

 

I know the place with no calendars and nervous clocks

The place of power

Protecting you from shivering time

Without the noise of this bazaar, which is our world

The place

Changing daily life into feast

Where hope joins love

And faith sees the invisible

Soul feels a touch, in an unfulfilled longing

Words lose the meaning, even those which are the greatest

When we are engulfed in the Holy Adoration

On our knees

When silence becomes a conversation with eternity.

 

 Pilgrimage to Italy.

My great desire was to pray before the wonderful Countenance of Jesus of Manoppello. When I reached this place, I couldn’t turn my eyes away from this relic. In spite of a great crowd of pilgrims, I fell into a strange silence, I was all engulfed in the adoration of Jesus. There were words that “were coming” to my heart, as if Jesus were teaching me: you look for My Countenance, but I Am  in your soul. It is you who put the barrier between Me and the worldly things … You look for Me in Manoppello to be visible, as if you were afraid to reach the depth of your soul and see me there … I reflect My Countenance like a photo on the film of your soul and you should look for Me there … My Countenance is not a work of art, although some treat it like that … It gives a chance of transforming your life … it is like a lost photo in the album of faith … You should find clear space in you … and My Countenance will be there … Sometimes I must reach as far as “the grave of sin” in order to show … “My Countenance”.

I was particularly struck by the last sentence. Jesus doesn’t abandon any sinner, even the one who reached the “bottom of sinfulness”. If a sinner wants to change his life, then the “Countenance of Jesus” is reflected at the “bottom of this sinfulness”. It always waits … like a forgotten photo, which was cast away long time ago, and was lost among other photos from the life that were marked with sin. The Countenance of Jesus of Manoppello converts people … I strongly believe in this.

I asked Jesus to be with Him all by ourselves, even for a moment, although it looked impossible because there were so many pilgrims. Then I prayed for a moment and strange peace was in me. When I opened my eyes, I saw, to my surprise, that I was almost alone in front of the Countenance of Jesus. Beside me, there were only two women kneeling, engulfed in prayer, like silent angels, deeply bowed, honouring the Countenance of Jesus. In my opinion, it was a little miracle because it lasted only a few minutes which seemed almost impossible with crowds of pilgrims at that time.

The next day we are in Rome, in the Basilica of St. Peter. There is Adoration in the side chapel. The chapel is rich in gold. A thought occurred to me: there is such luxury and golden ornamentations around me and it’s hard for me to be concentrated … Then I hear in my heart: sometimes luxury and gold are like “bars” for the heart of man. I thought that these bars may separate, intimidate the desiring heart of man. Is it possible that the true contact between God and man was lost in rich interiors? While observing the pilgrims who were visiting the Basilica, I wondered how many of them would experience the conversion in their hearts. The pews in the chapel of Adoration weren’t filled …

 

 Jesus of Manoppello

 

Staring at Your Countenance

I show You my soul, with the written-down life

And for the grace so visible, Lord, I thank You

I can still improve the outline of my soul

I can still straighten the curved lines of my life

I can still register Your words, Jesus

In the heart, so that it beat

To the rhythm of Your wishes

I can still kneel in a beseeching prayer

And stare at Your eyes that look so carefully

I – the pilgrim that is often lost in his world

I can place my soul before Your Countenance

Take off the cover, Lord, that separates love

Between the world of the mortals and the palace of the saints

Give us faith that flows with hope, out of Your eyes

That our encounter will last forever

Carve Your Countenance, Jesus of Manoppello

With a flash of light that flows from The Spirit

So that my soul could carry It throughout life

As the holy relic, as the gift from God.

 

 Holy Mass (memory of St. Luke).

During the whole Mass I kept hearing in my ears: and the Word became the Flesh. Jesus became the Flesh. His Flesh was perfect, ours was infected with the original sin. It is because of our weak body, we are touched by all kinds of sin. How to strengthen our body, our heart, our mind? Through a confession and a Holy Communion. It seems evident, but do we remember about it?

The Holy Communion, confession raise us from our down-falls, strengthen our body, like holy medicine, it immunizes us against sin. When we get refreshed with the Body of Christ, we become stronger in our fight against laziness, vanity and other weaknesses.

Particularly, the contemporary world acts on us through the body. It excuses our down-falls resulting from debauchery (love is most important), it strengthens our vanity (fashion), it takes away the value of modesty, chastity, fidelity. The contemporary world tells us to be strong, successful, healthy and fashionable. The youth succumb to these values. After many years, they feel deceived. Evil strikes the submissive body the most easily, it weakens our soul. The weakness of the body, it is not its physical illness – it is the easiness with which it succumbs to sin.

 

 Letters of Love

 

I am from earth

And I know the earthly alphabet of love

You, Lord, describe Your Love

With Heavenly letters

Your Love became The Body

Mine, that was written with the human alphabet

Crucified The Divine Love

I look for Your letters in my heart, Lord

The earthly alphabet gets me implanted like a virus

Daily life against Heaven

Prayer, the Stations of the Cross, they all indicate

That Your letters are marked with the cross

In the space of Your Passion

The cross on Your back, the fallen cross

The cross that is raised

The fourteen letters of the alphabet

Of God’s Love

Have been written down on earth …

Simon read them, Veronica read them, too

Give the light, Lord, to our souls

So that we could mark our lives

With Your letters of Love.

 

 

 Sense of life

 

I thought that life

Is like a concert of wishes for You, Lord

And Your silence is like punishment

I thought that I am like a bird

Locked in a cage

And You feed me if You will

 

Many years passed

Like the leaves, swept by a hurricane

My soul, embraced with silence

Was looking for the truth about life

And at one moment, a light blow surrounded her

Or maybe an Angel touched me with the wings?

A thought came like a golden ray

About the truth of our life

 

You didn’t send us, Lord, to the Earth

For mere joys and sufferings

You had a design in Your heart

That we, here on earth

Should learn … the way to love You

 

I think that You hoped, Lord

Like Father, after years of separation

That some day, Your Love for us

And ours … for You

Would get together, along the same way.

 

 I thought about our religious activity such as our frequent participation in daily Masses, and it occurred to me (maybe my Guardian Angel had something to do with it?) that when we want God to know about our attachment to Him, then we have a very particular obligation for Him. God “counts” on our love and He expects from us more than from so-called indifferent people. It happens so, because, as it is in life, we suffer more when the close ones fail us. We react with grief when we come across infidelity of the close ones much more than when we experience harms from strangers. I think that when we show God our faithful love, we must be more dedicated to Him, according to the words of the Gospel: when you receive more (love for God), then you give more … Strong faith is a gift that can’t be wasted. God fights for the indifferent people, too, but didn’t He give us the gift of faith, so that we could help Him with this?

 

 Visit of an angel

 

Human wisdom says

Angel soars like a ghost

And we can’t touch him with the hand

Children feel him with their hearts

And their eyes can see more

Although my heart is mature

Hurt by the wisdom of this world

It still has some empty space

For beautiful longing

For the touch … of an angel

 

He arrived at dawn, dressed in a white robe

Afflicted with my sorrow

He put his hand on my sad thoughts

And sheltered me with his wing like a coverlet

He closed my eyes with his warmth

And opened my ears to strange music

Our hands became intertwined

In the invisible space of the heart

And we kept like this, like a motionless pieta

I, the daughter of this world

And He, the Prince from Heaven.

 

 During the Holy Mass in the Convent of the Sisters of The Holy Mother of Mercy, I was suddenly struck by a thought which showed me very clearly the essence of our being here on earth. God – Creator gave us this beautiful world, which is our home, and we are only its lodgers. Our duty is to take care of it. Like in every home, there are certain rules to be observed, when we don’t follow them, the peace of this home is “destroyed” and mess and chaos prevail … I asked: how can we meet You in this home? I heard in my heart: but you are with Me now, at the feast at the Tabernacle, during this Holy Mass.

In our home – world (like in separate homes), there is a table where we eat our meals. The Altar is the Tabernacle and the Offering of the Son of God. We meet Jesus at the Mass. God – Creator offered us The Encounter with Him, He participates in our life, He is like Father – The Host of the Home that He built for us, people. This Home – World exists in peace when the housemates live in harmony and life in harmony is when people observe God’s laws, the laws of The Creator of the world. Unfortunately, people trespass these laws – hence there is chaos in our Home – World. We also forget to worship The One Who built this Home with Love. And as it is in every home where we should worship Father, the same thing is here – our Creator waits for our love. Good family that abides by the Commandments of God is like our great world.

 

 The mercy of man

 

Man is going, he raises his head high

He would like to reach the sky, the cosmos

There are crosses under his feet, like blossoming flowers

He steps on them, looking at his dreams ahead

He wipes the tears of others impatiently

It’s only the rain, he thinks, they will pass

He doesn’t help those who are on his way

And they hold out their hands to him for help

 

Man is going, he counts the sins of others

He forgot about his, long time ago

How will You do it, Jesus?, You , Who are forgiving

How will You teach him Your Holy Mercy?

When You pierce his bag of conceit

So that his eyes could look at other people

How big will the cross be that You will put in front of him

So that he couldn’t pass it, unpunished?

 

Why are You silent, Jesus, when You see

Weapons instead of the heart, in man’s hand?

Why do You cry, nailed to the cross

And You forgive the hangmen of this earth?

 

When I kneel down at the cross and ask

I hear a voice that flows like a sad complaint:

I hear so few prayers for the sinners

How poor … the mercy of man is.

 

 

Touch me

 

Tired of my hard road

I will sit at the cross

Like under a big oak tree

Its shadow will protect me

From the rays of the sun

There are so many deceptive

And crooked mirages around

It’s so hard to choose the way

When man is tired

 

I will sit at the cross

Like under a big oak tree

I will wait with You, Jesus

Throughout the night, shining with the stars

I will reach for Your tears on the cross

They will be like a drink for me …

 

Early in the morning, when dawn wakes up

Like an innocent child

And You come off the cross

To visit temples and people

Then I have a request for You

Just one, a tiny one

Please touch me lightly

So that I didn’t oversleep …

And followed You.

 

 I woke up early in the morning. I wanted to fall asleep again but in my heart and in my ears, I heard a “lecture”, as if someone wanted to teach me …

Human life is the way of the cross, suffering, to reach Truth – you must follow this way only, accepting God’s will. And what about the joy of life? – I asked. The joy (the true one) can be  achieved when we don’t turn off of the way of God’s destiny. Every suffering – cross that God has put on us – brings us to the joy of finding God’s Love and protection, cuddling to It. People protest against suffering, they look for earthly happiness but they don’t find full satisfaction in it because it is a joy of a moment. Satan serves us such a joy of a moment because he knows the unquiet nature of man.

God gives beautiful, mature happiness that functions in the peace of the heart. A joy of a moment doesn’t give such peace, it still wants more and more and is very demanding. God “fills” human soul and heart with sweetness, whenever man agrees to take up this cross while Satan brings constant anxiety.

The contemporary world is full of temptations for “the moments of joy” and there is a theory that “everyone is entitled to happiness”. But what is it like? Does happiness mean to own something or somebody? Don’t people think how many things or people they need to fill their hearts with and then say: I am happy, joyous until the end of my life …

How many people have converted themselves through the cross? And how many claim that they were disappointed because of God, because they must carry the cross or they just cast it away? Do they find relief after they cast away the cross? Maybe they do, but then their “moments of joy” mean narcotics, alcohol, new partners.

God hasn’t intended us to have only “the moments of joy”, which give more taste to life but they don’t fill it up. We reach the fullness of knowing our own humanity, our own soul, when we move toward The Truth of God, which is Love. Indeed, He is The Only One Who knows the needs of the human heart. It takes for some people the whole life to understand this truth, but God’s Love waits … This Love is not a moment, It is eternity. And God intended us to exist for eternity.

 

 My Jesus

 

My Jesus wears modest robes

And His cross is full of hurting knags

My Jesus gets wet in the rain

And He is freezing behind the door

That is locked

My Jesus feeds with tears

Of the people whom the world cast away

My Jesus begs for love like a poor man

When we are passing by

My Jesus doesn’t have a Christmas tree with lamps

And He doesn’t sit at the abundantly filled table, either

Every day He looks for a man – doctor

Who will dress His wounds with a bandage

My Jesus is not so colorful

As the painters’ paintings

And there is no song that follows Him

That could be as loud

As the choirs from the great cathedrals

My Jesus hums a quiet song

And sometimes He whispers, exhausted

To the people who pass by the churches

Which are empty, bur richly decorated

An Angel said that my Jesus

Is not holiday-like, gilded

He Is simply like we are – worried

And so close to us …

Like our daily lives.

 

After the Holy Mass, I saw a strange picture: there was Jesus who was going through the empty fields and was pulling a big cross behind. The longer beam was grooving a deep furrow. A crowd was following the cross. Some were going along the furrow but others - across the empty field. The horizontal beam of the cross formed something like wings which were protecting the people following Jesus. I had an impression that those who didn’t go along the deep furrow (teachings of Jesus), but chose the easier way (doubtful, looking for the Truth), were also protected by the tutelary arms of the cross.
The vision was dark, void of light reflections. Jesus was climbing upwards, dragging the cross painstakingly. I understood that anyone who seeks protection in the arms of the cross - follows Jesus. There are people who do it with great love, they follow the way that He indicated (deep furrow) and there are others (taking the more comfortable route), who are still looking for their way to God.
The arms of the cross are open for everybody to be saved. The choice of the way is ours, and Jesus is waiting while carrying His cross … “I will be with you until the end of the world”.

Power of love

Life hurt me with suffering
Like You with the spear of Longinus
Blood and water splashed from Your side
Love for You splashed from my heart

I glue over my wound with love given so unexpectedly
Like the bees with a honeycomb
My soul is filled with sweetness
When I share Your suffering with mine

And although I bear my pain in a human way
Like a soldier, injured in a fight
I feel a strange power, kneeling before You
And the trust, irresistible

I ask You, Jesus, my Lord, for one thing
When the world hurts my heart again
Please be like Veronica, cover my face with the veil
And help me like Simon to carry on my cross.

During Adoration of The Most Holy Sacrament, when the church was almost empty, I was concentrated on the inner silence. It occurred to me that it would be great to see Jesus in reality. I was still in silence, without the words of prayer. Somewhere in my heart, I heard: I, the invisible - have contact with the invisible - your soul. The invisible “sees” the invisible. Your soul recognizes Me when she adores Me, we talk to each other then. Human eyes see the outside features. And also what is outside - is seen differently by each of you. When I was on earth, I was seen with human eyes … and I was not recognized.
I heard it as a silent complaint.

By the church of mine

You stopped, Holy Mother
By the church of mine
Dressed in a stony statue
And You stayed on a long vigil
You get wet in the rain
In winter, white snow wraps You up like a fur-coat
You hold an eagle with Your hands
As if You constrained justice
And ordered it to wait patiently
Eagle, the bird of space
Wants to fly to Heaven and take the complaint
About the ungrateful …
Your eyes are closed, Mary
As if You didn’t believe them
And wanted to listen only with Your heart
To the prayers of passersby
There are dark marks on Your face
Like the scars left by tears
Were they carved by rain or a sculptor?
You get warmed up with the lit-up lamps
And You recognize the steps of the church-goers

Oh, Holy Mother, watching over, by the church of mine
And exposed to the rain and to our tears
To the frost of winter and the frost of our hearts
Please persist with us, congealed in stone
So that we could whisper to You:
“Under Your Protection” …

My dream that came true three years ago was a pilgrimage to Israel. But the Holy Land was still in my heart. I did want to be there again and follow the footsteps of Christ. On the other hand, it’s an expensive journey. Maybe it is only a conceit - I asked my heart during The Holy Mass. And then I saw something that looked like an answer. Namely, I saw a large, beautiful carpet, colorful, with many strong colors. The very middle of this fabric was a big, red wheel - the center of this carpet. Then I heard in my heart that Israel is the source of power of God’s Spirit, it’s the core of Christianity. Christ’s blood that permeated through this land  deeply - is God’s strength and power and it feeds the pilgrims. It is not the strength of the country which is tormented with conflicts - it is the power of God Who was going across these lands, it is the power of The Holy Mother, the power of the prophets and the apostles.

 

Nazareth

 

Oh, Nazareth, the city of Mary’s FIAT

Blessed with the sign of God

The mystical city …

Today, full of clatter of dwellers and pilgrims

Today, you live your daily life

You are also the city of meditation

Over our faith, our fiat

The Blessed Virgin Mary

Imprinted on you, that is still living

And burning light of faith

We, deeply in prayer in the Grotto of Annunciation

Meditate over our own life in the light of Mary’s FIAT

We take our pilgrim’s fiat in our hands

And weigh its power

And its weight that fills our hearts

In prayer, we turn over the pages of our life

We read out our own fiat

In the history of our own days

Sometimes it is out of reach

Because of the sin of mistrust

Sometimes it is our victory over evil

Oh, Mary of Nazareth

Be with us in the Nazareth of our life

Stand by the blind without hope

Who are deaf against the annunciation of good news

And don’t let us rise from our knees

While we beseech for the holy faith

Please find our fiat that was cast away

When we went astray in mistrust and vanity

Take it in Your hands and bless it

Put it into our hearts and may it shine with Your faith

In the Nazareth of our life.

 

 

Like a tree

I stumble over my life
Like a tree, pulled out during a storm
The wind of history carries it on
The history of mine and of my nation
During the windless silence and the gentle rain
I try to get rooted anew
I often find the fallow or desert sand
And raise to the sun the branches that hang down
Beseeching for life
I, the human being, like this tree …
Look for The One Who ordered me to exist

There is a cross stuck in the ground, in an empty field
The trees, pulled out by a wind-storm
They entwined it like a crown
And stuck to it like at the defensive wall
They last, saturating the roots and make them blossom
And surround the cross with a new forest
They have a water spring that satisfies
They have a shadow against the burning sun
And at night they have a quiet sleep

I arrange my life
Beside the life that blossoms beneath the cross
I listen to beautiful conversations
Between The Woman and The Master of The Cross
And the roots of my life feed
They grow down stronger
When the hostile hurricane blows
Then I just bow down to earth and last
In the secure arms of The Master of The Cross.

Before The Holy Mass, I was reflecting on the problem of the people who excuse their behaviour so easily. They often say that they do it in the name of love for the other person, but I think they rather do it in the name of love for themselves. The point is that nowadays, it is so easy to arrange for a divorce, to justify certain sexual behaviours, fortune-telling etc. Tolerance is the word which becomes a slogan, but is it well comprehended? There are so many behaviours around us that should be morally estimated but we tolerate them. We behave as if the idea of sin didn’t exist. We can observe it on television, in the press, during discussions about life. We can hear the words: I have a right to be happy (three or four marriages), a right to be free (abortion), a right to be homosexual because I feel that way …  Many arguments are given: about love, in the name of love etc. I think that the contemporary world has a big problem with the moral relativism. It looks as if Satan put on the clothes of an angel and spoke to people, justifying their morally evil activities. But I think that the real angel wears “original” clothes, while Satan puts on “the pluck”.
Our task (difficult lately) is to recognize between the “original” God’s “brand” of the angel’s clothes, and “the pluck” that Satan puts on.

Sorrow

I laid sorrow on the sand
The wind strewed it for a while
The sea-waves uncovered it
It was shining in the sun with pieces of amber
It hurt the heart with pain …

I laid sorrow in front of man
Man got scared
With the eyes of my sorrow
He looked for a prescription in a hurry
But couldn’t find any medicine

I laid sorrow on the Rosary
And I spoke with the Joyous Mystery
Sorrow wreathed like smoke from the incense
It tried to fight
But the Rosary cross caught it and absorbed

Oh, sorrow, you visit our hearts
And cast a shadow on our souls
You are not invincible
There are the Great Mysteries
And you kneel before them, too
Although you don’t escape …

I woke up in the morning and looked at the picture of Merciful Jesus and it occurred to me that man was created in this way that he uses his senses and he sees the physical aspect of the world. He perceives with his eyes, he hears.
This “sensitivity” of our perception may lead to some routine or even to dispersion (like during The Holy Mass). If we are not touched with the strong grace of faith (seeing with the soul, with the heart), then we won’t break our “physicality”. We will only see the outside aspect of the celebration (the layout of the altar, the look of the priest etc.). While participating in The Holy Mass or a divine service, we should pray for the spiritual contact with God, so that we could break this physical perception and could see with “the eye of the soul”. We honor God while kneeling, looking, listening to the words of The Gospel. Our sensuality aspect of mankind serves this, we were created this way. But we need our heart to be engaged, so that listening and looking weren’t at the level of “physicality”. It’s obvious that God doesn’t want to “force” man to love Him - He gave us free will, indeed. Still, I think that when God touches man with the grace of experiencing His Love in The Holy Mass, even once, then we “cast away” our sensuality of perception, our dispersion, our routine of different activities and become strongly open to the spiritual experiences. Then every Mass will become a personal encounter, full of love and our eyes and ears will “open up” for The Word which will penetrate us strongly and will not “disappear” after leaving the church and plunging in daily life.

Eternity

If there were an oak tree in this world
Powerful, with strong roots
I would hide beneath
If there were a durable house in this world
With foundations made of rock
I would live in it

But the world gives birth to oak trees that a hurricane breaks
Houses that decay
Truths that get older
And people like errant knights
Who wander searching for eternal Truth
For eternal house, eternal oak tree
They pass by the Cross where eternity …
Is holding out the arms to man.

By eliminating faith in God as the source of humanity, the world focuses on the physicality of man (value of good looks, of youth, of goods). When I observe contemporary literature, art, I can see complexes of contemporary people that are contained there and lack of ambitious ideas. When man is torn away from God, he forgets what is the most important thing in him - the beauty of his soul. No wonder that the most beautiful works were created as a result of this anxiety inside man who knows that we are not only the body. The awareness of having a soul (that is often laughed at), makes man turn to God - The Most High Love.
How can we account for the acts of mercy, patriotism, sacrificing life - unless there is the value that is beyond our physicality. If we didn’t have this awareness, resulting from our faith in God and in the soul given us by Him, then nobody would perform the acts which surpass our common protection of our own life. Life is the unique value, not only because of the body but also, because of the soul - the jewel, received at our birth. It is the soul that demands that we surpass our physicality, that we perform difficult things, often, in spite of ourselves, in spite of fear. The soul accompanies us, although this fact is often thrown into oblivion. At difficult moments of our life, it is the soul that we draw our strength from (and not from the submissive body). She gives us the awareness of our bonds with God Who helps, purifies and soothes anxiety. The great sin of the contemporary world is to deprive man of his faith in the immortal soul. There will be new generations, interested only in “using” the world for the purposes of their own body. These people won’t be happy because they won’t have the awareness of their unique vocation on this earth, and culture, music, literature will be limited to show only human emotions, often in a form of shouting.
Isn’t this shouting, at the same time, the calling: give us back our souls, give us back the values which will make us believe in the sense of our humanity, the sense of our life …

Longing

Longing is like the man
Who stands at the gate of Hope
Without a key …
It is like a beautiful landscape in a dream
We won’t reconstruct it with any paints
Longing is like a song that we hear in our heart
You can’t write it with any notes
It is like wandering through a dense forest
Following the light above the trees
Longing is like grace
It is a pilgrim, like man, throughout his life
It leads to the cross
There they meet
Human longing and Love
Heaven and Earth
Man finds under the cross
The key for the gate of Hope
The paints for painting a beautiful picture
The notes of a wonderful song
The words for prayer
The light in the forest of loss
Under the cross
God fills human longing
With Fatherly Love.

Before the Feast of Mercy. At the beginning of The Mass, I complain to Jesus that I don’t experience this common human joy of Easter. I think that I am not worthy of this experience. Then, in my heart, I saw a vision of a cross with dying away Jesus and there was an earthquake. The moving stones are crumbled into small pieces. Then I hear in my heart: these stones are the symbol of My Passion. I sacrificed their crumbs for the compassionate souls. These souls carry these crumbs inside and they remind them of My Passion. These sharp crumbs hurt the life of these souls and don’t allow them to forget about Me, especially when doubts, evil try to touch them, when they lose strength …
The joy of Resurrection is not only a form of joy of celebrating the Feast in an usual way: processions, blessings of food, family meetings. The true spiritual joy is also the reminder for whom Jesus resurrected. Such joy evokes deep reflection, often painful, concerning the responsibility for our own life - hence it often has a serious dimension.
There was also a strange coincidence because that day, after my meditations, the priest read a fragment of The Gospel about a stone that was cast away and it became the corner-stone. Later at night, a poem about The Divine Mercy “came” to me.

The arms of Mercy

Divine Mercy has the eyes of Jesus
Dying away of Love
Divine Mercy waits like a pilgrim on a desert
Searching for an oasis of human soul
Divine Mercy is patient and waiting
It doesn’t speed up the steps of the doubtful
Divine Mercy has the hands of Jesus who is blessing
Even those who don’t see Him
Divine Mercy waits at the door of a temple
Full of grace, like Easter baskets
Divine Mercy forgives and forgets
It is like a bird that lowers its flight
And doesn’t choose the fields full of grains
Divine Mercy has the eyes of Jesus
It is not afraid of pain, hunger, suffering, cross
It drinks even a cup of bitterness
Divine Mercy waits in the rain, storm or flood
In the day or at night
It is like The Merciful Father who opens His arms
For the souls of the prodigal sons.

This is the night when I can’t fall asleep. I have an impression that it is a strange time of a vigil. In the Friday part of the novena, Jesus recommended to pray for the Purgatory souls. I hear a strange voice that explains that death is a transition from one world to the other. It is like “gliding” through a narrow hole … toward the light. I would define it as a peculiar “second” birth. The body is left over, and we, that is, our souls, are heading on, during our further pilgrimage toward the next world. This transition is not painful (as if a snake removed its skin), provided there is love in us and readiness to change the world. In our contemporary world, we avoid talking about death, as if it didn’t exist and didn’t concern us. Death is associated by us as a tragedy but indeed, it concerns all of us.
The experience that I had at night, was very interesting - death as a phase of a further pilgrimage …
We are often aware of this, but we prefer to go round this subject, as if we were only involved in the earthly matters.

When God touches

There is such despair and crying thoughts
No human word will put them out
We stand defenceless, face to face, in tragedy
We ask: why?
But the faces and the eyes around are closed
And the mouth - silent …
We menace with our clenched fists
Or sometimes we drop them like dry flowers

There is such despair and crying thoughts
For which there is neither medicine nor herbs
But there is Somebody who will recognize
The bottom of human despair
And will plunge the merciful hands in the heart
And when you call Him with prayer, bending your knees
He will touch your despair, and hug you, and warm you
And although it will not disappear, like a burnt-out candle
But when God touches it
It will become - the blessed one.

It’s hard for a contemporary man to live nowadays because good is made ugly and evil is dressed in colourful clothes. People’s sight is physical and they watch what they see. What is needed now is a lot of heart, mind, intellect in order to recognize good and evil, especially now.

Letter to the angels

Protect me, my angels
With your wings like a shield
And give me extra strength, Heavenly guardians
So that I guarded the faith of my ancestors
A strange war is waged today
For the truth of faith and love
There are so many false prophets
Who paint the icons of hope
These icons lure with the color
Often as beautiful as a rainbow
Many people get poorer vision
They mix up … slavery with freedom

There is no cross with Christ
In the icons of new prophets
The cross shines like a medal on their necks
And is just a colorful adornment
The false prophets write
A new Bible for people
Where love has a young face here
Truth is shyly hidden
Hope is in the shape of money
And faith is a lifeless relict

Protect me, my angels
From the world of modern icons
Write down with a chisel of a sculptor
The humility and wisdom of the saints
And I ask you for one more thing yet
In the postscript of my letter
Please support me in my human hope
That truth will conquer the false prophets.

Before the Holy Mass, I was thinking about my free will and how it works. I would like my free will to be according to God’s will. In my imagination, I saw a window, through which I was looking at the figure of Lord Jesus. I thought: I want to open this window so that it didn’t separate me from Jesus. Then I heard a quiet answer, a little facetious, but giving much to think about: but windows are opened from the inside and you are the one who can open this window. Then I understood that it was the answer to my question concerning free will. I understand that the opening of the window, in other words, giving my free will to God, is great trust for God, is devoting myself to God, without any fear. Then I am not protected by any “window-pane” of my doubts and fears and I consciously and totally succumb to the work of God’s will.

Meditation

This is the time when thoughts run to the past
Like crabs, they go backwards
To the dreams from the childhood
Like colorful butterflies of hope
We hold out our hands, through the curtains of memories
We pass by the successive mirrors of the years
Until we reach the child with a mirror
So small
That there isn’t any reflection of the world yet
Only the curious eyes: who am I?

In meditation, years are like minutes
Time is not like a monotonous pecking of a woodpecker
We recall the moments
The smile, the warm hand, the good word
The warmth of the sun, the blow of the wind, smells
And the cross of suffering that falls suddenly
Without any warning, any secret sign
How short life seems to be
When only the important moments are considered …

In the rolled-up ribbon of daily life
Of the years written into birth certificates
Among the ritual of gestures and common actions
Of interest, boredom, expectation
There are diamonds of the moments worth meditating
And whatever you are, my life
The colourful butterflies from my childhood dreams
Never die …
Hope gives birth to them and prayer
And then they let them free
So that they could return, in the holy, human meditation.

At today’s Mass, there were young people who were getting ready for The Confirmation Ceremony and there were children waiting to be baptized. I offered this Mass for their intention. I did it with some doubts, thinking that maybe it would be better to offer this Mass for my own family. Then I heard in my heart: offering a Mass for the people who will never repay you because they don’t know about your intention of the offering - is more valuable than the offering for the close relatives.

Communion

When You come to me in the communion, Jesus
Then I should hear singing of angelic choirs
And trumpets sounding loud
But I don’t hear …

A quiet song resounds in the church
You hear the hasty steps of the faithful
In summer, birds chirp outside the window
And the voice of a priest: This is The Body of Christ

The taste of bread in the mouth is so common
Like the one that I consume every day
But indeed, the unearthly miracle occurred
Jesus called on me

I get silent and look for great calm
So that You, Lord, spoke to me
I plunge in contemplation
And reach for Your Love, Jesus

I look for Your eyes, Your look, full of love
There I desire to read the only Truth
How beautiful and Heavenly moment it is
When God … touches man

And I think that at this happy moment
When Jesus sanctifies my soul
Even angelic singers get silent, musicians don’t play the trumpets
This is the blessed time - of great, holy silence.

A few days ago, I and my husband started a pilgrimage to Medjugorje and I felt a great blessing of this pilgrimage. Prayer, the Rosary flowed out of the pilgrims’ mouths abundantly, not to mention the smile and serenity. The people talked about many graces that they experienced. I offered my pilgrimage in the intentions of Holy Mary. I didn’t demand anything, I didn’t ask for anything and I spent these ten days as if I were rising up to Heaven. I witnessed the revelation of Mary with one of the seers.
I would like to share some impressions. During the Holy Mass in St. Jacob’s church, I experienced “seeing” The Holy Mother. She had Her forehead covered with white cloth, on Her head, She had long, blue veil cast up. This vision reminded a little, of a convent robe. I thought that it might be my imagination. We were standing in a big crowd, waiting for Miriam (the seer who has encounters with Mary on the 2nd of every month). It was hot and hard to stand in this crowd another hour ahead. Suddenly, over the building, I saw the figure of The Holy Mother, as if it were on the screen. The figure was similar to the one I saw in the church. She was flowing as if She were on a cloud and I thought -  a play of imagination again. But at the same moment, Miriam’s face had an unearthly look and the encounter with Mary began. The written message was given afterwards.
Many people raise objections to the visionaries because the revelations have lasted so long (27 years so far) and Mary, in Her messages, still admonishes and asks for prayer. Why so long? I think that it is a great act of devotion and patience of Heaven toward people. The Holy Mother “comes” to Medjugorje to people like to a family. She teaches Her children patiently (as it is in a typical, ordinary family). Sometimes these teachings must go on for many years. The devotion of The Holy Mother is a great grace for the world. Pilgrims appreciate this grace. There are millions of the faithful who come to Medjugorje. This is the time for conversion. And there are many conversions in Medjugorje. Nobody knows how many more years will pass for Medjugorje to be blessed with revelations. Pilgrims flow in, like to the sanctuary where Heaven touched the Earth. I thought (it’s my personal opinion) that Mary may appear there during the next three years, or maybe six. Just like Jesus Who stayed with the family for 30 years, or all His life, which means 33 years. It is said that these are the last revelations of The Holy Mother in the world. Maybe this is why She has been speaking through Her messages so long and She has been waiting so long. She waits for the conversion of Her children, like every human mother. She waits with love, She appears so that many could believe in Truth.

After returning from Medjugorje, at home, I put a medallion with The Holy Spirit, bought in Medjugorje, on my neck. At dawn, I was attacked by, it looked like, an army of evil - as if the whole squad were jumping all over my body. I felt physical pain, like during the tortures. I wanted to shout: help! - but silence was everywhere around and I was afraid to wake up other people. Everything was quiet for a short while and then there was another attack and I was aware of that all the time. I remembered that a few years ago, at the beginning of my writing activity, I was strangled around my neck. But this night, I knew that I was protected from the touch of evil because I had this medallion hanging around my neck. And indeed, every part of my body was painfully attacked - except for the neck.

Medjugorje

I climb Apparition Mountain
Along the stony trail
I touch the rocks with my hands
At the Stations of the Cross on Krizevac
I protect myself from a fall
In this pilgrimage journey
I discover the mysteries of this place
It is not my frail strength that lifts me up
It is not my human faith, either
Every stone is like a bead of the Rosary
I put my feet on it
Mary raises me higher
Toward God
The stones are covered with prayers
In different languages
Slippery from people’s feet
They lead to hope
The pilgrims here are free from age, free from disease
On this hard way
Everyone gets the baggage
Of Mary’s love
The Rosary is in the hand, the feet are on the stones
The head is in Heaven
How easy the trail can be, even over the rocks
With God’s love on the shoulders
Thank You, Holy Mary, for Medjugorje
Thanks for our love for Jesus
Which touched my heart.

Before the Mass, I was thinking about evangelization and how difficult it is. Religious persons are often critical of so-called unbelievers. Then I saw in my imagination, a horse-drawn cart and a plane. What does it mean? Somebody (maybe it was my Guardian Angel) explained this dependence to me. There are people who use horse-drawn carts throughout all their lives, hence they must experience a lot, see a lot - in other words, they must learn a lot on their way of pilgrimage through their lives. They come across many places, people, and they succumb to them. For them, the way to God is long and slow, just like a journey in a horse-drawn vehicle. It doesn’t mean that it is worse. It is also gaining knowledge. Maybe this kind of “travelling” was chosen for them by God? For the others, God chose a plane. A moment of enlightenment or being destined for some higher purpose and then, these people reach faith  much faster (an airplane). I think that both ways are valuable for God. Therefore, conversion to one’s faith in God, is an unusually difficult and delicate task. It is priestly hardship to recognize human soul and her destiny, on her way to God. On the same day, during The Holy Mass, I saw a woman who behaved a little strangely, with nervous gestures, words - which is defined by some as devotee-like. Then I hear in my heart: Jesus speaks to man. There are hearts that are hurt, full of unhealed wounds. In the pure heart, reconciled with destiny, with life, the voice of Jesus is reflected with clear echo, with a humble understanding of His words. In the hearts of the hurt people, the echo of His words “gets deformed”. The wounds of the heart “stop” some words. The echo of His words doesn’t reflect His teaching, on the whole. Hence we can sometimes observe strange, irrational behaviours. Heartaches, afflictions need purifying in many communions so that Jesus could heal these afflictions. Then His words will reach the human heart with a pure echo.

I am not a statue

I am not a beautiful statue of alabaster
Nor am I an admirable figure of marble
I don’t evoke fascination in the eyes
Of the great sculptors of this world
My words won’t be quoted by the descendants
I am human and so much fragile
My body is dressed in diseases and pains
But it is you and me
That Mary is holding out Her eager hands to
It is our love that She has been waiting for
It is our souls that She desires to bless
What can I give You in return, Mary
For Your love for the people on earth?
My folded hands, the Rosary with prayer
Some tiny tears, let them warm your hands
A few sighs, pilgrimages to sanctified places
Hardship of my daily life, promises of self-improvements
Pious thoughts and the Holy Masses
And I regret my not humble heart
I am not a beautiful statue of alabaster
Nor am I a figure of durable marble
But I can bow at Your feet, Mother
And give away my life in Your intentions
When I touch Your feet with my forehead, Mother
And my mouth feels Your warmth
I, man, made of such a frail body
May hear a song, the angel will sing it
About the great love of God, for people on earth.


An old man’s answer

I wander along the way, in a crowd
Sometimes somebody falls down
Then his face is covered
With the dust from under the feet of others
The crowd is angry, in a hurry
As if they knew the destination
And where they were going
I try to get out of the crowd
They pull me in and shout insulting words
And yell - don’t make chaos, don’t stop
We want to reach the destination
Our time is precious
I ask - what is the destination?
Nobody answers …
My heart is uneasy
It stops beating to the rhythm of the rushing crowd
And a strange refrain of a gentle tune
Sounds in my ears like a beseeching psalm:
Wait … and stay … with those
Who broke away from the crowd
Hardly did I wipe my eyes, on the roadside
Looking at my companions with a smile
When I saw the angry crowd, rushing again
Did they turn back from their fixed way?
No - said an old man, sitting near me
Sometimes … the fixed destination is just an escape.

I devoted today’s Mass to my son - it’s his birthday. There was a group of blind children in front of me. One of them, a boy, was having his first communion. It’s strange but I was deeply moved by this fact and I also recommended these children to God during this Mass, next, I recommended the children who were waiting to be baptized. Then I said: Jesus (thinking in a very human way), aren’t there too many people and matters that I recommend to You?
And I heard in my heart: during every Holy Mass, I pour out all My blood, and many people don’t recommend anybody - neither people nor intentions … How much of My blood flows into The Cup in vain, instead of being used for blessing. There can’t be too many people or matters … for recommendation during The Holy Mass!

You are Mine …

There is such a feeling
Which catches man like a secret killer
And breaks the backbone of faith
Flourishing love
Smouldering hope
It presses man down to earth
Covering him with the sand of hopelessness
It plunges your friends’ hands in the fog
It changes the words of love into the rock of silence
It hurts with the tones of a song of accusation
It hovers over the man, rolled in pain
Like a triumphant vulture
Fear …

You got this fear from a devilish vulture
That whispered a big lie into your ear
So that you believed that …
Jesus didn’t resurrect
And He is not with you now …
So that you didn’t have faith, hope, love
But Jesus stands beside you
In great humiliation, pain, fear
He rises from His own fall
And looks for you
He puts your fear on His cross
And His eyes say:
You are Mine, man, not the vulture’s.

When The Most Holy Sacrament was put out, I saw the injured human heart. And I heard: this is such an injured heart that needs transfusion of My Blood - My Love.

Sunday morning

I experienced such a beautiful moment
The feeling so sublime, just a twinkling
As if my soul desired
To see with the eyes of the saints
I experienced the joy of thanksgiving God

The crust of my heart got cracked
The feeling of great gratitude was flowing out
The burning tears on my face
My heart, soul, body were melting like wax
They were flooded by lava of all-powerful Love

This feeling flowed down, suddenly in the morning
Before prayer, before daily monotony
As if it waited for my awakening
For my heart, purified with the sleep
For my soul, waiting for Lord on Sunday morning

My God, I prayed, thank You
For my faith in Your Love
For the hope of meeting You
For the touch of love that I went through
For the grace of thanksgiving that I experienced.


Holiday and daily love

Holiday love is dressed solemnly
It wears a wedding suit
If it still fits
Or a dress from a good shop
It gets out of a shiny car at the church
A golden medallion is on the neck, a ring on the finger
Holiday love sings songs
It greets the neighbours after The Mass
It knows what is in its heart
Holiday love has its secrets
Jesus knows them or maybe a priest in the confessional
Daily love always wants something
It runs in the rain, snow and even in illness
Sometimes it has old shoes and an old-fashioned coat
But when it kneels in front of the altar
It feels like in a palace

Daily love doesn’t shine
It is often dressed in old age and a stick
Only the eyes and the heart are still curious
Of the words of Jesus and of seeing The Holy Host
Daily love is insatiable
It gets inflamed every morning
Holiday love is beautiful, dressed in tradition
Dressed in the duty of Sunday Mass
Whenever you pass by Jesus
Then you must remember that His Home waits for you
Dressed in holiday love … and in daily love, too.

I asked myself a question: Who is man like? - and I saw a big, beautiful butterfly. One wing was wonderful, colourful (like peacock’s feathers) and the other one - was gray and dark. I heard that this is what man looks like. God gives beautiful soul to man, but at the same time, we are born with the original sin, and we are mutilated by this sin and therefore, this wing is so dark. And so we must improve ourselves in order to clean this gray wing, to be able to rise like a butterfly - in our spiritual life.

When an angel falls from Heaven

I am like a man shrouded with grief
That flowed out of darkness, without invitation
And put dark glasses on me
I can see litter at the walls
The sky, full of storm clouds
Cracked pavements
A quarrel at the street corner
I carry light baggage with my sliding legs
But it weighs like a heavy suitcase
A moment of inattention
And I stumble over a wheel-chair
A smiling, young woman
Is turning the wheels with effort
Sorry - she says …
I ran into you
And her smile, so bright, sunny, joyous
Of a crippled, good angel …
My dark glasses fell off
Storm clouds disappeared
And among the litter at the wall
I can see little flowers
And the grief that shrouded me
Like Hindu sari
Has disappeared …
I whispered - thank you, my good angel
You fell right from Heaven …

During Adoration - when I was kneeling and the bars were screening The Most Holy Sacrament, I was sad and then I heard: there are no such bars on earth that could separate Me from man - and if man thinks that they exist, then it means that he built them himself.
The next day, at dawn, I was dreaming that somebody took me to a strange balcony that was surrounded with fog and vapour. I was aware that I was dead for some world and this person told me that he was taking me to the world in which we live and that we would meet on our way back when I was dead for this world and I would be returning to the world for which I was dead before.
It all happened on this balcony, over the mountains, in the fog. The person that was talking to me (maybe it was an angel), was very friendly but also very determined because I was even willing to come back, but I knew that this person wouldn’t let me do it.

Painful conversation

I meet you in the day and at night
In the sunshine and in strange dreams
And although you don’t say anything
You are here, within my reach

When I touch a tree, you hide in the leaves
You become a bird that wakes up with singing
And protect from troubles, like an angel’s wing
Then you hide in the clouds, high

When I bend my knees in my penance prayer
And ask God why you are gone
I feel as if somebody wrapped me in a soft coat
And wiped my tears with invisible veil

And then we come back home together
The same couch and the photos are the same
Your face so young, maturity won’t touch it
But your mummy, son, is getting older …

Passing years don’t make the pain weaker
It changes its shape but hurts the same
And I, like a wanderer, with a bag and a walking stick
Still look for you, among the strangers’ faces nearby

When night calls for a sound sleep
I stare at the sky and ask: where are you?
I passed away - a quiet whisper sounds
I know, my son I answer … but the memory and love remained.

I had a strange dream, but very beautiful. Somebody in church handed me a Rosary. He said: pray with it and think …
I took it home and started to pray with it. Suddenly, instead of the bead of “Our Father who art.. I saw - a plastic ball! I was frightened. Just think - I heard - there is the European Football Championship now and the stadiums are full of fans, full of emotions …
And what about churches? Are there as many people as in the stadiums? It’s obvious that it is the altar where we find our greatest treasure - Jesus.
What shall I do? - I asked. And then, the same person that gave me the Rosary, put a few beautifully painted porcelain miniatures on my hand. They were wonderful masterpieces. The colors were so beautiful, I’ve never seen anything like that in any pictures before. The miniatures showed The Holy Mother, The Heart of Jesus and Infant Jesus.
Pray - I heard - and offer it for people.
Two days later, there was the Feast of John Baptist’s Birth. I offered The Holy Mass in the intentions of my children, my grandchildren and my friends’ children - through the hands of St. John Baptist. In my imagination, I saw a beautiful rose and I heard: the petals will fall off this rose someday. Wait and gather these petals until they get ripened and fall around you. And then, think about beautiful words, prayers, acts, thoughts - and express them in your poems.

Homeless heart

Authorities take care of the homeless
Scattered around in the burrows of the city
There are night’s rest places and soups for them
And social and charity enthusiasm

There is also homelessness with its own key
Clean, well cared for and drinking coffee
But only its sad heart cries
It’s homeless because it’s not loved

When it gets up early in the morning
It holds on to the dreams, its night friends
Those about the man who will give away
A room in his heart, even for a while

This room can be small
The homeless heart will fit into it
It didn’t use to live in a palace
What it needs is just another heart

Oh, homeless heart that is waiting
For the home without the key of indifference
Leave home and seek patiently
There are so many homeless hearts around

Homelessness will fall asleep in a night’s rest place
Dressed in rags and social care
Nothing but love will hug the homeless heart for the sleep
Even in a beautiful home.

A few days later, I went to the recollections to Olsza, near Lodz (Centre of Love of Martha Robin). During Adoration in the Centre’s chapel, I experience a feeling of deep pain that is flowing from the cross of Christ and I hear this question: How do you love Me, My daughter?
I try to meditate on this experience in a poem.

I have asked you three times …

I kneel at the cross in humility
And my thoughts are silent
Even time stopped, tired
Like a clock, enslaved by silence
The mouth repeats the words of love
As if the heart directed the sound
I love You, Lord, more than my life
I adore You …
How do you love Me? - I hear
A painful voice hollows my soul
A rebellious picture stood before my eyes
Of Peter who denied You three times
Fright seized me strongly
When You asked me again, with love
How do you love Me, My daughter?
Peter’s sorrow touched me like an arrow
And You, still looking from the cross
Asked this question for the third time …
The pain from the cross embraced my heart
With fire, like lave from a volcano
It touched me … and I was congealed in Your pain
Understanding the question of Your eyes
If I am ready, like Simon, to carry the cross
In spite of fear that the world afflicts
And carry the cross with You, through life
And testify your faith, with painful fidelity
For Truth, for which - You died on the cross.

In the church, just before the Holy Mass, I was greatly moved. I decided to dedicate this Mass for the intentions of the sinners in my family and close friends, for their conversion and for special graces for them. And then I saw a person that was scattering around crumbs of bread, smaller and bigger. A big piece of bun fell down in front of me and I heard in my heart that everybody receives graces, gifts (crumbs). They wait for us on our ways of life. But we often go past them and don’t notice them. A person that you just met - can be such a grace or prayer can be, as well. But we don’t notice their value, we don’t appreciate it because we are in a pursuit of our own goals.

Revelation

I longed for beauty
That joins the eyes, the heart, and the soul
As one mysterious revelation
I looked for it in the landscapes of nature
In  pictures and music of masters
They made the eyes happy
The heart was beating stronger
The soul was strangely silent …
I looked for beauty in the wisdom of philosophers
In the beautiful stanzas of poetry
My heart was trembling, the eyes were crying
But the soul was still seriously silent …
I looked for beauty in people
And I found it in their hearts
In their helping gestures, friendship, love
You see, my soul, I said
How beautiful man is!
But she was standing by …
I locked the longing for revelation
In the treasury of dreams
Like a novel about the unfinished life …

But it came to me unexpectedly
In a modest church, without any masters’ pictures
Or golden chandeliers, splendid organs
An elderly priest was raising The Holy Host, delicately
Like the beauty of the whole world
And The Host shone up with the brightness of the sun
And Its rays, like the touch of Love
Settled on the heads of the faithful
The silence of this moment … was singing angelic hymns
And my speechless so far, awaiting soul
Has spoken …
Here is your longing.

Gietrzwald (Polish Sanctuary where Holy Mary appeared). During Adoration of The Most Holy Sacrament, I honour The Holy Mother. You are Mother for me - I say - and then I see a picture of a scene that took place many years ago. I stand in front of the window of the house where I was born and I am just a few years old. My mother used to hand me a mug of warm milk through the window. I loved this habit and I drank milk like wonderful nectar. One day, milk wasn’t good … a little bitter. Since then I felt disgusted with milk. Suddenly I hear in my heart: this milk, good and warm - is the food that I give to people. My graces that are appreciated by them, feed human hearts with safety and love. When you grow up and enter mature life, then milk that was food for you, is “poisoned” by the world with bitterness … which means sins that you tolerate and lack of childlike trust. The wonderful taste of the food of My graces is poisoned … I, like your mother, still feed with milk - the food as sweet as honey. Come to Me and you will regain its taste,, the taste of My graces that you can feel as trusty children, just like you when you tasted it with joy. You will regain this joy, being with Me.
The next day, at dawn, after coming back from Gietrzwa³d, I feel as if I were daydreaming. I hear a strange teaching and I have a vision of a ladder …
I hear in my heart: there is God’s Love up there. I ask: how to recognize It and reach It?
I hear the answer: over the rungs of the ladder, which are the degrees of love toward another man, toward another fellow human being. Every rung is like your gift for your fellow: sympathy, listening, tolerance, forgiveness.
Then I see many ladders, some have the rungs only at the bottom, higher up - there is empty space … This is what your love is like - only for those who love you, for the family.
In order to get higher, a lot of effort must be made, a lot of rungs that are climbed with difficulty, so that you could get higher, so that you could find God’s Love … You will not get to know It unless you fill your ladder with the rungs of your human love toward other people. Sometimes, even when we get higher, the bottom of our ladder lacks the rungs … These are the left-over grudges that we had forgiven … but the empty space remains … our “ladder” for knowing God’s Love, lacks the rung that completes it. We must be on the alert all the time, so that our ladder was complete and not damaged.
In order to know God’s Love, we must keep climbing up all our lives, painstakingly - often looking down. We cannot get the knowledge about God’s Love through a special gift. It is hard work of our whole life - it is constant “building” of the rungs in our ladders - the levels of our love toward other fellow human beings.

Human humility

I kneel in front of Your Holy picture
I kneel with humility, Holy Mother
And I hear a voice, as if the picture asked
What is your humility like?
What are its arms like?
How much pain is it ready to hug?
How many injuries can it hold?
What is human humility like?
The knees that are bent in prayer
Hurt so fast
The words of prayer fly away
The time of man’s humility is so short
It passes, waiting for a reward
And then
The legs are straightened up, the head is raised
The words get rebellious
The arms are closed for the pain of another man
What is your humility like?
The bell of Annunciation rings
With a loud question
It reminds
Of Your “fiat”, Mary
Of Your accord to trust God
Of Your waiting arms
That are widely open for everyone
Even for those
Who hardly kneel
In front of Your Holy picture
In front of Your Holy humility.

 

During the Holy Mass, the priests raised up The Holy Host (two halves). I thought that the Host looked like a sail. In order to “flow”, there must be a blow of … The Holy Spirit. Lord Jesus is the might, the strength and the gift in this Host. If we don’t call The Holy Spirit, then we won’t flow toward the Truth, toward God.

 

Human angels

The angels from my childhood
Hovered in the shiny circles
Like beautiful, unearthly creatures
And their bare-footed legs didn’t touch the ground
I grew out of my childhood, like out of my flowery dress
And I brought my angels down to earth
They go now, dressed in blouses, overcoats, frocks
They pass me running down the street
I hear their footsteps in the church
They drag their legs and knock with their sticks
And sit in the pews at the morning Mass
They smile at the faces they know
My angels, brought down to earth
Do their shopping, count their small money and are tired
They help the ill with a good word and tea
They laugh and cry when moved
In my angels, there is a great heart that beats
And is always ready to pour love
Over those who doubted it
Even with a good gesture or with a compassionate look
They wear shoes that aren’t often very comfortable
And they can’t soar over the earth
They stumble over curved pavements, over hard life
They come in a hurry when we call them for help
Thank You, Lord, for the eyes that see
The angels disguised as people
For me, they are like the barefooted, beautiful angels
From my childhood.

 

Early in the morning, after a prayer to the Holy Spirit, I felt a strong communion of my soul with God. This feeling was even painful. At the same time, it occurred to me that each soul is connected with God, like a child’s umbilical cord in the mother’s womb. God feeds us with many graces through this “spiritual” navel cord, provided that we want to use them prudently and we don’t selfishly block its passage. Many people tighten up this navel cord with their hearts (souls) and can’t use these graces. It can be caused by the influence of man’s will, social problems, numerous sins, but man still exists in God’s log book. And every opening-up to God, brings about new graces. Sometimes we have an impression that God is too generous for the newly converted sinners, while He simply “stopped”  intended graces, and He waited for the conversion of man. He waited for the “relaxation of his clenched fists” that were blocking the ties with God.

 

Adoration after the communion

I close my eyes
Against the light of the outside world
I taste the drop of Jesus’ blood
In the white wafer of the Eucharist
That becomes a guest in my mouth
And brings salvation
Sometimes I feel a salty tear
Sometimes the sweetness of love
They spill around in my soul with a mystery
My human love and human tears
Are mixed up together
With His suffering, His presence
They feed the starving soul
From the pain of human distractions
At this beautiful moment of communion
Of God with man
Words fall asleep, like the resting birds
On holy pictures
Sweet silence wreathes a nest
For this drop of love
The humming of wings can be heard
Of the hard-working angels
Who draw aside the curtains toward the world
From which God holds out His hand toward man
Oh, Jesus, imprisoned in my mouth
Please, fill my heart and soul with You
And grant the gift of Your Love upon me.

                                                                                                                                                            After the Holy Mass, I got a subject in my heart to consider: time. What is time to man and what is it to God? Human time is arranged in a straight line - hours, years flow on. We try to fill our human time with our own plans and aspirations. We are happy when we can “bend” time according to our own needs. But can we be masters of our time of life? The situations that we didn’t plan - occur, the “quality” of human time changes. What we planned becomes unimportant. Among our daily events, other events begin to appear, which change our spirituality. For example, we decide to change something in life, in our human time, make it our new way to God. When we don’t succeed, we come back to the previous “human time”. But there comes the moment, like a flash, when the grace flows down on us, like a gift that changes us completely. And we didn’t plan it. Some didn’t even think about it. Suddenly somebody gets rid of a long lasting addiction; somebody becomes a strong believer although he was indifferent about God. The “time of God” entered our human life, the time of transforming our hearts and souls. It was God Who decided to liberate man from “his time”, He granted him the grace of changing his life. God decided it’s high time that man went along the way where our desires are aimed at God. And it is He Who becomes the clock by which we count time, looking for the will of God and not our own will.

 

Adoration

 

I want to worship Your Name, Lord
And put my life into Your hands
I want to have faith that my days are like gifts
These hard ones and these, full of grace

I want to worship Your Name, Lord
And have Your Eyes before mine
And always remember about Love that You feed people with

And pick up every crumb of it, like bread, from the ground

I want to hear Your breath near mine
And hold out my hands to You every day
And cry like a baby toward the clouds in the sky
Let it be Your will, not mine, that makes me healthy

I want to trust in Your Mercy fervently
When despair, so human, overwhelms mercilessly
I want to touch the cross of Your Son, God
And rise, like Him, from each fall

I want to worship Your name, Lord
And plead for patience for those who disbelieve
So that when they say: I trust in You, Lord
The grace of light will conquer the darkness hostile

I pay homage to You, The Father of all mankind
And put this letter-prayer into my folded hands
So that You may hand me the cross, instead of an earthly rose
And give me the strength to testify to these words of love.

 

It was three p.m. and I prayed the Chaplet to the Divine Mercy. My husband just came back after a visit to his acquaintances who had health problems. I decided to devote the last part of the Chaplet to their intentions. Later in the afternoon, we were going to visit our family in the suburbs. During the last part of the Chaplet, I heard in my heart: these ill people need a special Mass for The Divine Mercy - too few people pray for them, we assumed. I finished the Divine Mercy Chaplet and retired to bed with great difficulty. I have an impression that “somebody” spins me around like a windmill. The bed circulates around the room like a merry-go-round. I was scared and felt even worse in the sitting position.  I couldn’t move and when I tried to stand up, the ceiling and the floor seemed to whirl. First I thought that I had some problem with my eyes, like a damaged eye-ball. It lasted about thirty minutes. When my husband saw my condition, he decided to call those acquaintances. He told them about the necessity of Holy Mass for them, and we stressed that it should be intended for the Divine Mercy. As soon as he uttered the words, ’The Divine Mercy, on the phone, everything came back to normal with me. It felt as if “somebody” took a “hood” off me, which was the cause of these awesome strange whirling. My husband came back to my room and was shocked when he saw me rise from the bed well-balanced, although moments ago, he saw me almost paralyzed. I still had some trepidation in praying but I overcame this soon. I assumed that Satan wanted to frighten me to desist from praying for spiritually afflicted souls in distress.

 

Flowers

 

People want flowers to adorn their lives with

The scent and the color attract so much

We are ever amazed with their beauty

Though they are not food, they feed our eyes

 

Our desires are like these flowers

We wish to attain something, to possess the beauty

We are ready to enter the gardens of the world

And pick handfuls of something that deludes our eyes

 

Fixing our eyes on having something

We strive so much to reach the goal

That in the gardens of the world, we choose the flowers

That are made of artificial, dead matter

 

They lured us with color and temporary joy

We thought that they would enliven our dull moments

But they are stuck in the vase of life

Indifferent, dead, artificial flowers

 

And as long as we rummage across the gardens of the world

With our hearts and eyes, staring at the ground

It will be hard to spot the flowers of great desires

And you won’t pick them unless you raise your head

 

These flowers are like our spiritual desires

God sowed them out of the seeds of His Love

You will not find these flowers in the gardens of the world

They are inside you, and God is waiting until you know it.

 

Feast of Corpus Christi. During The Holy Mass, I was surprised to feel a big cup with wine nestled at my chest. The wine was as thick as blood. At this moment I felt great heat, especially in the heart (as if someone poured scalding coffee down my throat and I started to sweat profusely. I was afraid to touch it, or hug it, thinking that it would be a sacrilege. I thought that it was the Cup from the altar, meant for the priests and it should not be in my possession. Then I heard ‘I Am meant for each one of you.’

 

Rosary of hope

 

We look for the sense of life, sometimes until death

We think over the darkness of our days

As if we lived without light

We weave paper wreaths of defeat

Out of tragic events

When joy embraces our hearts suddenly

We are afraid, thinking it will soon fly away

But it is like a flower seed

It will grow, spreading around the aroma of scent

 

How to nurse this joy that starts blooming shyly?

Take the Rosary in your hands

It is the source of mysteries of life

And saying every word of “Hail Mary” …

Give your life to Her

With the Rosary, your thoughts will find rest

Against evil that torments you

And you will weave a wreath of joyous hope

Your wreath of defeat will turn to ashes

 

There is holy power in the pearls of the mysteries

Love flows down from them into the vessel of the soul

And a bright ray pierces our heart

No longer are you alone with your own mystery

The Holy Mother has interwoven it into the life of Jesus

And a flower starts blooming in you like a fruit

Out of which you draw the nectar of joy

Then love fills you up with peace

And love is where you look for the sense of life. 

 

Before the end of the Holy Mass, I saw a vision of an enormous orchard, full of blooming trees and also dry ones. There were many paths in this orchard, like in a labyrinth. There were people moving along them, sometimes they came back to the paths they had already used. I had an impression that they got lost and are looking for a way out. During this vision of the orchard, I rose up high over it, like a bird. Then I saw the ways of exit and heard in my heart: it is so simple. In order to see the sense of your wandering in life, one must rise higher and look around, from the perspective of an immortal soul that is heading toward God, toward the purpose of our fate. On the wings of faith and trust in His Love, we rise higher and see more clearly, the right ways out of this orchard, this labyrinth.

 

Wanderers

 

Deep in meditation was my soul

Seeing a rich variety of ways to God

Some were winding, full of doubts and breakdowns

Others were full of Love that leads with light

I saw meadows, full of joyous pilgrims

Walking among the flowers, born out of prayers

Beside, there were hard paths, stony 

Rocks hurt the wanderers, they fell down …

I saw a highway, people rushing in their cars

Time for them looked so precious

That it was hard for them

To see Jesus walking along

I saw wise-men, bent over the books

With passing age, they put on new glasses

Their minds were full of knowledge, theory

But the hearts … without love

There were also others who looked for the depth of knowing God

In a frail boat of their body, floating on the ocean of conceit

With a fishing rod too short to catch the truth

I saw those imprisoned in the swamp

Sins chained their legs

They raised hands , as the last resort

Looking for help, for rescue for them

On all of these roads, You, Lord put the holy sign

The Cross of Your Son …

He protects us from Your Justice

With Veronica’s veil and the courage of the martyrs

He beseeches for extra time for those lost on the way

For the Light of Love for them.

 

After a few days I felt an inner necessity to pray to The Most Holy Trinity. I sent various words of prayer spontaneously to Each of The Holy Persons. I heard in my heart: ’praise The Holy Trinity with the words that are deeply hidden in your soul, with the words coming out of your heart, so that each word reflects the state of your spirit, so that your prayer may not ”flow” smoothly but was strongly, imprinted on your soul. Carefully consider, meditate every word that you convey to The Persons of The Most Holy Trinity passionately. After three days of such a consideration I tried to follow the “advised” meditation. I asked what God, Jesus, The Holy Spirit expect from us. When I mentioned God father, I saw a big inscription, ‘humility;’ when I mentioned Son of God, the inscription illuminates the word, ‘thanksgiving’. With the Person of The Holy Spirit, the word; ‘prayer’, showed up. The prayer as a cordial dialogue with God. The prayer that is spoken with love, without confusion and bias.

 

Running after the angel

 

Sometimes you run ahead of me, my Guardian Angel

A few steps ahead, impatient with my weakness

And look, dissatisfied, like a teacher, disappointed with a student

You have so many plans for me, so many holy ways

But I … slow down in my running

Sometimes I see you on the way full of light

You look back at me

And I am asleep, covered with a night of weakness

But you come back and wait for me

And take dreams out of your traveler’s rucksack

Beautiful dreams, about mountainous lands, pure springs

And sometimes they are dark

As if you wanted to pull me out of my dream

I see you rejoiced when we head to a Mass

You jump happily then, with childlike trust

When you go to meet your world

When I don’t hear your words, busy with myself

You lead me to the confessional

So that I cleansed my soul, filled with false tones of sin

And made her listen to pure sounds

During Adoration, you are like a chirping bird

Singing Heavenly arias that you still remember

You give me more strength with holy inspirations

To make me catch up with you on my run

With faith that you know the ways where I don’t go astray.

 

Feast of Visitation of the Most Holy Virgin Mary
.During the Holy Mass, I prayed for graces for my soul and my heart. After the Communion, I heard in my heart, ‘you are like a little sparrow that I can only feed with little crumbs, a big loaf could do harm to a little sparrow, but these tiny crumbs (Holy Communions), can expand you to large size or spirituality, and you can bake a big loaf then.’ Is it possible that the great grace or gift that we strive for, consists of little daily gifts or graces that will manifest to a “big loaf” some day, when we have grown spiritually to be able to bake a big loaf? I think that it is also important to appreciate small things which can be bountiful graces in our lives but we often shun them ignorantly, looking for great gifts and emotions. 

The flower

 

I walked barefoot over a colorful meadow

It was like a picture from a child’s dream

The dream that was pure with a flowers’ fragrance

The dream that adults don’t have any more

The plants got nourished with rain, soil and air

The green grass was leading me to a field

It was barren …

Full of withered flowers, dried-up soil

I felt the crying of this soil, begging for water

It ran out of nourishment …

There is such a flower, I heard, which never withers

Go and look for it …

 

I was searching, bent down toward the ground, like an old woman

Being tired, I lifted up mu face toward the sky

The sunrays were playing on my face

Like unruly, joyous children

I was embraced by a tide of a hot wind

Which penetrated me with a mystery of an unknown love

And made my body feel an exalted contemplation

And a warm voice that was more like music than words

Spoke to me and explained …

There is such a flower, the flower of the soul, with a beautiful fragrance

That is nourished only … with love

Go and look for it, in the meadow of your heart. 

Before The Holy Mass. I offer it for the intentions of The Holy Mother of The Immaculate Conception. I get to thinking, as a human being, how to understand the purpose of such intentions. Then, in front of my eyes, I see the silhouette of The Holy Mother, like a scene from a film. She is picking up big packages (our requests) from the floor. There are angels around Her, and they help Her. Then I hear in my heart: when you offer Masses and Rosary prayers for the intentions of Mary … then you help Her carry these heavy packages (people’s desires) and lift them up to Heaven.

The Mass with an angel

I am going along the street, in pouring rain
As if the sky couldn’t stop crying
I am heading to You, Jesus
Hidden in the golden chamber
I am going to the Holy Mass

I welcome You, together with my angel
We sit on the bench, like an inseparable couple
I entrust myself to You, Jesus
At this moment, full of grace
At The Holy Mass

My angel, crammed among the faithful
Hides his wings under the coat
I feel that he would like to be with You, Jesus
At the altar, among the other angels
At The Holy Mass

Please go, my guardian, I whisper to him
Leave your coat and straighten your angelic wings
And adore Jesus and Mary there
At this great moment
At The Holy Mass

I have a request, my guardian, maybe too daring
Please kiss Jesus’ feet for me
Touch and visit your world at the altar
Fill your angelic wings with light
At this Holy Mass

When you stand by the priest
Who gives the gift of The Holy Host
Please smile at me, my guardian angel
And give me at least one breath of the altar’s miracle
For my everyday life.

 

I think that the situation of families in the world is difficult now, far from good standards (lack of respect toward parents, abortions, etc.). As a result of chaos in single families, there is chaos in the world. Our “miniature world” (family) contributes into the world’s order. God – The Host of the world, gave us free will to make us “protect” this world, according to our abilities. But unfortunately, this world is not Paradise, the “smiling evil” is a frequent guest here, happy about the chaos that results from the whispers of Satan. When we observe the changes that appear in the society, as a result of introducing the “values” which are not the values of God – we can hear this Satan’s giggle that becomes exceptionally loud. Our hope is these wonderful families, people, who don’t succumb to “moral novelties” of excessive tolerance toward some issues, but they stand fast by the teachings of Jesus. This “standing fast” is not devotion (as some scoff) but it is the wisdom and the awareness that The Host of this world, God Almighty, gave us this world with love, but He also expects love and respect from us.

 

Teaching of an angel

 

When faith gets silent in your heart

Dust covers the words of holy prayers

You fall asleep in sad indifference

And the Lord seems far away

Then you are exposed to a trial of a night of darkness

Of your own Gethsemane …

Remember, Jesus is also there, on vigil

Sharing your suffering and fright with you

Lonely, among His sleeping friends

Like a bird that fell out of a flock of cranes

So that, here, on earth, He could light a light

In the darkness of the night

Along the trail toward eternity

When faith gets silent in your heart

The faith, that ancestors gave you for deposit, as tradition

Then stand fast at the cross of Christ

May His Love flow down into your heart

And light you up when It touches you

Because faith is born out of love

And though you might get into the darkness of the night

Love will always defend you …

It was just a trial of the strength of your faith

The grace of the vigil, with Jesus in Gethsemane.

 

I thought: how does it happen that some people achieve perfection and are worthy, but others just live on and nothing bothers them? I was curious to know how God assesses people, and with what criteria. Then I heard a witty answer to my doubts; ‘a bird will not roar like a lion, and a lion will not chirp like a bird!’
A few days later, while I was at The Holy Mass, I heard a strange phrase, ‘I offer you My loneliness on the cross’ I didn’t understand this message although I know that Jesus as man, was alone on the cross, during His Passion. Each of us is lonely during his “passing away to another world”, even if his close ones accompanied him. The next Mass helped me reconsider this phrase. Man exists in his body (emotions, feelings,  living, social and cultural status) but his soul belongs to God. And only in his loneliness, man stands before God and presents Him his life. God is the Father of our soul. Man has a choice whether to devote himself to this life on earth completely or not? People, ideologies and feelings may fail him badly. Then he suffers and criticizes, he feels “betrayed” by mankind. When he realizes that his soul belongs to God, then he “gives back his wisdom, love, feelings and help to the world. But he doesn’t forget that his soul belongs to God, and he can’t “sell” it to the world for his personal goals. Here we have this dilemma of loneliness of man and his standing in Truth before God. God has given each man a peculiar jewel - soul and we come back to God with this jewel. We mustn’t mortgage it for the world’s vain treasures. We must give back to God what is His property … This loneliness of Jesus on the cross reminds us that although He redeemed us with His Passion, each of us separately, possesses and disposes of this beautiful gift from God, this soul jewel and should present it back to Him. Not through the medium of others but on our own, standing in front of Him. We are responsible for the bequeathed to us jewel; individually. The world will not excuse us “how much” we pawned it, to enjoy life on earth. We forget to be grateful to God for this jewel (soul) that is unique. Therefore, it is lonely. We try to attract the world and we suffer when others take something from this world. We feel poor. We forget about the richness of our soul where power comes from. This power is superior and strong because God Himself is its Master. He doesn’t forget about the jewel that He offered us at birth. Sometimes He “helps” us regain it by “taking away” some joys of this world from us for our own good. But when we are not able to “carry” this heavy jewel by ourselves, we scrape of all its richness, and then materially give away value of our soul to the world; we sell ourselves to others and quite often we want to forget that this loneliness with the jewel - is our greatest treasurer of revival and thanksgiving.

 

Offering of the heart

 

Make my heart larger, Lord

With the memory of Your Passion

Let it not be only the rhythmically beating part

Let it be the place for Your Cross

Living along the Stations of Your Passion

Be silent, my heart, when the Pilates accuse you

Move your eyes down, as low as Jesus’ eyes in His fall

Look through them, for your way of salvation

Don’t be afraid of the cross, given to you with God’s Will

Carry it bravely, stepping by Your Lord

And His Mother and Simon will give you help

Give Veronica, my heart, the veil of sanctity’s desire

May the Lord’s Countenance protect you

Don’t have mercy, my heart, over your destiny

But lament over the sins that brought downfall

May your nakedness be your cleansing

From earthly attachments that still tempt

Offer Jesus the nails of life’s pain, piercing the body

For the sinners

And the offering of pain will not be wasted

May the cross given you by the just hand of God

Fill you, my heart, up and down

Saving space for God’s word

For His Love toward the world and people

Be, my heart, like crucified Lazarus

Who trusts in the grace of mercy

Not for deeds but for faith in God

Die, my heart, not for the death

But for the eternal salvation

In the arms of the Holy Mother.

 

Before The Holy Mass, I say to Jesus: You require holiness from us, but we, through the original sin, are so crippled in this world. Suddenly I hear in my heart: Therefore, you get wheelchairs from Me and I push you in your wheelchairs, of course, provided that you really want it.

Painful Longing

On a usual day
Clouded like a child’s face
Longing touched me
It was so enormous
That I had to stop
This Longing was silent
It didn’t allow my tears to flow
In the rustle-free silence
It became a guest in my heart
It wreathed a nest on the thorny crown
It hurt …
I couldn’t hug it with my hands
It was bodiless …
Blood was flowing in my heart
With a strange rhythm
It was flowing among the thorns
With a hurting moan
And Longing, like a bird, settled in a nest
Didn’t fly out …
Although the thorns of the crown hurt it
Oh, my silent, painful Longing
I give You my heart, please stay there
Remind me of Your existence
It’s nothing that You are stretched on the cross
Bleeding and leaning against the Gethsemane rock
You came to me, like a silent, holy guest
And I will speak to You …
I will cry for You …


In the shadow of the cross

In sadness
Pouring over the soul, like flood
Bringing waters full of hurting roots
I stand in the shadow of the cross
Looking for a cool shelter

Suffering Jesus
In the grilling heat of our sins
Burned with our ungratefulness, oblivion
He is still on the cross
And doesn’t seek to cool up

I want to hide in the shadow of Your cross, Jesus
When so much humming of evil thoughts is around me
And it torments me like the smell of poisonous flowers
My way is hard
And my strength is … only human

I will close my eyes and ears
The shadow of Your cross will heal me
And the tired, human sadness
Hugged with a lullaby of the prayer
Will fall asleep under the cross.

Gietrzwald (famous Polish Sanctuary). Saturday Mass. I am praying in the intentions of someone in the family, an elderly person who isn’t very religious and currently she is ill. I am focused on the picture of The Holy Mother.
Suddenly, in front of my eyes, The Holy Mother appears, as if it were on a big slide. She resembles the figure of The Holy Mother of Banneux, Belgium. The figure is very large. Her hands and legs are tied with chains, at the bottom, there are heavy balls (like with the galley-slaves). I hear in my heart: confession … communion …
I understood that this person would get help but she must fulfil these conditions. Without penance, The Holy Mother’s hands are tied … Suddenly I get up and go to the confessional, as if I wanted this person’s heart to “thaw” and speak to her soul …
Going away from the confessional, deep in my thoughts, I stumble over a baby-carriage. I am curious and I expect to see a child inside. But to my surprise, a face of a grown-up man looked at me from the inside. The beard, moustache and penetrating eyes. It was a young, ill man, the size of a small child.
You see, I heard, how “chained” I am to you, I am simply “disabled” because of love … and what about you?
Two days passed and I was thinking over those words, I couldn’t understand them well enough.. Suddenly during an evening conversation, I was struck by a sudden dazzle …
Jesus is always waiting (like the ill man in the carriage). He holds out His hands, full of Love, ready to forgive, but we have our free will, we can choose - either to receive Love or to reject It. Jesus is “involuntary” toward us. He can only give Love. We pass by this Love in our lives and go away from God to our own matters. He is always waiting …

High on the cross

On the hill of Calvary, on Golgotha
You were hanging, very high
Merciful hands couldn’t touch You
Only a hurting spear …
On the cross, separated from the earth
Lifted up to the sky
Can You see more?
The whole world is at Your injured feet
Oh, good Jesus
You can see us now
Hundreds of years after Golgotha
You can see the executioners of our age
But You also see saints, martyrs
You Are looking at Saint Faustina
Proclaiming Divine Mercy
You see pilgrims honouring Your Holy Mother
You look both at these who hurt You with their spears
And these who adore Your cross
While hanging on the cross
You can see more
You can also see human crosses
Unnoticed, while trampled by the crowd
Driven into the ground with aggressive feet
Covered with the sand of pride
Like forgotten graves
Lift them, oh, good Jesus, onto Golgotha
Light a little light of hope on them
Of Your painful Mercy
Because, high on the cross
You can see more …

 

 

Faces

 

I am walking along the street
And there are faces all around
I can’t see their age
But only their hopes and thoughts
Deeply hidden at the bottom of their eyes
All the faces think they look special
Some, more beautiful, others ugly
But for a passerby walking down the street
They are just in transition, in oblivion
About their individuality
The faces move alone or in pairs
These, alone look at others, those in pairs focus on their things
When I pass by the faces on the street
I feel oppressed with a thought
How long must I learn to love 
Their eyes, thoughts and souls
So that I could proudly say to You
With my hand on my heart:
Jesus, I love You.

 

Before the Mass, I thought about something that I haven’t thought about for a long time: why does evil rule in this world? During the act of the Offering, I heard a very logical answer in my heart: good is eternal, evil has its termination, its end. This answer was enough for me - one sentence, but how helpful in clearing my doubts. I was considering the words  which were a little old-fashioned. Why did I hear the word: termination? The word “termination” contains a wider meaning in my opinion. In God’s plans, there is “place” for evil on earth, but it is God who decides when it is curtailed. He has power over it; He permits it to exist for some purpose (transformation of man, of the world, of nations). And only God knows its limits. Evil has a “bottom”; it is not eternal, while good is eternal, it is infinite!

 

Home for the soul

 

We build houses for the bodies that are fragile and mortal

Rich palaces or a few walls of concrete or bricks

We bring man’s hope into these flats

That love, as a guest, will settle inside

 

There are such houses, made of God’s grace and family prayers

Love has been living there for generations, as the guest of honour

Even a cross of misfortune does not kill it

The dwellers carry the cross with respect, their love sanctifies it

 

There are houses where love was hurt with anger and walked away

Leaving rich interior, full fridge and a beautiful garden sometimes

Only the hearts of the dwellers, without love, homeless

Crash against the walls, furniture – painfully

 

What can we build with our weak hands, that is lasting?

Just a few walls, not durable, easily destructible

Can we, with our hands, force love to stay?

When the heart is empty, and the soul is without the Lord?

 

Before we build a house out of credits and bricks

We must look for the Home for the soul that is thirsty for love

For a Holy Place where we can submit it to God’s Providence

So that it didn’t experience any fear of homelessness and lack of hope

 

When we find such a place, the Family Home for the soul

We will feel protection of the Holy Mother and Her Merciful Son

Then, with Their blessing, we will build the house on the rock, not on sand

Its durability is not in the walls but in the hearts, strengthened with God’s Love.

 

In October, I went on a pilgrimage to The Holy Land. I offered it in the intentions of The Divine Mercy for the souls in doubt, who search in order to find relief in Jesus. I felt great joy and spiritual richness which filled my heart. I wasn’t able to express my feelings with words and I didn’t even try to. Let them stay in my heart as the treasure that can’t be defined with numbers … I would like these poems to reflect my feelings, and if I happen to encourage somebody to take part in such a pilgrimage - then, may God bless you abundantly.

 

Bethlehem

There is such a beautiful town
Covered with  wounds of history
The town where Love was born
The town where Love was expelled
Divided, bleeding
Filled with sounds of bells
And Arabic prayers
With voices of pilgrims for hundreds of years
With bazaar stands with figures of Jesus
Made of olive wood
The place of God’s descent to earth
Bethlehem …

In the stony Grotto of Nativity
Pilgrims’ kisses remain
And the tender gestures of those who ask for graces
Warmth flows out of lamps and people’s breaths
The star of Bethlehem adorns this holy place
Millions of pilgrims on their knees
Touch the holy mystery of Nativity with their hands
Here, in the Bethlehem Grotto
The Holy Mother gives The Holy Infant to everyone
And looks for a cradle, in people’s hearts
She puts little Jesus in it
And trusts that Her offered Son
Will be fed with human love
She trusts that we will not change Him into a souvenir
From Bethlehem
A figure made of olive wood.


Oh, Holy Land

Oh, Holy Land, You were for me
Like an enlivening drink or a feeding Host
The grace that flows down
The desire for my soul
The picture of an ingenious master
You were, The Holy Land, like a tender touch
Of  The Galilean Sea and The Jordan
And the salty Dead Sea
You were the breathing of Jerusalem clatter
The warmth of the desert sand, the mild wind
The Bethlehem mystery of Nativity
You offered me the purifying tears on Calvary
At the tomb of Jesus
You are the painful memory in my heart
As painful as the longing love can be
I went around The Holy Land, The Land of Jesus
The Land of Mary, the Apostles, Ann, Elisabeth and John
I touched the stones that didn’t lose the memory of Jesus
In Kafarnaum, on Tabor Mountain, in Galilee, Judea
You are, The Holy Land, in my soul
You fill it with beneficent light
With beautiful love that can be born in man
I reach for it with my hands, I take it out of my heart
On the days that are happy and bitter
You taught me, The Holy Land
The prayer of the heart
To praise The Lord, with every step and breath
I looked for the holy traces on the stones and rocks
The traces of Jesus’ feet, His palm on the rock
His tears, poured out in Gethsemane
They are there, in The Holy Land
As relicts
As s sign of love covenant between God and man.

 

Please open my eyes, Lord

 

If our heart is filled with pride and selfish love

It becomes blind for daily miracles

Like a horse in harness or an errant knight

We look for unusual, unknown diamonds

While God sows His gifts around us, with His Holy hand

 

Sometimes it takes time, years of roaming

After a made-up treasure that does not exist

And one day when our hair is gray

We discover the signs of God’s Love

That we used to pass by shortsightedly

 

There were days of great worry

But someone cast a smile to us and a shy hand gesture

Still, we were like a clouded sky during a dark storm

With a thunder of wrath, we cast away this gift of an angel

Sinking in the rain of our own distress

 

With the passing time we recall the sweet days of youth

Warm milk, our parents, as a gift of God’s Providence

The sun in those days seemed much warmer

Sunday Mass had a fragrance of incense and flowers

Parents’ prayer books tempted with a holy mystery

 

The aroma of daily life was so safe

It still exists somewhere, hidden in our memory

Wasn’t it a gift of God’s Love for our heart?

A little miracle, magically made for a little child

Out of a smile of the Creator, the generous Provider

 

We, adults, full of pride, who fight for love with swords, not hearts

As if we wanted to force Heaven to grant us great gifts

Stepping over little flowers of miracles, we don’t know their taste

And we get blind for the graces that God bestowed upon us

Little, daily miracles, but great, because it was Him Who did it

 

Then we must kneel before the Altar of the Lord

And plunge ourselves in a thanksgiving-beseeching prayer

And ask God: please open my eyes, Lord

Allow me to see Your abundant gifts and miracles

That flow out of Your Love, every day and every night.

 

I have gone on many pilgrimages and each of them gave me different spiritual experiences, even if I have been at the same place twice.
There are many places that my soul “pulls” me to, again and again, as if it received some special “food” there. Never the same …
Thinking about pilgrimages, suddenly I saw a big, colourful circle in front of my eyes. It was like a rainbow, made of many different colours. This circle was made up as one beautiful, complete body. What colour is … and I thought about my beloved Holy Land and then I saw deep red and gray colour, like with a pigeon. Belgium - I have been at those sanctuaries many times - and I associated them with violet. The chapel of St. Faustina in Warsaw, where we have our monthly meetings as a formation - I saw white. The sanctuary of Archangel Michael in Gargano - I saw beautiful yellow. San Giovanni Rotondo - white. I associated these colours strongly with particular places. I don’t know why, maybe it is just my imagination? Or maybe each sanctuary acts on a soul this way? Maybe it heals our souls profoundly, leaving a lasting trace, and the circle with colours is just an artistic “vision” in order to explain something that man will not quite know with his mind but his heart, his soul are able to “know” it?
After every pilgrimage, I can feel some transformation within me, a kind of healing from faults, something like “purifying”, higher sensitivity toward God, toward another man, and then I can see my faults more clearly and I try to get rid of them.
Maybe every pilgrimage is like the colour of changes, it is an attempt of perfecting our own manhood.

Holy alleys

There have been many roads, paths and alleys for us
Ever since our feet touched the ground
The hardship of pilgrimage is waiting
Sometimes among the fertile fields
That smell with buckwheat and herbs
Sometimes we move along the rutted roads
Of empty space where signs are blurred
We go along a narrow path, with fear
When evil fate holds out its hand to us

There are also the straight alleys, waiting for us
They lead us to Mary’s little springs
When you go down this alley once
And wash your hands in the spring, at Mary’s feet
Then you will feel unusual longing …
For the alley in Gietrzwa³d
For the alley in Banneux
For the alley in Lourdes
For the alleys of other sanctuaries

The alley is shadowed by trees, like an angel’s wing
It pours peace into the heart
Mary’s hand is leading
Oh, Holy Mother of beautiful alleys
Give the holy alleys to all people and paths
Give the holy longing for them
Give the holy memory about them
When life pushes us
To the hard roads …


The Guide

When we run along the ways of life blindly
We can’t see the borders, our eyes cannot reach out there
When we follow the crowd along the paths
We see the backs of people, but not the destination
Our world is such a difficult place to wander around
So many paths, so many cross-roads
Where the sun sometimes blinds our eyes
Or darkness takes us by surprise
While hunting for easy prey, or for comfort
We move around in life like a hunter in the forest
Without a guide who knows the right ways
We get lost, wasting the precious moments of life

Disappointed, we stop at another cross-road
And look at our booty sadly
With regret that we were running with the crowds
Behind the backs of those who didn’t know their destination
It was like a blind-folded running
And our booty was like miserable crust that other’s dreams left over
Our own dreams got dissolved somewhere
Only the heart still demands something precious
We start looking for our own way and the Wise Guide
He, stretched on the cross, like an eagle ready to fly
Points to the way into the happy, boundless eternity
And with His Love, He lights up the place where genuine treasures are hidden.

 

During the Mass, I stared at the picture of The Holy Mother, there was peace in my heart, and I was free from any confusing thoughts. And suddenly in front of my eyes, I saw the face of Jesus with beautiful, light, curly hair. His eyes were covered with a big, black band. I exactly recall the outline of His beautiful hair and the light that reflected from it. I thought: why are His eyes covered? Somewhere in my heart, it occurred to me that Jesus wants to point out to me that man’s eye-sight may distract man in understanding God. We can “evaluate” others by means of human aesthetics. On the other hand, Jesus with the “band”, not seeing, seemed to me to be the One Who will go to each one of us if we only want to receive Him. He shows His “readiness” to go any place, to go to anybody, with no exception, if only our hearts felt the need of His presence. He doesn’t choose “the prettier”, “the better”, “the wiser” ones. He comes to an encounter with man with the grace of offering Himself. What we will do with this “encounter” - it depends on our heart, our will. Jesus is always ready for the encounter; He is like the “blind-man”, defenseless in the presence of man. We can “bring” Him to our heart or to another man at any time (even in the situation of a great downfall or sin). He will lift us up, greet us, and heal us. All we need is to believe in it. Oh, Jesus, who are blind in the face of our offences and Merciful for our downfalls – please, convert us in this “encounter of the hearts” which is more precious than “the encounter of the eyes”.

Like a spark

On an ordinary day, carved with daily life
A thought came to me, like a holiday fragrance
What is the prayer that you lift up to God?
Is it like words, thrown to Heaven as crumbs of wishes?
Or thanksgiving, woven into the pearls of the Rosary?
Or the grace, given to the heart, not for the deeds?
And maybe it is a spark of a soul, burning with love?
Or maybe it is the great silence for meeting with God?
If you are the word, my prayer, so please become the living word
And don’t die out in my mouth
If you are thanksgiving, don’t let any complaints in
If you are the spark, please light up the fire of my soul
If you are the silence of expectation, please stay on with trust
If you are just one tear of penance
Let me taste these tears every day
Your mystery, my prayer, I will not penetrate
You are beautiful when I touch you with my heart
And my heart opens up for the voice and will of God
The silence becomes the encounter
The word becomes love
The tear becomes food
Thanksgiving becomes happiness
And The Holy Spirit lifts up my soul to God.

During Adoration, I try to “talk” with Lord Jesus about matters that bring reflection and about moments of depression. Suddenly I hear in my heart: I am here as long as you suffer, and your suffering is not justified. I understood that the people who suffer are these who “keep” Jesus on earth, as their guardian. I think that unjustified suffering occurs when it touches the innocent, it is like burden which they carry (for example illness, failure). I am thinking about the essence of prayer, what it is, how it gets us closer to God and what it should be like. Then I hear in my heart: one tear of penance is more precious than hundreds of words …
Next I hear in my heart: you gather treasures on earth but a thief can steal them … Spiritual treasures, your prayers, good deeds, your mercy toward other people - these are the treasures that I am the guardian of, this is the gold that I keep in My treasury and I protect it and no thief can steal it.

Picture

Among the leaning towers of this world’s values
Of evil, smartly dressed
And good, covered with rags
I look patiently for the truth for my soul

I surround myself with silence, like with hope
And throw my smart clothes off false ideas
I set my heart and mind free
Let them straighten up the leaning towers of values

I turn my eyes to the picture of Jesus
And look at His hand where the rays are flowing out
Jesus’ robe is a simple convent dress
His bare feet, with nothing to cover

I bow to Your feet, Lord
The feet that are ready to follow a man
With the message about God’s Mercy
Even when there are thorns and rugged stones

You are not standing, Merciful Jesus, like a pretty icon
In a posture, ready to be honored and adored
The painter painted Your feet in motion
As if You were running to people, out of the frames

I can feel Your holy haste
To bless our human time with grace
Like a sower, in a gloomy fallow
To give people the manna of Mercy, out of seeds

I bow to Your feet, Lord
You lift me to Your heart, on the rays of Love
And bless me with Your hand, like a priest at the Mass
And adorn with Mercy, with Your holy seal.

 

Gratitude

I wished to send beautiful words to the altar
And adorn The Offering of The Holy Mass with gratitude
But my mouth couldn’t say a word
As if someone ordered it to be silent

Only hot tears were flowing down my face
Composing a strange melody out of them
Mysterious notes written with tears
My soul, like a musician, was playing the flute

It seems that it was hardly a moment
The bell for The Mass stopped this concert
But the tune, written in the notes of my heart
Remained in my memory, like a song about human gratitude.

 

 

Human faith

Sometimes it shows up like a white rose
Lost under the feet of a running crowd
Once it was as clean as a communion dress
And full of childlike enchantment for God
Now oblivion - steps over it
It withers from words full of distrust
Somewhere at the bottom of the heart, memories flutter
Of family prayers and holiday Masses
And the stepped-over rose fades away …

Sometimes faith is like a violent wind-storm
That opens up the bolted door with power
It changes Shavel into Paul
It washes blind eyes and ears
And then you search for God desperately
And wash your hard sins away with tears
The confessional is your last rescue
Your mouth is still hungry for the holy food
The grace of faith touched you suddenly …

Sometimes life doesn’t give a rose or the grace of hurricane
A sprout only, with hurting thorns
But you hold it patiently, in your hand
And count the thorns, like the pearls of the Rosary
And you carry your cross stubbornly
The Holy Spirit lights up your way of faith
You feed with the Mystery of Love
With the rays of Merciful Jesus
And your faith … doesn’t fade away

You, my faith, can be a trampled rose
You can be the grace of a violent wind-storm
You can be the cross, patiently carried
The Lord gave you a choice
Out of Love … for you.

We meet people who state that they are non-practicing Catholics, although they believe in God. They say: one can pray everywhere, not necessarily in church. While thinking about such an attitude, I had a vision of a dark field, overgrown with various plants, there were beautiful flowers and beside them, there were weeds. The weeds covered the beautiful flowers. This field is like our world around us, full of different ideas, thoughts, values, flourishing evil and good, trying to fight evil. Literature, film, mass media, have a significant role in this dark field. They teach but also they demoralize. Little children get to know the world of adults through the screen and Internet. It is not the learning about good aspects of human nature but rather about the bad ones. Through the screen, we learn about many problems that we would never encounter in our lives. Today, parents have a difficult educational task because there is so much insistence on tolerance around and on making values relative. Everyone who tries to fight for moral standards of life, is criticized by saying that he is intolerant like in the Dark Ages. Weeds overgrow beautiful flowers and we can hear opinions that they also have a right to exist. More and more people fight for the right for abortion, euthanasia, artificial impregnation, shouting beautiful slogans about everyone’s right for happiness. And it is not important that it is at the cost of others. People who exclusively rely on the truths that are popularized in our world, become lost. The noise of worldly truths make people feel stunned. By attending the Holy Masses, by reading the Bible, by praying, we receive a ray of light from The Holy Spirit. It falls onto the dark field of the values of this world, which are mixed up and incoherent, and it gives us the light for the values which are essential for our own salvation, for living in accord with our conscience that is shaped by the authority of the teachings of Christ. When people pray anywhere and avoid The Mass, confession, penance - then it is like “wishful praying” to God. Then we treat Him like a “shop”, where we want to buy something good for us. The Mass is - the holy food that makes us choose the good things from this “worldly field”, we endure by it (often with difficulties) and we cast away the poison which disturbs the world of God’s values. There is no such field, even beautifully flowered, where we can get to know God’s will and the message that He has for our lives - without the light of The Holy Spirit that flows from the altar, from the confessional.

 

A Song to The Holy Spirit

 

I look for You, Holy Spirit

When I experience peculiar Love

During the moments of prayer, Adoration

When words die down

And my ears hear a sound

As if the strings of the harp moved

The heart is pierced with a joyous longing

To know the mysterious boundary

Between mortality and eternity

 

I look for You, Holy Spirit

In the open wound of Jesus’ Heart

I submit the rhythm of my heart to the pulsing of His wound

And although sinfulness makes a sinner ashamed

The humble soul beseeches for Mercy

Then I am asleep for the world

And so unwilling to come back to the reality of senses

This moment seems to me to be like a Confession

And The Suffering Jesus is the Confessional

 

I look for You, Holy Spirit

In my inspirations and meditations

The mind itself is not able to do it

Without Your loving breath

You penetrate the fog of my mortal nature

And pour the olive of faith into the dying-out lamp

You Are with me like a ray in the dark

That is leading the blind

Toward the harbor of Eternity

 

You Are The Guide in this blinding world

Of the truths that don’t bring Salvation

You Are like a quiet whisper, a warm breeze, a loving song

About my destiny, about my immortal soul

And even if a hand of evil touched me with suffering

Nothing could deafen the Voice of Yours

And the memories of our holy encounters

When being plunged in a wordless prayer

I experienced a longing … for Love.

The Gate of Faith

Once I went through the Gate of Faith
The Eyes of Love were leading me
I stared at them, hope-bound
And I followed them like a pilgrim, unaware of the hardship

Behind the Gate of Faith, there are many paths, mountains, deserts
Sometimes I got lost in the stony grottos
And thick fog, like a smart enemy
Covered the Eyes of Love for me

I strained my sight, wrapped up in darkness
I looked for consolations, like the morning light
The wind from the desert was singing a beseeching song
And I found the Eyes of Love on Temptation Mountain

The loneliness of these Eyes, full of Mercy
Looked in the darkness, like diamonds of Heaven
And although I felt fear, I was learning the truth
Our Lord, on Temptation Mountain, was redeeming people against evil

I will be with You, I whispered humbly
And I will change my human fear into penance
Then His Eyes, although covered with sadness
Were strangely joyous that I didn’t lose Them

And then my soul was speaking to Lord
About the Olive Garden of suffering, and the road to Calvary
About how many paths there are behind the Gate of Faith
And how many mountains of temptation and lack of faith wait for us

The desert wind was throwing up sand into my eyes
And I heard voices say: there are easier ways
But even in great darkness and lonely grottos
I will never forget Your Eyes, my Jesus

Once I went through the Gate of Faith
And although I am a weak person, hungry for the world
I feel that a stronger hand than world’s temptation, is leading me
And the most faithful Eyes of Love watch over me.

 

 

Spark of Love

During a Holy Mass
My heart has been touched with the spark of Love
As unexpectedly as an undeserving grace
I experienced sheer joy
Elevating the body over its carnality
As if the soul jumped out toward an unknown beauty
And the Love was saying: I remember about you…
Our loves got together halfway
Mine, still imperfect
And the One that is perfect
I wanted to reach out and shout: exalt me, Lord
Toward You…
Take me out of this world of hardship and sin
Grant that I could just touch Your robe…
For Your Love is blessed so much…
Like a gift that a feeble heart can’t embrace
Like a spring of water, flowing eternally
Bestowed upon us, for the everlasting joy
You have touched me, Lord, only with a spark of Your Love
And I could have been burned out from the glow of Your Love
Being frightened with the mystery of Your Mercy
Grant that this spark keeps burning within me, Lord
May it burn out all evil thoughts and sin
May it keep burning despite all pain and suffering
Give me, Lord
The courage to carry on the joy that I have experienced
To those who look for the sparks of Love in the ashes of their life.

 

And what can you offer Me that you haven’t received from Me before? These were the words that I heard in my heart during Adoration. It made me think more deeply about their meaning. Jesus offered Himself on Golgotha for us, He redeemed us or colloquially speaking, He paid off for us. He redeemed us because for God, we are the value as people who have immortal soul that is granted with many graces through Baptism. God, The Absolute Creator, sends us down on earth, within the stream of His graces and gifts. We make the value for God, For us, He sent His Son to suffer. We can’t offer God any gifts or graces because we are not their creators, they come from God. It would be as if we returned a present to a donor. We were offered gifts and graces to make us do good with them. This is our godly deposit. We can offer God our gratitude and joy for this deposit and be aware of this. How are we going to use it, being gifted - it all depends on ourselves, on our free will. We received wealth in the form of our talents. What will we do with it? How will we transform this wealth for the benefit of others, with our own hands (with our own free will)?
The Holy Mass is the Offering Jesus to God, our gratitude and joy for redeeming us against death, for the gift of immortal soul. Many of us use God’s gifts as if we ourselves were their donors, owners, who use them for our own pride. People’s pride often “kills” God’s gifts. The gift of talent, wealth, may become a curse for an egotist. If we receive a difficult talent of suffering and give it away to God, then we can be gifted with new graces, like the grace of bravery. The Holy Spirit is unusually generous for those who accept God’s will. And the gift of free will, given us from God, obliges man to make choices - either we choose our own free will, which often leads to sin, or God’s will - which saves our souls. Saints and those who suffer in silence, without a protest - are a good example of this. They receive many graces that are a mystery. They couldn’t do much by themselves. What can you offer Me, man, that you haven’t received from Me before?

What can I offer You?

What can I offer You, Jesus
That I haven’t received from You?
I can look into my soul with the eyes of my faith
To see with my heart, the talents You poured there

I want to grasp every gift of Yours, like a priceless stone
And surround it with meditation, so beautiful and sublime
And decide wisely
How to make use of it

Shall I dig it in the world, afraid of the loss
Or multiply it out of love and offer to others?
You gave us free will, Almighty God
And strew graces upon us, with the hands of Love

And we, people so weak, blind, non-hearing
Often see your gift after we’ve lost it
We buy unnecessary love with it
Fed with conceit, tinsel of the world

We buy things and colors which get worn-out and fade
And then, hungry and homeless, we look for a rescue
Not with You, at the offering table
But in the earthly bank of ruthless counting

With freezing hands, from lack of hope
We look for the coins that can liberate us
What can a poor man buy for them?
A crumb of the world, a tomb - but not his salvation.


The scales

Do you know how much a tear weighs?
The one in despair and the one in joy
How much does love weigh and offering and devotion?
Can a word be weighed?
Such as love, faith, hope
How to recognize a sincere smile
And an ordinary grimace of the face?
How to distinguish a helping hand
From the one that gives nothing?

There are such scales
Where we put what is the most beautiful
That man can weigh
And no earthly scales can weigh it
It is the cross of The Savior
Where God estimates
Human mercy
According to … The Mercy of God.

Exposition of the Most Holy Sacrament for Adoration on the side altar. Most people kneel down with respect, but there are some who pass by or make a careless gesture of a cross sign and don’t care to kneel even for a moment. It is very painful for me and I apologize to Jesus in my heart and I hear: I Am not a photo that is put into an album, as a token of remembrance of religious practices. I AM still alive, but many of you forget about that and they show Me their honor, as if I were a photo or a relic … while My wounds flow with living blood on the altar. Your eyes don’t see what My Heart feels.

I will come to you

I ask You, Jesus: help me
And You point to the hands, nailed to the cross
I ask You, Jesus: come with me
And You point to the legs, nailed to the cross
I ask You, Jesus: give me Your Love
And You point to the heart, pierced with a lance
I ask You, Jesus: pray for me
And You point to the thorny crown, stuck in Your head

And You say: take out the nails, hammered with your sins
And I will come to you
Purify your heart, hurt with distrust, like with a lance
And you will know My Love
Stop the time under the cross on Golgotha
And learn My wounds every day
Until your pain joins Mine
Then the dew of My Love will give you tranquility.

Adoration of the picture of Merciful Jesus in the cathedral in Płock on the 78-th anniversary of its revelation to St. Faustina. During this beautiful ceremony, I plunge myself in inner silence …

The Silence of Adoration

Silence is like drops of God’s rainbow
Made up as an image, inside the soul
Still unfinished, imperfect
Like painter’s movements of his brush
Creating the work that still dissatisfies
In silence we paint the image of God
In the soul that is unquiet, immature
Longing for the absolute
As long as we live
We put together the drops of the rainbow colors
We paint God’s eyes to look at us
The ears to listen to us
In the Silence of Adoration, invisible God
Becomes The Person - Father
We paint Him with colors of love, despair, suffering
We efface the already made contours
And look for the right colors again
For the new, beautiful feelings
The Silence of Adoration brings the soul
Out of the body
The soul is like fabric and it waits
For an artist
Oh, Silence, adoring God
Often being deafened with an unnecessary word
Or with an un-noble act
Please protect the soul from the noise of evil
So that God Himself could help
To create His portrait
On the fabric of the soul.


My Eden

When You come to me, Jesus
In the Eucharist
My church changes into a little Eden
It becomes a garden, on a beautiful hill
And is adorned with light and beautiful colors
I think that my soul paints in the heart
This Eden, so unusual, out of secret memories
I stand on the hill, among the living flowers
The morning welcomes the waking up birds with dew
The air smells with a joyous childhood
And I stand at the door of a lonely cottage
Like a soul, ready for a visit
You come up to me, in the white robes
A golden belt adorns Your gown
And although I don’t see the boundless sea, but just a little stream
You whisper, Jesus: don’t be afraid to walk over the sea

There are days when I try painstakingly to lift my soul
Up on the hill of my Eden
And she, being washed in the earthly, gray morning
Climbs up the hill, painfully and wearily
I look for You, Lord, up there in my Eden
Dressed in a pretty gown, with a golden belt
And You stride, tired, with the cross in Your hand
You are in a hurry, there are so many stations ahead of You yet
I kneel at the threshold of my cottage - soul
And You, in spite of Your distress
Feed me with faith, the hope of love
I am stronger then, coming back from my Eden
Down to earth, to my life
And I hear Your whisper, like a precious last will
More courage and trust, I Am at the shore
Be brave and stride toward Me over your sea.

 

During meditation after the communion, it occurred to me that faith is a great grace and we shouldn’t waste it. Faith can’t exist only within the sphere of our feelings, sentiments - because our feelings are changeable. Different events of our life can transform our feelings, from great ecstasy to great despair. We also can’t “learn” our faith through our mind - we can’t just sit and study wise, holy books, accept arguments and become … a believer in God. Faith is the grace and we should pray for other people for … the grace of faith. When somebody is granted such a grace (and I can see it with people going through conversion), he becomes faithful to Jesus, although there are still many events ahead of him, which can take him away from faith, especially during the period of conversion … In such situations, the Eucharist, confession provide strength. This is the power which is above all rational and sentimental arguments.

 

Flight

 

I will not see You, Lord, with my eyes

I will not recognize the space of Your Kingdom with my sight

And even if I were an eagle of faith

Flying high under the sky

I would only experience a momentary freedom

But this moment is like a beautiful butterfly

That came down only for this peculiar time

And draws me closer toward the light of an awesome purity

This light shines with colors like a diamond

I plunge my memory there, without fear

To turn it into eternal life

Pulsating with joy of the presence of God

And though the wings of my flight are human and weak

And woven out of earthly matter

I come back to earth, with a gift of prayer

Painted with love, with the hands of the holy angels

My eyes didn’t see You, Lord

Up there, in this remote space

But my soul was enchanted

Being stroked with a diamond of Your Light, Lord

And she keeps picking me up from Earth to Heaven

Desiring to be nourished with Your Holy Love. 

 

 

 The miracle of human life

Although I am sinful and not humble
And so very human, indeed
Although my days flow with a melancholic current
And no miracle comes out of it
But there are the days, maybe just the moments
Which change the ordinary life
And the pictures that are strongly entwined into daily life
Become so uncommonly beautiful …

Well, a stranger passes by
With a joyous smile on his face
A bird landed on the head
Of Mary’s statue by the church wall
The bird sings loudly as if it wanted to chat with Her
Some old women talk over maters with passion
Of their secret, family squabbles
A nun, near the altar, moves silently, like an angel

And ordinary gestures, like a daily meal
At some moments, there are so sublime
A talk, like others, about trivialities
Suddenly becomes a mutual confession, without a confessional
There are the days when there are such moments of life
As if a great artist painted them
And they flow down on ordinary human daily life
With a grace of seeing beauty

There is Great Love, somewhere high under the clouds
And It watches over Its children, like Father
We just have to raise our heads higher toward Him
And listen to what He whispers to me, to you, to everyone
And while listening to His words, we will notice the beauty
That is locked within the moments of daily life
A smile, an ordinary conversation, a nice gesture
Even a bird on a stony statue
Oh, just a miracle of human life.
 

We can’t react with impatience, anger, or criticize people who say that they are non-believers. Our life should be a good example for them to follow. God has His plan for them, too. Our prayer for them - it is our Christian duty. We don’t know their souls. When we base our faith only on feelings, sentiments, then it may become not durable. We should keep reading, keep learning about God, about saints and get to know the teachings of the Pope and the Holy Scripture. As Catholics, we must be educated, have arguments during discussions with non-believers, and what is the most important - we must have courage to proclaim our faith. Jesus was healing the body in order to heal the soul. The soul can’t see God unless it is healed … healed with the grace of faith.

Great miracle

We demand new miracles from You, Lord
As if the cross of The Savior
Weren’t the great miracle

Prisoners of death, we beseech for the miracle of healing the body
And the soul, pierced with sins, despairs
And dies slowly, without love

We wait for signs, and demand gifts
Uniformed in conceit, with petitions in our hands
Why is it so difficult to kneel?

Jesus left the holy words in the Gospel
Dust covered the Book, the letters got faded
And we - write our own books

Oh, people, so deaf and blind, hungry for miracles
Every day, near us, the great miracle occurs
In the offering of the Holy Mass, in the Eucharist.


In the arms of the cross

Once I approached God like a child
I looked for consolations, signs
He was listening, I was talking …
But the day came when the shadow of the cross of Christ
Came closer to me
And marked my life with a cross
Words sank at the bottom of silence
The cross of Christ and mine embraced each other
In a merciful hug
Now God was speaking and I was listening …
I didn’t shout out of pain
Embraced by the arms of the Savior’s cross
I was listening in stony silence
I didn’t want to deafen His words
My shouting would knock my cross down to earth
The cry would pull it out of the merciful arms
I would become a grave, full of sorrow
Distracted from hope and love

I stand in the shadow of the cross of Christ
Sometimes I raise my head high toward Him
And ask, like a wounded person: why?
He points to His blood and wounds
And answers my question with a question:
Why?
Once I was speaking to God and He was listening
Now, in the shadow of His cross, I am standing with my own
God is speaking and I am listening
Sometimes we have a dialogue
I hear words in my heart, I see beautiful pictures
He feeds me with the Eucharist, with the Gospel
So that I could endure, in the shadow of His Cross
In Adoration of His pain, His suffering
In faith that He is the Savior of the world
That He is the answer to every human question
The doctor of people’s wounds
The Mercy that suffers with us together.


During Thursday, exorcising Mass, performed by Rev. Szymborski, for healing, I felt a childlike, happy joy, as if I were at the wedding party. I saw in my heart a vision of people in the church, dressed in long, white robes. The atmosphere was light and solemn. The gray robes were gone … It’s very strange, I thought. Why? - I heard in my heart - indeed, you are the guests at My Feast, at the Tabernacle. I dress your misery in the wedding gown. I understood that by coming to the Mass, we become the wedding guests. Jesus is the Bridegroom. Our robes (I mean the spiritual robe) should be solemn, light and we, the guests, should be full of love, sharing with Jesus our holiday joy of participating in this unusual encounter that the Holy Mass is. The experience that I had, was, as if it were a continuation of the previous day when after the Holy Mass, during Adoration, I “conceived” a poem: “Like a bridesmaid”.

Like a bridesmaid

I would like to follow You, Jesus
Like a bridesmaid after her Lord, The Young Bridegroom
And see the edge of Your gown near my eyes
The sign of Your holy way

Human eyes and legs, so weak from sins
Must rest and the night envelopes them
At night the way is hard and dreams make sanctity fall asleep
It’s so easy to get lost

Human voices, firm and bold, wake me up
They point to the way, marked by the world
They show bills and tempt with the income
The holy road disappears behind the fog

But the heart is vigilant, joined to the soul
It wakes longing and hurts with memory
And orders to be watchful and sends the prayer
And points to the way of The Bridegroom again

And You wait, Lord, for those asleep by the night of the world
Not in the wedding gown, anymore, not shining with light
But with the cross on the back, bleeding with sins
On our human roads

How many times I fall asleep, Lord, the night of weakness makes it
How many times I lose the rim of Your wedding gown
How many times You wait for me so that I didn’t get lost
With the cross on my way

I would like to follow You, Jesus
Like a bridesmaid after her Lord, The Young Bridegroom
Give me, Lord, the grace of vigil in prayer, on my knees
So that I didn’t lose Your holy way, out of sight.


Grain of love

I kissed the cross on some Good Friday
And embraced the feet of The Savior
So living and warm the wood of the cross was
Like fresh bread in the hungry hands

The rustle of feet of the faithful, going to the cross
Sounded in my ears, like a sublime song
I couldn’t turn my eyes away from the cross
And I heard in my heart … I desire your love

I was standing calm in meditation, like a tree after a storm
Unknown love poured over my soul
Tears were running down my face, I felt no despair
With this gift, God wanted to move my heart

I received Your gift, Almighty God
And wrapped it up with prayer not to get frozen on the way
I bring it every day, in the offering of the Holy Mass
So that You could see, Lord, that I didn’t lose it

You sowed the grain of love for You in me
Give me the grace of growth of being a flower, with beautiful scent
And when I struggle with the Goliath of despair and sorrow
Please be with me, don’t let me separate myself from Your Love.


Where shall I look for love?

I thought that love is like beauty
Just by its glance
It sows good
I thought that love is visible
Like the sun in the artist’s landscape
But it is not like that …
The sun and beauty glitter but love is missing
My heart began to look for love
Not in the glare that makes you dizzy, not in deceptive words
It happened, like a vigilant detective, seeking the truth
In man
I discovered love in a sermon of a country parson
Tormented with a chronic disease
He knelt with difficulty, as if pressed down with a cross
I saw a desire to pour over love
In the gesture of shake- hands as the sign of peace
In the eyes of almost a hundred- year-old woman
I saw the poor sharing love with each other
I heard love in prayer
I felt love being transmitted from the healthy hands to the ill ones
In hospitals, hospices
This love didn’t shine with the beauty of the world
It wasn’t dressed in colorful clothes
It was the grace in man’s heart
Like a gift from God that no currency can evaluate
Often nailed to the cross of illness, of devotion, of humility
If you want to touch, to know the truth about love
You must get closer to the cross of Jesus
Because without the Truth of His cross
The beauty of the world glitters … but love is missing.

Medjugorje. It is my successive pilgrimage to this place of prayer in the world, where the Holy Mother appears before the seers and passes on Her messages.
There are still discussions concerning the authenticity of the apparitions, and millions of pilgrims still head to Medjugorje, seeking the direct contact between Heaven and earth.
Adoration of The Most Holy Sacrament - it is one of the most solemn moments in Medjugorje. In the church, pilgrims are densely crowded, man almost touching another man, different languages, different culture of behavior, color of skin, various life experiences - just a piece of the world that is tightly closed in the church of St. Jacob, it is even hard to turn around and there is an overwhelming mood of calming down, of prayer, we have so many problems to convey to Jesus … But man is only man, he suffers from various pains, inconveniences … Jesus, I say, how beautiful and difficult Adoration is in these conditions … And then my heart prompts the answer. I hear: you adore Me with your love, but at the same time, you learn how to “adore” man beside you, as a beautiful person. Without this love toward your neighbor next to you, without respect and tolerance for his “difficult” presence in this dense crowd, what value would your love for Me have? I looked around and experienced a feeling of unity, nobody was irritated, everybody smiled whenever there was an inconvenient motion of his neighbor that was tightly squeezed. I felt joy of being with these people that I would probably never meet again. No complaints, no irritation. The Holy Host on the altar joined all who were hungry for Jesus’ Love … but also for each other’s presence, as people who have respect for the mystery of the value of each man.
During Adoration, it occurred to me that The Holy Mother wants us to love Jesus as someone who is like a beloved, close relative. May women and men love Him with the love of mother, father, brother, sister. May they think about Him constantly and want to offer Him beautiful thoughts and behavior. Indeed, we are ready to devote a lot, for someone that we love in the family … Jesus is as close to us as our own child or brother. Jesus is invited to our human family. We shouldn’t leave Him at the altar in church, but let Him live with us, in our poor or rich house. What is the most important is that He shouldn’t cry because of us, and shouldn’t suffer, so that we could apologize to Him for our wrongdoings, the same way as we apologize to our beloved ones. In Medjugorje, near the church, there is a figure of Resurrected Christ and for the last few years, pilgrims have been touching and wiping the liquid that is leaking out of the statue, with their handkerchiefs or tissues. I pray to Jesus and, like others, I want to touch these spots. Pilgrims take these wetted tissues to their close ones in their countries. It is one of the signs of Medjugorje that is not explained by the local church. When I approach the statue, like others, I hear: this handkerchief will touch the body … but not the heart.

Mary of Medjugorje

There is such a place on earth
Chosen by Heaven, sanctified with the feet of Mary
Enriched with the words of messages
The place of graces, conversions, longing - Medjugorje

The place where once goats roamed
Today people stubbornly go on pilgrimages
To the crosses that mark the places of the Apparitions
To the hope of touching the holiness

On these hills, they leave letters, photos
Their own traces, messages for the Mother
About their lives, desires, sorrows
Oh, Mother, they ask, please come and read …

Hope, that is walking by, lifts up the ill
Higher and higher, over the stones and pieces of ground
The body that is anxious to experience the miracle of healing
Believes in the power of the place where Mother was standing

You came down, Mary, on a little cloud, on Podbrdo
And look anxious from Kriżewac Mountain
You bless and collect our “Hail Mary” in Your hands
Like a ransom for our sins

You take all this to Your Son, so that His merciful hand
Didn’t fall on this world with justice
Look, Son, You ask, at these pilgrims
Wait, there is so much love in You …

Medjugorje, being stepped on, with millions of feet
Filled with daily life, songs and prayers
Be the field of hope for the doubtful, thanks to Mary’s graciousness
Be the blessed peace for those who believed.

 

 

You, Who are in humility

It’s so easy to say: I love You, Holy Mary
And so difficult to put together, in the prayer of life
The pearls of all its mysteries, the gift from God
So easy it is to agree with God’s will
When the warmth of gifts heats the heart
So difficult it is to hold the Rosary in the hands
In the Sorrowful Mysteries
Then our Rosary of trust and fidelity gets broken
We keep repeating: Hail Mary, we lose words
We shift on, with impatient hands, the pearls of events
Where despair, infidelity, illnesses reign
Blessed are You among women
You, who, in humility meditated over the mysteries of Your life
You, who were standing at the cross
You, who didn’t cast away the Mysteries of the Rosary of Your life
Help us say patiently, with dignity
The whole Rosary of our lives
All of Its mysteries
And when It gets broken in our hands
Being pain-afflicted, falls out of the hand
Please give It to us, join the pearls, cover with the coat of Your graces
And be with us until the very end
And repeat for us: Lord be with you.


Pilgrimages with my angel

You have been running after me, my guardian angel
For many years now
And being a gentleman from Heavenly world
You don’t reproach me with my age
Maybe you thought, she will sit down at last and will sleep more
And I will take a little nap
And will clean up my wings more carefully and will rest

But I, a few times a year
Take you on my pilgrimage tours
And force you to get up at dawn
And let you fall asleep late at night
We have visited many sanctuaries together
In the crowd, in heat, tired, hungry sometimes
On our knees, we worshipped the Lord and His Holy Mother

You had to carry me on your wings
To Podbrdo Mountain and high Kriżevac
Because my legs were not very eager
On the desert, in Bethlehem and Jerusalem
We worshipped the traces and words of Jesus
We drank water from miraculous springs
Believing that it would strengthen the body and spirit

I still have the memory of the holy relics, on my mouth and hands
In Cafarnaum, I felt Jesus so close
As if time forgot the passing years
In San Giovanni Rotondo, Father Pio
Constantly receives letters, prayers and requests
And He writes back the answers
With the miracles of conversions and healings

You were with me , my angel, in the Grotto of Archangel Michael
You had time to talk with Him
While I was fervently praying
He must have given you some advice, how to lead my soul
Along the holy paths, toward God
I can feel it now, whenever I turn to a wrong direction
And you lead me to the cross

We have passed along so many holy places together
My faithful companion, my dear guardian angel
You learned how to listen to me, and I, how to listen to you
And now I can hear your voice, too, when you cordially ask:
Let us kneel in Adoration, let us plunge in silence
During our human pilgrimage to our Savior
And may your soul worship this holy moment.

Recollections in Olsza (near Łódź), Center of Love of Martha Robin.

There are many beautiful and difficult subjects that we discuss in the group - the value of prayer, our own nothingness, trust in the loving arms of Jesus, wide open for everyone.
We are finishing our recollections, our heads are full of thoughts, meditations. I hear in my heart: yes, My arms are wide open for you … but I also expect that when I come up to you with the cross, full of pain - then you will also hug Me with your heart and console Me …

Whom would I be?

Whom would I be
If there weren’t Your Love, Jesus?
Would I be a creature, looking for food, sleep, fun?
What would the cross be?
It would be just wood made of pine, ash or acacia trees
What would my prayer be?
Just words that fly away with wind
What would the world be?
Just chirping of birds, a storm, a frost or fear
Whom would man be for me?
An indifferent companion along the way
A face only, with a smile or tears
Whom would I be
If there weren’t Your Love, Jesus?

Your Redeeming Death out of Love
Opened the Way with the flames of Your Heart on it
I set my heart on fire with them and light up my soul
I move toward the light …
It lights up human pain and man’s suffering
I see life and the world as Gift
I kneel at the living cross, not an acacia tree
My eyes see my sin
My ears hear Your crying
My heart is touched by Your Love
My life desires Your Word, Your food
Whom would I be
If there weren’t Your Death, Your Resurrection?
Whom would I be, Jesus, without Your Love, without the Eucharist?
Whom would I be?


When I see

When I see frost in somebody’s eyes
I don’t think, you are a bad man
Once, someone changed your tears into icicles
And now you see the world in a distorted mirror

When I see indifference in somebody’s eyes
I don’t think, you are a bad man
Once, someone hurt your heart painfully
And this wound still bleeds much

When I see anger in somebody’s eyes
I think, who taught you this anger?
Wasn’t there anybody near you, man
Who could hug you with love?

We rush blindly and deal wounds
And evil like cockle, litters our lives
Broken families, aggressive children
Nobody thinks about prayer

But there is the Doctor, greatly Merciful
He changes the frost in your eyes into hot tears
He cures indifference with plasters of love
And appeases anger, even the great one

You, the hurt man, just remember
When once, on a beautiful day in May
You received Him, dressed in white
He still watches over you

It is evil that makes you forget about Him
And gives birth to a friendship of man and sin
It is evil that whispers to you stubbornly, every day
You are lonely, man

Come out of the crowd of those who hurt others
You stop, let them rush on
Look for a lost Rosary of your Grandma
And believe, in prayer - no one is lonely.


Before the Feast of the Pentecost 

The Light of Love

Who are You, Holy Spirit?
You appear like a flash of light in my life
You revive from unknown eternity, like morning dew
And light up the mysterious longing in ordinary, daily life
My soul soars up toward Your light
And recognizes the seal of God’s Love
And gets pulled out of this earthly world, like a prisoner
With the light toward Heaven
Up there, in the Heavenly space of God
In the world of His holy laws
The soul enjoys relief
And is touched with boundless love, engulfed by it
And the Holy Spirit rocks, like an innocent child
Pure, beautiful music is all around
The angels’ wings carry my soul
I hold out my hands that desire this beauty
The Holy Mother catches them
The hands look lie hungry birds
Hungry for the final food that feeds the hungry
And cures wounds with the balm of Her hands
She writes down in the heart, the longing for God …
I return to earth at this unusual moment
Protected by a light breeze, on the wings of angels
I can still hear singing of a choir
Whose song, no musician could perform
I hold my soul with my hands not to fly away
She desires to last in this loving hug
Like in a dream that came true
Our time is still here on earth, my soul - I explain
You experienced consolation in the Holy Spirit
Please sing about Him, with the human hymn of gratitude.

Day of concentration in Derdy (St. Faustina lived there), near Warsaw. I take part in Adoration and I am not very concentrated. I think about the beautiful park in Derdy and the statue of Merciful Jesus. When I was coming up to the statue … I saw a beautiful smile of Jesus from the statue, full of friendship and love. I had an impression that He wants to offer everyone some grace. And indeed, it happened so. I received a grace during Adoration … the grace of a peculiar confession without words.

Confession without words

In a little chapel in Derdy
Where Faustina’s spirit is still alive
In Holy Adoration
I experienced a strange confession, without words
As if my soul flowed on the altar
Recognizing the blessed place there
The body was left behind in the pew, humped
Like a statue, ashamed of nakedness

Hot fire went through my whole body
Stirred up by a strange breeze
It came back to the altar, seeking power
The cross with Jesus, penetrated my body
Strange pain was set on fire in my heart
My soul shouted like an injured man
Great repentance for my sins was burning in this fire
I was just a speechless statue …
My heart was filled with gray ashes
Sincere penance engulfed my memory
Tears were flowing rapidly, like rain in a storm
I and my soul apologized to Jesus …
I all sank in this magic moment
And let my soul out of the hug of my body
Go, I whispered, and rest in the arms of Jesus
May His Love …bless you.

 

 

Love letter

I love You, Jesus, during the days that are gray and dull
And when the sun shines and I feel the joy of life
In suffering, I also love You, Jesus
You Are the most tender doctor

I love You, Jesus, when my soul is tormented with strange loneliness
Which is so great that I die away in my own Olive Garden
Perverse Satan prompts with bad thoughts and fear
I wage war with him, for death or eternal life

I love You, Jesus, when I see the beauty of nature
I feel safe in Your arms
And also when there is nothing but emptiness in me
And uncertainty whether You … are nearby

I love You, Jesus, when I look at the cross
I want to relieve Your hands with my painful sigh
And support Your wounded legs with my anxious heart
And take the thorny crown off Your holy head

I love You, Jesus, when I hear people cursing
Then I want to shout loud: have mercy on us
They are so wretched and don’t want Your Love
Please don’t cry, Jesus, I am beside You

I love you, Jesus, when I sink in the darkness of deceit
When I see immorality and sin, clearly
And people around, explain that it is a sign of modern times
Then I feel Your sadness and want to beseech You with prayer

I love You, Jesus, when You wait in the monstrance
For Adoration of the faithful, for their sincere conversation
So many people have no time for You, today
And You are every day, You - the prisoner of the Tabernacle

I love You, Jesus, when I meet beautiful people
Dedicated, faithful priests and monks
My heart is filled with loving sweetness
At these moments, my soul rests in Paradise

I love You, Jesus, when I kneel in front of You
Surrounded with the smell of wonderful bouquets
Do I hear Your voice, or just the humming of angels’ wings?
And the words: I desire more love … and not the fading flowers.

Day after the Feast of Corpus Christi.
Before the Holy Mass, I was thinking about the strength of our faith. In my imagination, I saw a house with a beautiful roof with precisely arranged tiles on it. The tiles fitted closely to each other. The roof (faith) protected us, provided confidence and security against the outside world. So what? - I heard in my heart, one broken tile is enough for the roof to start leaking, that is, one broken tile will make our house get flooded by rain …
Through one sin, tolerance of evil, our house will be flooded by a wave of “rain” from the outside and may destroy what we arranged in it so solicitously …
How much vigilance we need in our faith in God so that it could survive as a safe roof! It requires constant work over ourselves and watching over our hearts, over our negligence in tolerating even small faults.

Desert

You took me out, Jesus, to a desert
To the freedom of meditation of my heart and soul
I stood frightened against this freedom
The heat of the desert’s day tormented me, cold nights froze
Hot prayer intertwined with thrills of cold
My heart was set afire early in the morning
At night, it was put out, decorated with loneliness
Spiritual wind, like a desert storm
Swept out emotions and thoughts without strong roots
A light breeze set new layers of thinking
I saw a beautiful landscape of the dunes
And was looking for a grotto, an oasis of peace
But only silence was singing a strange song, the desert’s hymn
I kept on my pilgrimage in great exertion
Holding out my hands toward the warm wind
My soul and heart were striding in great silence
The laws of this desert were no strangers for them
I heard no human voices, no consolations
Only the rustle of the moving sand, like flowing waves
A strange struggle was going on within me
My soul and heart were leaders in this fight
Thoughts, old problems, seemed to be useless
Like the ballast or obstacle in this hard pilgrimage
And then the sleep came, like a grace in distress
For the soul and heart, so tired of this way
It lasted just a moment when I was on the desert of my heart
And You showed me the treasure … the union with Your Heart
And although my strength was still very poor
To cover this spiritual pilgrimage, with no protective grotto
My heart remembers it and asks every day:
Where to draw the source of power from?
Which are the sources of life, like springs
That we shouldn’t drink water from?
So that we could return again, pure and strong
On our pilgrim’s trail, to the desert of our own heart.


Prayer after the communion

I received You in the communion, Jesus
And still feel the physical taste of the Host in my mouth
I received You, Jesus, with my heart
Which became calm, gentle and merciful
I received You, Jesus, in this communion, with my soul
That became quiet in Your arms
And was set afire with love
You lit up my body, heart and soul
With the candle of Your eternal life
Little flames are still burning in me
I ask my body, heart and soul
Please make one high, burning flame
May it keep on burning without end
With the memory of the Eucharist in the mouth
With merciful peace
With Love
May this Gift fill up my daily life
And burn with the flame of memory about You
May it hurt when I sin
May it warm with hope when I do good
Oh, Lord, give my whole body, heart and soul
The eternal memory …
About Your presence in me!

 

How great God’s love for man is and what actions are undertaken to bring man to this love - this is what we don’t know. It’s God’s mystery. We, people, know only our own hearts, often selfish and trying to do our best to make profits. There are good people among us, we say, and they have angelic hearts. But occasionally, man does fall down and as a sinner, he makes mistakes and gives up. If he happens to be a man who knows how to love, this love is always connected with his human nature. The nature of god is different. What connects God’s and human love - this is what I was thinking about, before the Holy Mass. I looked at the image of Merciful Jesus. Yes, it is He, The Mercy, who is this connector. Mercy joins God and man, like the pearls of the Rosary. Merciful Love of God is a gift, It justifies the sinfulness of man. If he beseeches, It forgives him his trespasses and pardons him. Human love, even the perfect one, thinks and feels within human categories. God’s Mercy - it is a golden chain joining God with man. It is for God’s Mercy that we depend on, when we want to excuse ourselves because of our sins and imperfections. It is thanks to God’s Mercy that we reach for God’s Love. He is always ready to respond to our call. We, like children, must trust that He will not reject us. God’s Mercy wants only our trust. Without this wonderful mediation of the grace of God’s Mercy we will not know God’s Love. I think that God’s Mercy is like a beautiful palace chamber, where God Himself invites us through His mysterious Love.

 

Garden of prayer

 

Plunged in a prayer, embraced with the waves of feelings

I saw a world in my heart, a colorful, living garden

Full of fragrance, delicate plants and mighty trees

But it wasn’t a paradise … a hurricane of evil sometimes bossed there

Devastating the garden, destroying the harmony of the beauty of the Creator

 

This world charmed with music, sounds and songs

Orchestras played the various instruments

There was a hidden mystery of a pure tone in these instruments

The musicians looked for it, it was like a gift for a soul, like peace for the heart

The impatient played falsely, being deaf for the mystery of the beauty of harmony

 

I love this world, born out of prayer, I hide against the destructive hurricane

I listen to pure sounds and look for the flower of my own

The “one day” flowers tempt but they wither fast, for pride is their mother

I look for tiny daisies that are sunk in lush greenery

I am not afraid of … the humility of existence, the humility of littleness

 

I pick up a little daisy and lay it down at the feet of the Lord

I look for an instrument to play my song to the Lord

I see a violin with one string, an angry musician must’ve cast it out

I will take it and hug, it reminds a man, hurt with a suffering

Maybe I will let free a pure tune of my song for the Lord out of this one string

                           There are prayers in this garden, as humble as little daisies

                           There are songs of the angels that can be played with one string

                           There is the Lord of the garden Who hears every human heart.

Litany about life

I pray to You, Lord
With my sorrow, joy, despair and hope
With my every day and holiday
I pray to You, Lord
With my thoughts, love, my poems
With my cross, and faith
I pray to You, Lord
With falling raindrops and rays of the sun
They know sounds, harmony and the light
That is more beautiful than words
I pray to You, Lord
With the humming of a gentle wind in the leaves
It sounds like an angelic choir, whispering: praise The Lord
I pray to You, Lord
With the year’s seasons, with time gone by, with my falls and rises
They taught me dying, passing and rebirth
I pray to You, Lord
With the litany of my life that You invited me to
That is arranged with the mysteries of annunciation:
Of faith, hope and love
You, Lord, are the author of this litany
The composer of its music
Give me the sight, the sensitivity of the heart
So that I could understand and interpret the words of this prayer
According to Your will, and not mine.

 

 

A drop

Your love, Lord
Is like a boundless ocean
My love is like a teardrop or a raindrop
Your Love, Lord
Exists in eternity
Mine, is marked with the years of life, to the end
You, whole are Love, Lord
I put a drop to another drop together
To hollow the rock of my life
And stubbornly mark the way toward You
There are years, days and hours
When the wind blows off the drops of my love
The sun burns them
The heat kills with its dryness
But Truth is mysteriously registered in human fate
With the Holy Baptism
It is shouting, aroused by suffering:
Your drops of human love
Belong to the ocean of God’s Love
I gather these drops patiently
In the vessel of my hungry soul
And like a poor man, carrying a precious treasure
I plunge it in the ocean of Your Divine Love.

After every Holy Communion, I ask Jesus with my personal prayer: Body of Christ, be the food for my soul, Blood of Christ, be the drink for my soul. I have been praying with these words for many years. Today, after the Holy Communion, I heard very clearly in my heart: My Blood circulates in your blood, in your heart. These words had a strong effect on me. We, Catholics know very well about the spiritual significance of the Holy Communion, but when I heard these words, I was deeply touched. I felt almost physically, the power and significance of the Holy Communion. I saw the image of the drops of Christ’s Blood in me. I felt very clearly, that it obliges a Christian to behave with dignity. Whenever we feel temptation to do something wicked, we must realize that we are the carriers of Blood of Christ - this precious gift. This message was so strong and acute that the tears of repentance flowed out of my eyes.

Storm

Like Genezaret, our life gets stormy
Words become fainted from a strange fear
Sleep doesn’t bring any rest
Help doesn’t come
Clouds of mistrust darken
The horizon of God’s Love
We call like frightened children:
Wake up, Jesus, save us
And He sleeps soundly …
The roar of thunders doesn’t wake Him
His face is calm
He sleeps like a man, tired of a journey
And stays beside us, and doesn’t escape
Lord, how great our faith must be
How fearless - our hope
How trusting - our love
When we travel with Jesus
In our boat of life, during the storm
So that we could allow Him to rest … on His way with us
In spite of our human fear
And trusting in His holy presence
Give us, Lord, such love
That thunders of fear for our lives
Will not take Jesus’ presence
Away from our hearts.

Feast of the Holy Mother of Perpetual Help.

Before the Mass, I express myself with a prayer: I am here as a beggar, beseeching You, Mother, for help. Then I hear in my heart: you are my child, and not a beggar. I offer gifts out of love and not the beggar’s alms. My Son offered His life for you. A beggar asks someone for something and gets a penny or indifference or anger sometimes. People are such donors. I and My Son don’t offer this humiliating alms but the grace of love.

To the Holy Mother of Perpetual Help

You are known from the holy pictures and motherly care
Constantly vigilant, You have no sleep, no rest
Listening to our requests and calls for help
You wipe tears of those who cry and You console the lonely
And drive a vehicle of love, along the route between Heaven and earth
You put the baggage of the faithful’ worries at Your Son’s feet
Sorrows of little children, like white handkerchiefs
You give over to angels, let them paint on them
The joyous smiles, with Heavenly paints
Then they fly down with white petals of roses
Straight on the children’s faces, sad and anxious
You are the lantern, lighting day and night
For those who are roaming in the sea of torment
You are the joy for the saints, the hope for the sinners
And never-ending fire for Your earthly children
And Mother for the orphans, caring and tender
Collecting for the dowry in God’s garden of love
The abandoned, You bring consolation to, and protect with the Rosary
So that they didn’t fall into despair and doubt
The needy, You provide with Your pearls
Made out of Your tears, saints collected a long string of them
Each pearl is Mother’s pain, Her help
It’s enough to say: Under Your protection …
Once You sewed Jesus, His earthly robes
Now You offer the priests, the sons, entrusted You
Ornate church robes
And pray for their holiness and their blessed hands
Oh, Mother of Perpetual Help
Vigilant in the nights of our sufferings
And in the days of our joys
We thank God, and The Son, and The Holy Spirit
For The Holy Mother, Her Love and Her Perpetual Help..

 

Adoration in the chapel, beautiful words of the priest. I look at the cross. It is strange - it is a big, wooden cross, and Christ is outstretched on it, the body is shrunk and very thin - He looks like a victim of a concentration camp. Is this a purposeful act of an artist? Or might it be just accidental? I ask in my heart: Jesus, why are You so skinny and miserable, like a starving person? I hear in my heart: I Am hungry for your love, I want you to feed Me with your love. I live because of your love. I desire …
I try to think about the purpose of this pilgrimage, about what we have gained, as a result.
I see in my mind a beautiful bowl, full of water, full of graces. Out of this bowl, graces flow into our hearts, enlivening our feelings, faith, which are often asleep.
The pilgrimage full of sincere prayer, full of our touching the holy places - this is the source of grace. The pilgrims support each other with prayers and share their love. There is time for a daily Mass, for meditation about oneself, for Adoration, all in silence. During every pilgrimage I observe a transformation of hearts with people who began the pilgrimage as “tourists” but they return to their homes being completely changed.

A pilgrimage with a soul

I set out on a strange pilgrimage
My impatient soul suggested it with a whisper
It is a lonely route, a winding path upward
On one side, the forest’s friendly humming
On the other, the valleys with corn and flowers
Birds’ singing breaks the silence
There are clear colors around, sparkling with light
My soul, like a little boy, moves upward briskly
Pain and sorrow leave me with every step
I can see how they fall off me with little, green stones
And tumble toward the nearby stream
I experience a feeling of great love and freedom
From the bitterness of importunate thoughts
My feelings crumble and fall with small fragments
And fall down …
I catch up with my soul and hear a beautiful singing
Raindrops clean my body
I gather them in my hands and drink greedily in advance
The beauty of this trail shines with rainbow’s colors
The warmth of the air penetrates with good and love
How beautiful it is here - I say to my soul …
Let’s come back - I hear the voice …
The soul is in my body again
We are going down to human homesteads
We hear voices of those concerned about tomorrow
I take with me, my longing which still looks back
The beautiful memory of freedom and love is stuck in me
As if somebody framed an old picture anew
I came back from a strange pilgrimage with my soul …
I can still hear that singing …
I can still see that beauty …
I can still feel that love …
There are such pilgrimages that we never return from … completely.

Banneux, Chevremont. Belgium. This is the eight time that I have been in Belgium on a pilgrimage to this very special place of worship.
Every year I watch the statue of the Holy Mother at the Holy Spring with healing water.
This year I was surprised to see the dark hands of the Holy Mother. I pray at the statue, I use water from the Spring, I try to talk with the Holy Mother in my heart. I ask Her why She has such dark, freezing hands.
I hear an answer in my heart: I put My hands in your cold hearts, as cold as this water in the Spring … I thought about human indifference toward Lord Jesus, about my sins, about multitude of our sins committed against Immaculately Conceived Mary, about lack of love. It is Mary who puts hands into our hearts, She tries to “warm them up” with Her own love toward Jesus. Perhaps here, just here at the Spring in Banneux, such miracles of heart transformation occur?
We have recollections and we discuss the very nature of the prayer through the heart. The pilgrims give interesting examples. An idea occurs to me concerning a situation how a common man exists as a Christian in everyday life … God does not require heroic acts from us, nor great victories. It is enough when we perform acts of love toward our fellow human beings in small things.
When we feel anger, aggression - we should overcome it within ourselves - this is the task for our mind, will - this is for Jesus.
While living our own lives we should notice other people nearby, their needs, feelings, but not “sink” in our own worries. Somebody might say that it is too little … Actually, it is very much to control and overcome our egoistic nature.
It has been said in the Gospel: He who is faithful in small things …

Gift of joy of life

When you wake up in the morning, with a prayer in your mouth
When you rejoice seeing light, trees and the sun outside the window
When your heart is filled with strange happiness
It is a great gift, although you sometimes forget … from whom

When you see beauty in people’s eyes
When your ears are filled with good words
You hear beautiful songs, a bouquet of flowers makes you happy
It is a great gift, although you sometimes forget … from whom

Give us lots of such gifts, Lord
May Your will touch our hearts
May the gift of life be our thanksgiving
And may prayer be - our joyous adoration of You.

I participate in the healing Holy Mass, celebrated by Rev. Jan Szymborski, the famous exorcist. Before the Mass, the faithful pray the Rosary. I look at the beautiful cross with Lord Jesus, stretched out high on it. There are always many intentions connected with human suffering at such Masses. I look at Jesus and try to calm down … then I hear in my heart: human suffering, the cross that is put on our shoulders - if it is borne with patience and people yield to God’s will - then this cross lifts man up high, toward the cross of Christ. Up there, the eyes of suffering Christ and suffering man meet together. Jesus gives human suffering the strength, He ennobles it. Being close to Jesus, suffering man looks at life that is going around him, as a peculiar value, and not as living through another day and passing from day to day. And although he suffers from pain, from illness, from being abandoned - it is then, when he has this special love of Jesus. This love gives him the power of gentle and patient looking at the world, at other people. Such man is close to the eyes of Jesus who is nailed to the cross. The eyes of the sufferer and the eyes of Jesus stare at each other, they are close to each other.

 

Words of love

I look in my heart
For my own words of love for You, Lord
Like the ripe fruits
In the tree of my faith
I raise my eyes toward free birds
Maybe they can find words of love that were lost long ago
In the Heavenly space
I look at the holy pictures, faces lost in thoughts
Silent pietas, carved with a chisel of a sculptor
I listen to music of great masters
Although they are dead, they still live through their notes
Works of love never die …
How beautiful the silence of the sorrowful pieta is
The faces of saints on the pictures
The flight of birds with no rustle
The quiet glare of the sun, the silence of the night
But still, words want to describe the beauty
Of this silence of love
You gave us a gift, Lord, of the language of love
You use it to answer us, You listen
And wait patiently … gracious, merciful
Until we understand the grammar of this language
Until we adore You with the right words
You patiently wait, Lord
For the works of love of each of us
For the pietas of life, for the concerts of the soul and heart
Unique, individual, beautiful
You wait for the psalms
Written in the language of love, Your language
Describing our own lives, day by day.

 

 

Superhighway

 

The world lures us with illusion of great spaces of action

With a wide superhighway, full of precious stones

It shouts: catch a stone of success in science

Then you will become a famous discoverer

Bend down for a shining stone of talent

Then the world will adore you

Pick up a rock, even a heavy one

Then you will have a privilege of authority

And being lured with the cries of the world

We pick up the stones from this highway of conceit

 

We run proudly with a stone of talent

The noisy crowd doesn’t listen to us

The new generation creates their own science

When we carry the rock of authority painstakingly

The stronger removes it from our hand with a trick

Then feeling disappointed and sad

Fighting for our talents

We see the end of our efforts

Still hugging our stone to our chest

But its glare is gone, covered with a shadow

 

There is such a picture, given to people of our age

When you kneel before it, under the feet of the Lord

You will see the highway … toward the Heart of Merciful Jesus

There are two rays around, red and pale

They are marked with the blood of the Lord and the stream of the Sacraments

They show the way toward His Heart, with the light of Love

Please enter this superhighway with the psalm of adoration

Give away your life and will to the Heart of Jesus

May His blessing multiply your talents

For the glory of God, for the joy and hope of your brethrens.

Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross.
Before the Mass, it occurs to me that the “world of faith”, the world of God can be “seen” only with the heart, soul. The soul is the mirror, in which we can see God’s values. The world that we live in now, appreciates only this what it sees with eyes, namely the concrete things.
The soul “sends” to us, beautiful images explaining to us, or passing on the values of faith. Thanks to prayer, to our participation in the Mass, to contemplation - the beautiful images of the world of God are reflected in the “mirror” of our soul. We can not see them with our eyes. When we carefully listen to the “meditations” of our soul, then we receive many beautiful thoughts or even teachings that penetrate us deeply. The mirror of our soul must be clear and we must be free from mortal sins and ready to receive God’s images and be sensitive to the world of faith. Unfortunately, the outside world damages the mirror of the soul and current events pollute it. It often happens that when some beautiful image is created within us, we consider it to be an ordinary phenomenon and then we drop it and return to the reality that we see with our eyes.
Faith in God - it is a profound, mystic experience, it is the reflection of the world of God’s values in the soul, not through our eyes. Let our soul “see” the miracle of Offering during prayer, during the Holy Mass, let God’s world of values be painted in our soul. The Holy Spirit paints beautiful images and communicates with words in our soul, and the proof and testimony of this, is when our faith is strengthened and we have courage to practice it and have more and more sensitivity of conscience against sin.

Exaltation of the cross

 

When the hangmen lift You up, Jesus, on the cross

Clothed in the offering garment of Your blood

Then I see the perfect love

Not the one that lights up and goes out

But the eternal love …

I see the Truth about the Offering Love

And I see those who soar high

Together with You, Jesus, on the cross

The martyrs, priests, monks

Ready to offer themselves for the Eternal Love

Up there, high on the cross

They look for the Truth about love, the human and God’s love

I take the source of power from Your injured Heart

To give the testimony of faith

About love which is offering

About love which is given away like a rich-man

Who gives away from the palace of his inexhaustible treasures

The treasures that the world doesn’t know

For they are never-dying …

And one must have the courage of the Spirit of Love

To rise up together with the cross of Jesus

And to crucify the body and will

To sink in the essence of His suffering

And to proclaim to people that love

Is not a pleasure to enjoy feelings

But it’s a precious offering, the adornment of Jesus’ cross

It is a human gift of man for another man

Reciprocating for the Love of the Savior.

 

 

Confession

Once I roamed around, with an angel
In the strange, misty space
With dried-up grass around, carelessly scattered stones
I wanted to pass round them and look for an easier way
But the angel told me to bend down
And read the letters, engraved in the stones
He, himself got lost somewhere in a thick cloud
And I was going around, reading the inscriptions
Like a bent plough-man, in his penance clothes
On every stone, there was a sin, engraved strongly
Nearby, there was a cross, stuck in the grass

I sprinkled every stone with my tears
Seeing my own faults there
Those that I forgot long ago
And those that I didn’t want to remember
I was cuddling to my chest, like a priceless treasure
The cross standing by the stones
I saw Jesus’ eyes, suffering
At every cross, where He fell down for me
It was a holy moment, so clear and transparent
Purifying my soul, in my sins’ self-examination
Like the Stations of the Cross of my life

Somewhere high in a distance, in the sunny space
I saw a lonely confessional
The angel carried me up there, like toward the source of hope
I knelt down at it and cried, like oppressed Peter
Who denied his Lord three times
In the confessional, Jesus was sitting, though He looked like a known priest

I put down the stones of sins there, in humility
And closed my eyes, in this unusual confession
I heard a quiet voice, or it was rather a whisper of love:
Don’t scatter your moments of life carelessly
You are My sister, for whom I died on the cross
God conceived you for My Love, and not … for sin.

 

As people believing in God, we realize that life on earth is like a peculiar pilgrimage, whose final purpose is to return to Father. This way of thinking is stuck somewhere in our consciousness, more often as an experience of our mind than our soul. We are used to living on earth and we treat it as our only world. We know its rules, we stride across this world, learning its rules as early as in our childhood. We get used to daily “practices” of our earthly world. And it happens that these “practices” absorb our lives so much that we forget about the higher purpose of life, about our final destiny. And one day, a dream or a whisper (maybe it is our Guardian Angel) makes us aware that we were sent to this earthly world with the “holy memory”. This memory is a reminder of … where we come from, who placed us here and what for. We should nurse this “holy memory” as the highest value of our human dignity.
One day, I experienced such “holy memory”. I see in my dream that somebody places me in a certain family, leaving me for “some time” and cares for me, giving me an Angel, who reminds me where I come from. This experience referred more to my soul than to my body. I experienced awesome happiness and a feeling of safety, other than this on earth. I think that due to this “holy memory”, there are beautiful works of architecture, music, painting - created out of the dazzle of the world that we are heading to. This dazzle allows us to see the beauty of nature as the gift of God, reminding us where we are going, while striding in dignity on our earthly pilgrimage and nursing the “holy memory” of the world that we were sent from. We were sent to fulfill our mission which has a deep sense in God’s plans. So we should eagerly pray, so that this holy memory didn’t escape from our lives and that it wasn’t removed by life’s pragmatism which is only bound for survival. Let us be the artists of life because we come from the world of Beauty, Good and Mercy. We were not left here only for suffering, for fulfilling our needs and for struggle for survival.

 

The Silence that hears

 

There are moments, woven in a mystical world

Being born on the edge of a dream, falling into the heart like a pearl

And they touch us … without any touch

With just a glance, with a light movement of the wind

They are in prayer, spinning somewhere between Heaven and Earth

These moments are like swallows with blades of grass in their beaks

The blades from the world where time doesn’t exist

From the world of eternity …

 

I touched such a moment unexpectedly

Maybe a swallow dropped a blade of grass near me?

Maybe an angel opened ajar the door of his world for a moment?

I hid this moment in my heart like a thirsty person

The mysterious gift …

The gift of this moment was … the wonderful Silence

Not the vacuum but … the living silence

Flickering with light, with moving pearls of water, with particles of desert sand

 

This Silence … was listening, though it was silent

My happy soul was swimming in it

With no touch, no words, it was discovering the creative power of this silence

The power of love, peace and joy was shone through with the light of silence

The moment has passed, the moment of mysterious encounter

Maybe the swallow picked up the dropped blade of grass and flew away?

Maybe the noise of the waking day frightened the bird?

But I haven’t lost the memory of that gift of silence …

                      It is with me in the silent whiteness of the Holy Host.

 

Angel of Prayer

I met an Angel of Prayer
Between sleeping and waking
His wings were made of concrete
I thought, the sculptor didn’t finish his work …
I carry your prayers up to Heaven, He whispered
Difficult, full of grief, indifferent
Mechanical, like clicking of a computer’s keyboard
Words are flowing … but the heart is asleep
God wants the words, created out of love
As simple as the begging eyes of a child
I want your days to be turned to me
May they be a constant prayer
I felt pain, hearing the Angel’s sorrow
And recalled my own prayers
That were only sowed with many words
God, I whispered, forgive me my every prayer
That only flowed out of my mouth, and was outside my heart
I was grateful to hear the Angel’s teaching
Still having His image in front of my eyes
He wanted to raise His concrete wings toward Heaven
Bur those indifferent, heartless prayers, lacking concentration
Didn’t let Him rise above the earth.


Two loves

When love is just a beautiful dream
It becomes a property of poets and passing stanzas
Such love demands beauty, graces, generous gifts
Suffering eyes make it ugly, tears cause stains
It dies of fear when mutilated hearts and hands
Touch its dress
What is such love for, man!
Meet Love that wears a thorny crown
It carries the cross, also yours, It dies and saves
The eyes of this Love aren’t afraid of your heart
That is torn with the sin of stained hands
Love that carries the cross of the world with its pain
And yours
Gives hope for ,,, your beauty
It bestows longing upon you
Which becomes a guest in your heart
Like a generous host
And provides many gifts with your every whisper of prayer
And is never tired of your fear and tears
My faithful companion of daily wrestling with evil
Oh, Sacrificial Love, You come out to us
With the Promise of Salvation
And pour the longing for pure love into us
And wander around the world with the cross of our humanity
Please stop in front of me, in front of every man
And wait patiently, until we bow to You
Sometimes with the shame of sin
And sometimes with the grace of … Your Love
That was poured into us.

I was just waking up early in the morning and I heard strange words, as if somebody was finishing his speech: you are sometimes worse than animals in a herd … I was sorry to hear that but I started to think over these words. Man, contrary to animals, has a gift of heart, of immortal soul, besides that, he has intellect, sensitivity, mind, but … Do we live properly in this so-called human herd? Do we have a sense of safety among strangers? I leave out family conflicts and tragedies connected with that. We pass by other people on the streets, like indifferent creatures, everyone is deeply absorbed with his own problems, there is too little smiling and sensitivity. There is too much boorishness, too many curses that hurt feelings and the ears. An ordinary “good morning” without looking into the other person’s eyes, without well-wishing, even in church, the exchange of the sign of peace, is so formal, so compulsory. It all looks as if we weren’t joined with this thread of humanity, as if we didn’t want to be together while there is so much despair around us, because of loneliness, indifference … We experience all this ourselves. And maybe, sometimes, it is worth showing another man, a complete stranger, a smile and good will. Maybe he will get “infected” with this and pass it on?

Courage

You were so lonely, Son of God
At the Stations of the Cross, in spite of the crowd of people
I think that today, You also go along these Stations
Like hundreds of years ago, in Your Jerusalem
You fall with the burden of multitude of our sins
And console those who raise their laments
Over Your cruel suffering
You, alone, keep going along these Stations
Also in my times of the XXI century

Contemporary people look for You today, but not at the Stations of the Cross
They look for You among the glare of lights and sublime songs
And although they sing Hosanna out loud
They are defenseless when they suffer, just like You, Jesus
Then You wait for them, Lord, on Your lonely way
Staring intensely at any man
Who will courageously and trustfully come up to You
In spite of the executioners with a hammer and nails
And who will be ready to join Your suffering with his own

At such a beautiful moment, the eyes of suffering Jesus
Will meet the eyes of a suffering man
And God Himself will paint this sorrowful icon
Where the Son of God is in a loving embrace
With man who is also afflicted with pain
Jesus waits for such encounters, on His way
Lonely at the Stations, with a heavy beam in His hands
Up there, when He is about to die on the cross
He will show His Father, your human sufferings, too.


A traveler

I received You, Jesus, into my life
As a traveler with Good News
And You became my guest
Although the house of my soul is poor
And I don’t have royal garments for You
You are within me, like a prisoner of Merciful Love
Not for my merits …
I thought that joy would come along with You
Ordinary, human
And my days would be like autumn calm
Like a reward for a painful heart

I received You, Jesus, into my life
And I am surprised to see compassion in Your eyes
And hear this simple question:
Do you know Whom you receive?
My eyes, my mouth, my heart shouted - I know …
You sat at the table, in the house of my soul, with some baggage
And took out the thorny crown and nails
You let out the words that offend You, into the space and darkness embraced my soul
The words were so insensitive and hostile
Your bleeding tears were falling on the table
And You asked again: Do you know Whom your guest is?

I received You, Jesus, into my life
The homeless guest of Merciful Love
I cuddle You every day, in the Eucharistic Offering
I feel strange peace in my heart, although it hurts
And I try to take the thorny crown off Your head
So that You could rest for a while in the house of my soul
I call Your Mother for Your consolation
And invite the saints to collect Your tears
I feed You with my own suffering and have no regret that the world hurts me
And try to change the words that offend You, into the words of beseeching prayer
I learn love from You, the Guest in the house of my soul
And every day, I search for the answer to Your question:
Do you know Whom you receive?

                              

During the octave of Christmas, when everything shines and Christmas Itself becomes a kind of “hustle” to arrange everything perfectly, except for a spiritual experience. While I was praying in church, in front of the crib, I felt strange anxiety. I had an impression that, at that time, little Jesus wanted to convey something essential to me and share the pain that afflicts Him, with me. Later in the day, I reached for “The message of Merciful Love to the Little Souls”. This Message is a contemporary account of a dialogue between Jesus and Margaret, the woman who passed away in Belgium, not a long time ago.
After praying to The Holy Spirit, I came across a passage that thrilled me. I quote:
Behold, I tell you: for every innocent life, destroyed at any time, after conception, which is the most monstrous of all punishable deeds - a hundred human souls that are burdened with this guilt - will repent for this crime for all eternity. In the name of justice and law, that they refer to - they are unpunished when they murder the work of The Creator in His creation, this little infant, this tiny bit - in the womb of his mother, who is personally guilty because of her accord for this horrible crime. My child, pray for these victims of hell.  For many days, I was thinking over these words of Jesus - The Infant, who fights for the right of human infants to survive. How indifferently, some of us approach the problem of abortion, how easily they excuse themselves … How important every conceived life is for God. How easy it is to conceive life in our times of sexual profligacy … and how easy it is … to kill a conceived child because the very act of conception was not an act of love but it was just a moment of oblivion. Along with these reflections, it occurred to me that our recent sufferings, family conflicts, illnesses - which seem to us to be undeserved today - are the consequence of abortions, committed by our relatives or by ourselves. And our tolerance concerning these acts, deserves a severe condemnation by Jesus.
We love Christmas, its splendor, the warmth of the family table and beautiful, colorful cribs. The Little Infant in the crib of the XXI century is not only a plaster figure, holding out its hands to the faithful, but it is also a living message for the present-day people. The point is that we must open our ears and hearts to receive this message, even if it were the most painful one.

A drop of Love

I will not know You, Jesus
Unless a ray from Your heart
Pierces my heart

I will not know Merciful Love
If I hold the world in my arms
And not You, Divine Infant

I will not know the fate of my soul
If I imprison it in my body
And not allow it to fly up toward The Creator

I will not know You, Jesus
If I don’t accept Your pain
And hang a veil between me and the cross

Fill my heart, Jesus, with a drop of Your Love
May it become abundant rain
And wash out the egotism of existence

Be a housemate, Lord, in my heart
And not a wedding guest
So that I could live with Your Love

Pour the power, Lord, the grace and the courage
Into my frightened, human heart
So that it learned the beauty of Merciful Love

To experience Your Love, Jesus, and fill our hearts with It
Is to know the mystery of God’s plan
That involves our lives.

A snowy, windy day and I am not in a very good mood. Somewhere in my head, there is a feeling of being “abandoned” by Jesus. I have an impression that our mutual closeness, somehow, got loosened. I know that these are not good thoughts but … I am only a weak person. During a short meditation, after receiving the Holy Communion, when I am able to say only: I love You, Jesus - hot tears flow down my face … and then I hear the beloved voice: yes, keep telling Me about your love, your words “glue over” My ears with sweetness and then I don’t hear the blasphemies that people treat Me with … After the Mass, there is the display of The Most Holy Sacrament, the faithful pray with the Chaplet to the Divine Mercy. I adore Jesus. In my imagination, I see a large vessel, filled with colors. Many dark ones but also some light ones. There is a little pearl at the bottom of the vessel. I can’t understand this image very well and I try to concentrate. Then I hear in my heart: the light colors, these are prayers - beautiful but sometimes very superficial, the dark colors - these are our sufferings, doubts, this is what depresses us in life and covers God and His Heart. There are people who, like this vessel, are filled … only, with these colors. There are other people who have the pearl at the bottom of their soul. And although this pearl is covered with “daily life”, that is, with dark colors which want to weaken the soul, yet this pearl is “living on” and doesn’t allow them to be plunged in sadness and frigidity. And just with these people, when they hear bad words and blasphemies about God - then, this pearl in their souls, that is deeply hidden, comes to life and brings out the Truth, and doesn’t allow them to be engulfed in indifference against evil. Their hearts are severely hurt, but there is more courage to oppose evil. This pearl is like a hurting thorn and it doesn’t allow to forget about our Savior and His Teaching. And although their lives could be “crucified” with many sufferings and thoughts about being “abandoned” - they don’t renounce their faith, they don’t yield to the philosophy of this world, even if it is often very convincing.

In the freezing, winter morning

I would like to receive You, Jesus, in the Eucharist
I would wear a white dress, shining with jewels
With a flower wreath on my head
Like the noble deeds
With a dress trail, woven out of my virtues
Which I could offer You
I would like to receive You, Jesus
With a basket full of joy
And prayers like the purest pearls
I would like to …
In the freezing, winter morning
I am heading to You, Jesus
Being sunken in dirty snow
A little short of sleep
Wrapped in cold air
Filled with boring sadness of daily life
And if it weren’t for my heart, hungry for Your love
My body would get stuck
In laziness of common daily acts
I would miss the miracle of everyday Eucharist
My desires would go into oblivion
About my dreams of purity of my soul, in a beautiful dress
About the wreath, full of virtues
About hope that my prayers would become pearls
That You would perceive
In the freezing, winter morning, I am heading to You
Wearing a warm cap, but not with a flower wreath
In a coat and not in a white dress
A little short of sleep, a little sad
Dragging along a baggage of worries behind me
Like an old shopping cart
Then I sit in front of Your altar
And say: I am here, Jesus, because I feel hungry for Your Love.

I am at the morning Holy Mass and I feel a need to offer It for my parish and the priests that serve here. In my heart, I send my Guardian Angel, with my intention, to the altar. Strange, but at this moment, a big, golden bowl appears in front of my eyes. I ask my Guardian Angel, like a child: why do You need such a big bowl for my intention? Then I hear an answer in my heart: you send your intention, you, a little child … I fill this big bowl at the altar, with many God’s graces. You will receive more graces for your praise-worthy intentions for the sake of others, than for your own, personal matters.

 

Lullaby

 

There is time when our soul and body

Exhausted with the running life

Looks for quiet havens and roadside chapels

Far from noisy crowds and loud singing

 

Out there, warm wind softly blows over a tired face

No voices of appraisal of criticism are heard

There is Mary with the Infant in the cradle

Waiting to talk with you, to listen to your story

 

Being engulfed in silence, like in friendly waters

Our eyes rest from the twinkling pictures

Our ears get rid of the sounds of penetrating thoughts

We seek truth about ourselves, while talking with the Mother

 

And though a painful sign of passing time

Has touched our faces

And suffering dwells in our body

Yet we kneel before the Holy Mother with childlike humility

    

And the impatient time disappears

In the heart, we find the child’s desire of Her Maternity

Lonely, jealously hidden in the mature body

The need for Maternal tenderness and the words: “my child”

 

There is time when man loses appetite

For the splendor of the world and its gifts

He leaves the running route of the human marathon

To hear a quiet, beautiful lullaby from Mary

             About the Love of Her Son toward the earthly children.

After the Mass, during Adoration, I ask in my heart, with a great concern, why there are so many people who are indifferent to faith? How can I beseech You for them, Jesus? I hear an answer in my heart: in your world … you live as if you were in a pond. You can feed only as much as the pond gives you and it gives very little … I think over these words. Indeed, we feed with outside values, with opinions coming from the outside, with mass media, with what the world shows us as values to be consumed, with what is accepted by common opinion. We often feed with … petty-mindedness, with the poor food “from the pond”. How to persuade the dwellers of the pond that there are seas, oceans, God’s world - rich with great Love that can offer man higher spiritual values than ordinary, material consumption. Nowadays, the task is more difficult for priests to teach people to “get out of the pond” of their values and aim at the higher, more spiritual ones and people should look around in the boundless ocean of graces, and look up higher, further and feel that they are something more than the crowded fish in the pond. We need charismatic priests for today’s society. The priests who can “walk over the sea”. Let us pray to God to give them the grace of taking people out of the crammed ponds of materialism, mediocrity, yielding to trifles that the world feeds us with … and locks us in the uniform ponds, so that we didn’t see further and higher. Let us pray for charismatic priests (like our Pope), who are getting people “out of the ponds” and direct them toward the sea, toward the horizons of spiritual values, toward God.

 

The world of screens

Staring at the world of screens, laptops, mobile phones
We see the world behind the dimmed windows
Covered with fog of other people’s thoughts and feelings
Words are flowing from the screens
Like sweets from a torn-up bag
All looking alike
The true life passes by
Computer has no memory for feelings
Somebody is dying somewhere, a mother is crying over her child
An old man is looking for hope behind the open window
But we … send a short SMS
Nobody has time today
For long, patient talks
The hearts, hungry for feelings, are dying out slowly
The heads are hidden in the screen
Sorrow and despair are not fashionable any longer
We believe that a doctor can cure them very fast
We buy a new laptop for the children
To let them know that we love them
And so, time passes, day after day
Faster than the hands of a clock
Somebody sent us SMS:
You know, I think Martha died
Well, we think, that’s life …
But the life behind our screens
Is not the real life
The real life has the eyes of a child waiting for his father
And the silent mouth of his mother
Who doesn’t want to steal your time with her words
The real life has no remote control to be switched off with
It is still awaiting
With the great need of love
And it ticks like an old-fashioned clock, striking loud tunes
And reminds of a frail life of man
Of his real life, not the one on the screen
And at last, of the truth, well known for some
And very painful for the others
That someday, each of us will receive his last SMS
And not from the earth … but from Heaven.

 

Contemporary Emmaus

How to speak about You, Resurrected Jesus
To those who escaped from Jerusalem to Emmaus, out of fear?
How to turn them back from their way, so that they could believe
And could recognize You, like those disciples
By the way You shared the bread with them?

How to speak about You, Resurrected Jesus
To those for whom God died on the cross forever
And they don’t want to believe that He is still alive?
How to fill their emptiness of lack of faith with Your Love
So that they could recognize You in the Eucharist?

How to speak about You, Resurrected Jesus
To those who take crosses off the walls
And decorate them with idols’ posters?
How to silence their mocking laughter
So that they could hear Your voice?

How to speak about You, Resurrected Jesus
To those who suffer and lift up their groans to You
And wrap up hope in the black shroud of mourning
At their child’s grave in the cemetery?
Don’t they want to pray anymore?

Like those disciples, on their way to Emmaus
I ask You questions, defenseless in my ignorance
How to turn back those who escaped into the path of no faith?
And those, whose eyes were blinded by suffering
My contemporary refugees from Jerusalem?

There are as many ways to Emmaus as people in the world
Each of us has a plan how to escape from the cross
Even those who stood fast beside You, Jesus
And the yelling crowd made them reject You
Is this the way how sin deprives of courage and faith?

I lay my sorrowful hope in the arms of Your Son
You created man on earth, Lord, out of Love
And also, out of Love, You will direct everyone to Mount of Transfiguration, Tabor
And even if this Mount were the earthly Golgotha for many
There is Jesus, up there, on the Mount, sure to hold them by the hand.

 

Adoration in Łagiewniki (Center of Divine Mercy in Cracow).
I participate in this all-night vigil in a beautiful sanctuary of The Divine Mercy. It is the beautiful time of prayers but rather difficult, due to physical fatigue. I feel great joy and grace of being in this place. I add many intentions to my prayers. One of them is for those who are far from God and live in sin without any regret for their behavior. How to evoke the will to return to God in them? In my heart, I see a strange image and there is no beginning, no end in it, it is simply flowing on … In the upper part of this image, I can see beautiful glare with warm and joyous light. However, at the bottom, there is fast-flowing black water full of trash. I have an impression that it is a stone-paved street with a gutter. This beautiful glare above, is shining but it doesn’t move. Only this dirty trash is flowing. I think that this glare is God’s grace and awaiting. Between the glare and the blackness, there is empty space. I think that this empty space is the place for our prayers for sinners and apology for our own sins.

To a pilgrim

Don’t touch the holy places only with your eyes
Set your heart free
Let it fly as a pigeon, with a stalk of your prayer
It will leave it on a holy picture or a figure
For all of the days of your life
And will retain the memory of your visit there before
Because today you are somewhere else
May your constant prayers bring strength to you
When no miracle occurs in your life
Even if you want it so much
Connect yourself to the holy place with the blessed thread
And when you close your eyes
Then images of holy places will be living in you
Let your hands remember the rough walls of temples
And the warmth of the sun-heated stones
The softness of The Jordan waters, The Galilee Sea
And desert sand and holy relics
Remember the tears of strange joy
At The Holy Masses
And a sigh of gratitude: thank You, Lord, that I am here
Don’t touch the holy places only with your eyes
With hustle and bustle of pilgrims’ confusion
Millions of feet smoothened the stony steps of temples
Millions of mouths whispered their prayers there
You are not just a number in this crowd
You are a gift, a vote for the holy place
Do your best to make it the gift of love.

 

 

 

Mountain of faith

 

Man’s faith in God

Is like man’s pilgrimage through life

It gets nourished on the green pastures

It starves in the fields infertile

It is a constant climbing higher and higher

And falling off the sharp edges of the rocks

It often needs a helping hand

And the hooks, stuck in the rock

By the guides who lead us

So that we could rise up painstakingly

Or sometimes sit down alone

Among the unfavorable high winds

And listen to our heart where God speaks

And trust in providence, but not in our own strength

 

Man’s faith in God is like climbing with a cross

Bestowed upon us to fight the weakness of the body

On the empty rocks when hunger threatens

We lift up our heads to get the Eucharistic manna

There are moments of bright joy when we reach the top

And other moments when we are suspended over the abyss

The moments when we hug the cross, like the last resort

And other moments when it slips out of our hands …

There are no easy paths up this mountain of faith

But there are men who did reach the top

They are witnesses for us with their lives and they say:

The pain of this climbing is the sense of our existence

The reward is the hands of God, reaching out to those …

Who take up the hardship … and persevere

 

 

 

Tears

 

What can I offer You, Holy Mother

That would be a holy gift, pure and worthy?

I am man, anointed by earthly dust

Infected with sin and constant penance

 

But there are peculiar moments in my life

Born out of a desire to encounter God

They are adorned with angelic silence, hope penetrates the heart

And it flows down my face with the gift of tears

 

Oh, Mary, Holy Mother of Jesus

I want to offer You these tears, for there is no bitterness in them

They are like flowers, the gift for my immortal soul

And they bloom under the dew from the Cross of Love

 

And You will not despise, my Lady, this gift of man

In Your hands, the tears will change into pure pearls

Put them into the hearts of the depressed sinners

May they hide "Under Your Protection" forever.

I had a strange dream. I saw three olive trees on the hill. Above the trees, there was an inscription on a ribbon: what is your faith like? I had an impression that those three trees are like the three crosses on Golgotha. There were human figures, moving around the hill. Some of them, on their knees, were coming close to the tree in the middle, the others were planting colorful flowers. Those who were on their knees, were praying. There was empty space around the tree in the middle, and some trodden-out field. Those who were planting some plants, were very busy with their work. My eyes caught sight of those who were planting flowers but I was also observing those who were on their knees and were moving painstakingly toward the tree. While moving, they were even pulling out the tiny plants that started to sprout out in the empty field, around the tree - cross. Why are they doing it? I associated this empty space with a hermitage, with getting rid of our attachments. The tree - cross formed some space around it - the school of trust. There was nothing to distract attention. Those moving on their knees, didn’t look back. There was some amazing determination about them. I admired them. The inscription above: What is your faith like? - was twinkling with golden letters. Whom do I belong to? - I asked myself this question. Do I belong to those who stubbornly move toward the tree - cross, or to those who stop to plant colorful plants? Although it is a great job but, at the same time, it is strangely aimless, because I noticed that the seedlings were getting withered …
Faith - it is the total trust in God, it is to create the empty space for God’s will, in our lives. Some people declare that they are very faithful but, at the same time, they still have fear which blocks their absolute trust in God. We are already on the hill of faith, but … instead of going forward, we stop in order to “grow” plants of our own attachments and desires. These attachments can be beautiful, very human, even very religious. While turning our eyes toward the ground, toward “growing our attachments”, we don’t notice the inscription: What is your faith like? Do those who reached the tree - cross without fear, who reached this empty space - know more about themselves and about their trust in God? Having heard the “teachings” at the green, olive tree - cross, they will also come back in order to sow I have seen it. But their plants … didn’t wither. At the tree - cross, there is empty, trodden-out space that still waits for the courageous.

Oh, my prayer …

 

 

Sometimes our prayer flows with words

It resembles a river current, gentle and sleepy

The essence of words gets lost somewhere in routine

This prayer does not move our soul

 

When suffering touches our life

Prayer becomes a call of a painful heart

Every word is like a stone thrown into the river current

Like a shout of a drowning man, it rises up to the Creator

 

Oh, my prayer, don’t be like a stream of words

Become the rock where I meet the Lord

Become a conversation with Him, suffering in Gethsemane

And waiting for my love, for my “I desire”

 

Oh, my prayer, it’s better for you to be silent

To be Adoration, listening up to hear the voice of the Lord

And not to be a plentiful of words floating beside the heart

Which is busy with its own anxieties

 

Oh, Lord, teach me the difficult prayer

The conversation with the living Savior

May the words of prayer be the bridge of trust to You

That is put over my fears, sins and false whispers

 

Oh, my prayer, be my desire to converse with the Lord

Who Is the Holy Listener, waiting for love

Don’t be a litany of a deaf and blind heart

Not hearing His answers to my prayer.

Tragedy of Polish plane crash in Russia.

Human pain

I have seen human pain shouting out so much
That I felt that the air around
Was changing into ice blocks
Ready to hurt everyone with lack of hope

I have seen human pain expressed with words
They were beautiful, changing pain into a poetic spectacle
Pain itself was getting lost somewhere, covered with poetry
It was washed off the heart and flew off in the space

I have seen human pain in the eyes of the sufferer
It flowed out with the mystery of his heart
The sufferer protected it with his silence
But he kept this experience within himself

I have seen human pain circling around the places
Where man once tasted joys
Of being together with a loving person
In different houses, cities, countries

I have seen human pain being subjected
To the power of alcohol, narcotics, fun
So that these kings of soul destruction
Could possess man and disappear into oblivion

I have seen human pain at the cemetery
Sobbing over the tomb of the close ones
Unprepared for departure
Still immature to be cleansed with tears

I have seen various pains of man, with my eyes and heart
I have not seen Yours, Jesus, on Calvary
You didn’t cry, You didn’t beg, You just carried the cross of suffering
In silence, but Your eyes saw, Your heart felt … our suffering.


Flower of Hope

There are not enough words to express suffering
Words are passing and short-lived
Suffering has its home
In the crystal vase of soul
Filled with sharp stones
Which get displaced in strange silence
And still afflict new pain
As if pain didn’t have the mouth
So that our crying lifted it up to Heaven
Only our human eyes, these mirrors of soul
Can express it through tears …
But there are more tears than words in this world
And they fall into the crystal vase of soul
And soothe the pain, but bring no oblivion …
Only prayer can sanctify
Human suffering, huge and choking
When we carefully take the crystal vase of soul
In our own hands
And pass it over
Into the hands of Merciful God
Then He will put the bud of the flower of Love
Among the stones of human suffering
And maybe we will not hear His words
Because of pain
But the flower will feed
Out of our tears and words of prayer
And then it will blossom, sowing around the smell of Hope.


Can we?

There was an orchard with a large apple tree inside
With fruits as red as Christmas tree balls
The orchard is gone now, the tree was cut long ago
But I … still see this tree

There was a house, not big, just two windows and the door
Inside, there were beloved people and a gray cat
The house was demolished, the people passed away long ago
But I … still see it and hear their voices

Can we see what is gone already?
Can we hear voices that got silent?
Oh, how beautiful you are, memory of the heart
Being able to see and hear what is not with us any more

Oh, how precious you are, the gift of seeing and hearing … through love
You do make possible to hear, even in silence
And to see beauty where our eyes don’t see it
You allow to touch the mystery of the value of man’s life.

It is very late and I can’t fall asleep. I pray and my heart prompts that this prayer is very important for somebody. Then I decide to offer these waking hours in the intention of someone that needs help. I am strangely convinced that this partial night vigil makes great sense. I “give away” my comfort, my rest.
Then I hear the words in my heart: your prayer can be either like alms, or … like a beautiful gift. I think over this sentence. What is our prayer like? Is it just words spoken out only with our mouth, as if we were giving someone a bit of alms, out of something that we have in abundance, pretty often, out of a duty of doing a good deed? Shouldn’t it be a prayer where God is the “recipient” of a gift of the poor, who offers God his most beautiful thoughts, feelings and intentions? Shouldn’t it be a gift of the poor who searches within himself for a precious pearl and wants to give it to God? He offers the best that he possesses and not what he has in abundance.
The Rosary is certainly valuable, if prayed regularly (as a personal duty), but while praying It, is there love in our hearts for Its mysteries? Do we feel the beauty of this prayer and Whom we pray to?

 

 

Message of faith

If you were a famous theologian
Explaining mysteries of creation
And your words don’t open hearts for God’s love
Then they will be just a theory, closed in the reading room

If you proclaimed sublime lectures about God
In rooms filled up with listeners
And didn’t have time to talk to a man in doubt
Then you will be just an imperfect teacher

If you pray eagerly
And your day is filled with the Rosary Mysteries
But you indifferently pass by a man in need
Then, your prayer is just dead words

If you were a famous doctor, a medicine inventor
But your hands don’t touch the sick
And there are no merciful words of hope, flowing from your heart
Then you will be just a popular scientist

If you want to make a pure, angelic singing, out of your life
And a man beside you, seems to sound like a false tone
Then recall the parable about a shepherd
Who painstakingly looked for a lost sheep

You are noble when you give your love to family
And when you honor your beloved dead ones
So why is your heart lazy when someone asks for help?
Are your eyes shortsighted when they see strangers’ suffering ?

When you, talent-gifted, create beautiful works of art
Prayer of gratitude say then, don’t show your pride
God granted you with grace, His own trust
That you will speak about His Love to your fellow men

Lord has given us a hard message of faith
Its holiness is not in love for beauty, fame and perfection
But in diligent hardship of loving another man
Which is a daily teaching for the heart, not just on Sundays.


The lake

I look for a lake with a smooth, clear surface
So that I could dip the stare of my eyes in it
And have no fear that the reflected image
Will be distorted
Deluding imagination with beauty but not with Truth
I look for a gentle lake
Stuck in the valley of greens and flowers
The lake where birds sing
Angelic psalms above
The lake where Almighty Love looks into
And time does not reign over these waters
There is only here and now
And soul, freed from weakness of the body
Is soaring up into … freedom
People say there is no such a lake
But the memory of it is stuck in my soul
The anxious heart looks for the lost image
It looks for the artist who has painted it
The Heavenly Genius who makes man free
When people’s eyes get engulfed with complete devotion
In the boundlessness of the eyes of His Love
Over the gentle lake, in the valley of greens and flowers
Where birds sing angelic psalms.

Pilgrimage to Banneux, Belgium.
I am in the Chapel of the Picture of The Holy Mother. I thank for the possibility of coming to this beautiful, quiet place for the ninth time. This is my nine-year novena. This place makes every pilgrim calm. Beautiful alleys, all nature direct our attention to Holy Mary. Many ill people ask for the grace of healing both the body and the soul. Prayers over the Holy Spring fill the silence. People in the wheelchairs come with their caretakers from the nearby hospital for their prayers. In this sanctuary, we can feel the specific maternity care of The Holy Mother. I pray in front of Her Picture. I dedicated this pilgrimage in the intentions of Holy Mary and of those who asked me. I think that it is great grace to have this possibility to come here for the ninth time. I dreamed about that with my first stay here. Every time I come here, I feel as if I come back … home, with my beloved Mother waiting for my arrival. I am praying now and I am plunged in a strange joy because of this beautiful Encounter. Then I hear in my heart … I invited you to … dinner (???). Take advantage of the graces. So many graces as you receive, so many you will share with others …Dinner - it is the most satiating feast - and I think over this sentence in my heart. It is also long time of “feasting”. It is an enormous grace of hospitality. I feel great joy and inner peace, like an undeserved gift, like the one that only Mother can offer to Her child, regardless of his imperfection. I want to keep this joy in my soul so that I could reach for it in my daily life.
Pilgrimages to holy places provide a possibility for the heart to “rest” from the outside world, to “lift oneself” in prayer toward God, to recognize His Will. This is the time of “silence of the body” so that the soul could “shout”. And finally, it is a beautiful conversation of The Creator with the creature, with Holy Mary as the Mediator.
During this pilgrimage, in another chapel, we were having the Adoration … and suddenly I heard in my heart … I want to see you joyful, and not sad. It is a beautiful sentence - a Christian should be joyous in his prayer - conversation with Jesus. He should remember that he is loved with the most beautiful love. The Love that the world will never bestow upon us. It is the Merciful Love, always forgiving, expecting. How can we not trust this Love?

 

Message from a picture

 

Oh, Holy Mother, with Jesus in Your hands

I’ve been staring at You for many years

And though my mind knew the truth

About Your mission

A transparent screen separated us

The screen of the heart that didn’t love enough

And a peculiar day came along with a daily Mass

On the Feast of the Holy Mother of the Rosary

The screen fell down, pulled with an angel’s hand

And my heart was touched with a mysterious flame

It was like a gift and grace …

 

The Holy Mother from the picture came to life

Gone was the border between Heaven and Earth

Mary was carrying God the Savior in Her hands

And He wasn’t the God from unknown spaces

He was close as if daily life was His life

And a thought came to me like a luminous spark

Mary is carrying Jesus in Her arms

So that we could take Him in our hands from Her

And the Patient Mother is waiting on the holy pictures

For somebody to hold out his hands to God bravely

So that She could give away Her Son into our hands and hearts

                                   That are hungry for His Love. 

Joy

Joy has come to me
A strange, Beautiful Lady
I didn’t meet Her in my daily life
She became a guest in my heart
And filled me with flowers’ aroma
I shrouded Her with white cloth
She was singing the Mysteries of the Rosary quietly
And calmed down my body and emotions
She was spreading Herself inside me with healing nectar
Sometimes She was silent
Getting sleepy from the humming trees and falling rain
From the water drops from the Holy Spring
I touched Her with my prayer
I showed Her the faces of people, mentioned the names
Of those that I pray for
She came to life with a delicate movement of the heart
Giving a sign … I Am
Don’t be afraid, I will not go away …
I am not a candle that burns out
I am like a child, conceived in the mother’s womb
And I am waiting for a beautiful birth
When you become mature for the time of the Great Cry
Giving birth to Love for God …
In your soul.

 

 

A Queue of Life

 

I stood in a Queue of Life …

It was winding like a colorful rope

Made up of human beings

Cast among the days and years of our existence

The murmur of human voices announced great gifts

The first in the queue will get them

Peculiar was this queue

Made up of patient people, with the Rosary, Bible, prayer

And those unquiet, running out, seeking their own ways

Bored with waiting

Days and years were passing

Full of movements in the Queue of Life

The Rosary and Bible fell out of the hands of those waiting

Hope got weaker in the Queue of Life

Some departed, being tired of carrying the cross

That fell down from the clouds unexpectedly

They felt disappointed with such a burden

Others held the cross tight and embraced it …

I was rising and falling in my hope

Taking turns while entering the light or the darkness

The darkness shouted: there will be no gifts left for the last ones

The light increased my faith …

My Angel was standing by, like a mighty Guardian

Stand, He shouted, when my legs got weaker

And I keep standing in this strange Queue of Life

Like the biblical workers who came last for their pay

Believing that God, in His Treasury of Mercy

Has a golden coin of Love, as well - for the last ones.

At the end of the Mass, after the Communion, I feel in my heart peculiar courage to do noble deeds, as if someone poured this courage into me, and gave me enough strength to recognize between good and evil. Then I hear in my heart: everyone who has courage to oppose evil, even if this may cause suffering, is a royal child that I place on the “throne”. I understood how essential it is to fight our own egotism and comfort, and when we close our eyes, seeing evil around us. Every act of courage, even a small one, to proclaim the words of Jesus through our actions - is like rising higher toward God, toward perfection. Along with this, Jesus’ power comes to us, our faith gets stronger. When we cast away the grace of sitting on this “throne”, then we fall into the “mediocrity of sin”. We were offered a choice … either to fight for this “throne”, often against ourselves, (which is a difficult task), or remain in the “mediocrity of sin”, which is seemingly more comfortable, providing momentary pleasures.
The next day, after the Communion, during a short meditation, I feel in a very human way that the Mass conducted by a priest, is done very … “routinely” and hastily. I pray for this priest. Sometime later I apologize to Jesus for my “human dissatisfaction”. Then I hear in my heart … pray for him, don’t make yourself guilty. Every man who invites a “craftsman” , would like him to do a good job, so that his work could bring results and the faulty

mechanism could be repaired and last long …

 

The image of the soul

 

You have sent down my soul, Lord, to the Earth

Painted with Your colors, the shades of hope

Her beauty was shining with the beauty of the Creator

In His likeness

 

On earth, she became grey, whitened from tears

From worries, struggles and suffering

From doubts, pain and fighting with evil

She looked like a picture covered with fog

 

I search for the primordial colors for her, Lord

Pure, bright, and sparkling with light

I try to wipe off the grey fog with Mary’s dress

And give her more courage with the Scapular

 

I see my soul as an old picture

The dried-up paint comes off, the lines fade away

But it is still the work of an artist

The Artist of the eternal glory

 

I place my soul, Lord, before You

On the easels of my body

In Adoration of Your Merciful Beauty  

And I beseech: restore her colors with Your hand

 

Please enlighten the pale image with the Holy Spirit

I give away my will to Your creative intentions

Not to admire the image of my own soul

But for the glory and hope of the Creator of souls.

 

 

The window of the Altar

 

My heart got spliced with Yours, Lord

In the Communion of love

With an invisible knot, tied with God’s grace

Two hearts, imprisoned

Joined together with a string of love

Yours, immortal, created out of Love Itself

And mine, fearful by weakness

We look at each other through the window of the Altar

Widely opened with the merciful hand of God

There are days when I feel You in full light

And nothing separates my heart

There are other days so dark that my heart

Overflowed with tears, is covered with thick fog

And Your picture, Lord, is gone

My heart, struggling with its own thoughts

Gets imprisoned in a cage of egotism

Then I stubbornly look for …

The new eyes, the new heart

The new light, Your light

The light which will cleanse my earthly eyes

From the raindrops of anxiety and frigidity

I believe that You, in the window of the Altar

Hold in Your strong hand

The string of love that joined us together

And the power will flow out of Your hand

And will change my darkness into the light of Your Spirit

Then I will lay my weakness under Your feet

So that the flame of Your Heart could burn it. 

 

 

Go ahead of me …

Go ahead of me, my Guardian Angel
So that I could follow Your traces
Light a torch in the darkness
Then I will not lose my way in this light
Teach me words of love for God during the day
When I get weaker and weaker
And my ears will be deafened by the world’s commotion
Pull my hand with a hand of some holy man
Take me to a temple
So that I filled myself with joy of the memory about our Savior
Force my eye-lids to cover my eyes
To allow my soul to contemplate images
That the eyes are not able to see
I can see high walls on my way
You know the gates hidden there
Please lead me through them
So that I didn’t get round these walls
By using a safer, more comfortable way
Where I won’t get hurt
Sing me beautiful songs every day
Adorned with music of the world that You come from
Lead me to little chapels and holy places
Let me adore our Lord together with You
There, in the holy places, You will enjoy some rest
From our hard pilgrimage
And please whisper at Your Lord’s altar:
I brought You, Jesus, a weak man
And although he is weak, he does not throw away his cross
He keeps looking for You, so hold out Your hand to him
Bless him for the present and future days on his way.

Sometimes a strange woman comes to Mass. Her outer look (clothes), her behavior during Mass are different from standards of normality. At one moment, I looked at her with irritation. And then I heard in my heart: just think - don’t you, people look like this woman, in My eyes? Poorly dressed … because of sin, ugly … because of sin, sometimes self-conceited and vain because you think that you are better than others … but I love you so much!
I thought that we stand before Jesus, at Holy Mass, just like this woman, being taken off the outside garments of all appearances that we wear. God sees our all disability, our hearts that want to hide, forget our common sins, our impurity of thoughts and hearts. He knows our “illnesses”, although others don’t notice them on the outside. But despite that, we are so much loved by Him! Once someone said that church is like a hospital, the ill come to the Great Doctor, Jesus, so that He could heal them … with the Eyes of Mercy, and not with severe, evaluating justice.
At another Mass, conducted by other priests on Friday (when we usually have the Stations of the Cross prayers with our prayer group), I thank Jesus for this Mass and for the charismatic priests, I experience a strange feeling as if I drank some crystal, clear water from a cup. Now I will go out of church in a moment, and into the world where there is so much scum water …
Then I hear in my heart … remember about the taste of this clear water. Those who know its taste, will not want to drink the scum water. But the worse problem is with those who “don’t come to Me” to drink clear water and they know only the taste of scum water. Pray for them

 

Contemplation

 

We send to God our requests and prayers

Litanies, chaplets and psalms

There are days when our hearts

Want His Love so much

That all words sink in a peculiar longing

And silence becomes our prayer

The mouth is closed to all thoughts

The heart experiences the harmony of breathing

The ears get deaf to any rustles around

The body is congealed in contemplation

Senses, free from pictures and sounds

Absorb silence, while adoring God

And we can go on like this, as if time didn’t exist

With a granted grace of this unusual encounter

When even the angels get silent

Paying homage to this holy moment

The moment of the loving encounter of man and God

Oh, the blessed time of this great contemplation

When we give away our soul to the Lord

May Your hand, Merciful Lord

Pour the drops of Your Will

Out of the Cup of Your Son’s Passion

Into the lives of ours

And may this prayer of the heart, poured in, with Your grace

Become the Glory, for the Holy Spirit

In this Adoration enchantment and contemplation.

 

 

Countenance of love

 

Man desires love like a flower needs water

Without it, flakes of hope fall down

And the bud of new life gets dry

Human love is always thirsty

It loves … to be loved

It is born with a glare … and fades

It suffers when is driven to the desert of indifference

Not resistant to injuries

Changeable feelings rock the human love

Like a wind does with the branches

Human love, even the most beautiful

Is defeated by death, wrapping it up with a black shroud

 

There is Love which does not die, does not cast away

It is royal, noble, eternal

It is dressed in a beggar’s garment, with a cross

It is begging with a longing in the eyes:

Trust me and you will never feel a hunger for love

I will offer you love that gives birth to love

Then you will become a patient love-giver

And not a wanderer, looking for feelings

I will sow longing in your heart and will strew gifts on you

And will sanctify your days with the power of My Love

Then we will go through life together in sorrow and joy

I Am the Spouse who is faithful … forever and ever.

 

 

You are for me, Lord …

 

You are for me, Lord …

Like the hand that rescues me from the abyss

Like the prayer that raises me from my fall

You are the cross that I climb up to You

The meadow of love, full of white daisies

The fragrance of hope when disappointment surrounds me

The young wine, inflaming faith

You are for me, Lord …

Like the psalm, creating words of love

The music of harmony, appeasing anxiety

You are the Father who is not frugal with gifts

The hand that dresses wounds with caress

You are the thought that brings sense to our daily life

The mystery of Heaven that You want me to know

You are for me, Lord …

Like the Merciful Love, the purest of all

Which gives the most beautiful gift

The Eucharist, the Body and Blood of Your Son

The Miracle, ascending straight from Heaven

With this Miracle, You want to lift me up toward You

Through His Offering, You want to make me a child of Yours

You are for me, Lord …

The Light that leads me toward Your Love.

                                                                                                                                                       Easter is a beautiful holiday. At this time I feel this peculiar presence of Jesus. Crowded church and some running children “disturb” me just out of human point of view. But I try to focus on the Solemnity. In my imagination, I “come out” or rather take my soul to the waters of the Galilean Sea. It’s night time and I hear a splash of the waves, delicate, rhythmical. Over the water, I see a large, red ball in a distance. It is not the time for the sunset. The red ball approaches the shore and becomes enormous, like the Holy Host, filled with blood of Christ. It embraces the space around and absorbs it. I feel as if it absorbed the whole world and blessed it. On Sunday’s Holiday morning, I adore Jesus in my body, I just received the Holy Communion. Some thoughts come to me as if somebody were teaching me … All human feelings, the evil ones toward other people and also the ones that cause passions (human love) must be “cleansed” in Jesus’ Love. Otherwise, they restrain our freedom and make that human love also evokes jealousy, a tendency to “possess” completely the loved person. The surrounding evil also confines the space of our pure freedom and takes our time for unnecessary angers. The Holy Mother, who loves Her Son, shares Her own Beautiful Love toward Him, with us. Jesus, I pray, grant me such love which I can share with others, free from human defects … My eyes are closed, my heart is hungry for the Beautiful Love. Suddenly I hear a knock as if someone dropped a heavy object. I open my eyes .. it was the Host that fell on the floor during the Communion. How come such a tiny, delicate Holy Wafer could cause such an echo? Was it just I who heard it? I still hear this echo in my ears, as if it were directed to me, to everyone who wants to receive Your pure, merciful Love, Lord.  And I beseech: give my soul, Lord, Your pictures, words and music.

 

Easter meditation

How much of Your Love is within me, Jesus?
And how much is of my own?
How much of Your redeeming cross is within me?
How many crosses are there, made out of my own sins?
You assigned such a meditation for me, Lord
As a hard examination from my testimony of faith
When You resurrected this successive Easter

How much uncertainty, how much fear for the lack of faith does man have
So that he could totally open his heart for You?
And trust in Your Divine Message?
How much area must our souls clear up
In their immortal space
So that they could put Your redeeming cross there
And trust You completely, here on earth?

Give me, Lord, the eyes and heart of Your saints
Give me their faith, childlike and pure
If You acknowledge that I get enough strength from Your cross
Then also, don’t rid me of the dark nights
Give me joy, Lord, when I feel You, standing by
Let me touch Your cross, when I suffer
So that I could recognize, in this meditation about life

How much of Your Love is within me, Jesus
And how much of Your redeeming cross is within me.

 

 

Easter hope

The world didn’t give man’s heart
The rhythm that beats only with a breath of joy
The wind from over the desert brings a blow of evil
Sowing death, blood and wars
Man’s heart, frightened, tries to be protected
And looks for safe places when it loses courage
Its rhythm slowly gets weaker with lack of hope
Salty tears deprive of sense of life
And the heart, threatened with infirmity, is slowly dying
Locking itself in a coffin of despair …
Evil throws a bunch of soil at this coffin
As if it wanted to bury the last breath of hope
And defeat man’s heart

But there is medicine for the heart
It cures and lifts from the grave of despair
It is the cross of Christ, driven into the Golgotha rock
It catches the wind of evil in its wings like in a net
It feeds a dying heart with drops of blood of its Passion
Giving him a new hope
And man rises from despair
Staring in trust at the One who defeated death
He shakes off the bunch of soil that evil threw at him
And holds on to the cross, stuck into the grave of hopelessness
And the holy breath of grace fills the body with courage
And with new power, man starts his journey of life
Not alone anymore and defenseless, but with Resurrected Christ.

 

 

The garden

 

Submerged in contemplation, looking for the beauty

That I wanted to adorn my soul with

I saw a garden, like Eden in a spring blossom

It fascinated with the details of awakening nature

The coniferous trees, proud and lofty

Boasting of greenery and throwing down the leftovers of snow

Apple and pear-trees were holding out their branches

In a begging gesture to feel the warmth of the sunrays

For the being born buds of new life

 

I held an apple-tree branch, to feel the scent of life’s hope

It shone with green buds that were in a hurry to bear fruits

New greenery of grass was growing out of the ground

Deafening the old, dried-up shoots

Like a memory that one wants to forget

And discover new wishes and desires in himself

The spring sun was seeing itself in the snow-melted puddles

It was breaking down the stubborn clouds with its glare

Chasing them in a childlike game

 

A bird began to practice chirps shyly

Being surprised with this early stimulus

The wind was blowing slightly through the garden

Like a conductor, looking for the musicians for his concert

So much beauty was there in this garden, painted with God’s imagination

So much happiness penetrated through my heart, like a gratitude prayer

Oh, God, I thought, why do we look for miracles in cosmos

And break the space with rockets to feed up our knowledge?

Man needs a miracle of the signs of Your Love, to feel happy

                         In the beautiful gardens of Eden, of the human heart. 

 

I have gone on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land for the third time already. The time of this pilgrimage included the period from the Feast of the Descent of the Holy Spirit until the Feast of the Holy Trinity. And it wasn’t accidental. I dedicated this pilgrimage in the intention of spiritual transformation and greater growth of my faith. I wasn’t concentrating on the outer sights, walls, stones but I desired to be strongly touched by the spirit of the Word of God. And I wanted the outside rustle and bustle of the pilgrims (there were many) not to deprive me of my inner silence. I wanted these short moments of these holy encounters to yield some spiritual fruit. I desired to feel the inner dazzle resulting from the bestowed grace of being in these holy places. I accepted the scorching heat, crowded places as a necessary gift in order to learn how to share my experiences with others, and how to just learn to love my companions from our pilgrimage trail.

 

Pilgrim’s joy

 

I have touched you three times, Holy Land

Your beauty remained in my eyes, your love, in my heart

Overfilled with longing to seek the pure source

On the Day of  Descent of the Holy Spirit, I felt you once more

I have already known your temples, street noise, rustle of pilgrims

This time I sent my soul on a pilgrim’s trail

Let her gather spiritual treasures while hovering over the holy signs

The treasures of faith, strengthened with the Word of God

I made my soul free, following her with my thoughts

But my body was stuck in the surrounding reality

My thoughts were rising up toward God …

 

I was looking for the Countenance of Jesus in the humming waves of the Genezaret

And also in that storm, in Peter’s boat, thrown by the waves

I wished to hear Jesus’ breathing in Cafarnaum

Resting like a tired man after the hardship of traveling

I penetrated into the depth of stony plates with my imagination

The Lord with the cross was moving along the way among the Jerusalem’s bazaar stands

My soul was dead-stiff in sorrow, stumbling over the pain

The pain was still stuck there, adorned with His blood

The pain that penetrated through the air like an incurable wound

Lots of fervently praying and fast-moving people in basilicas

Contemporary times piercing into the history of Salvation …

 

Everyone wants to touch the talisman-like holy traces

A long procession of people surrounds the Lord’s Tomb, the Bethlehem Cradle

I have just a while, Jesus, to feel the warmth of these places

And to hold them in my hand, to give them to my heart to keep

We keep on our pilgrimage with my soul to Sinai Mountain

Toward the sun rising up from behind the mountain at dawn

Moses and God, the stone boards of the Commandments

The Voice of God sounded from this place

The miracle of the encounter of the power of Love and Justice

Man on this mountain, like a grain of sand

The grain that wants to be close to God to become the tree of faith

 

I plunge in beautiful joy, as pure as mountain air

And find the space that lifts me toward courage

The courage of faith, despite storms and hostile waves

The courage of Veronica with her loving gesture and Simon discovering God

I desire the prayer that will bring over the Countenance of Jesus

I look for the words deep in my heart, even those hidden, unknown

The silhouettes of praying Jews at the Weeping Wall

Look to me like eternal signs that survived through ages

Because human longing for God, for prayer does not pass away

I adorn myself with this longing, like with beautiful flowers of Israel in the sun

And I return to my own Tabor Mountain

The mountain of grace of transfiguration of man’s heart.

 

 

  The smile of God

 

I look for the places where the smile of God

Enlightened the faces of people

The places and the people, beautiful with sanctity

 

I look for the places where the smile of God

Wiped the tears off the suffering and gave hope

The places and the people filled with trust

 

I look for the places where the smile of God

Built a house in the hearts of the people

With the window overlooking Heaven

 

When Heaven gets enlightened with the sky-blue

And the stars curiously look at the earth

Then I see the smile of God in this beauty

 

The smile that soothes disputes

And wraps up the sick and brings dreams to the distressed

And nourishes them with a prayer of God Himself

 

And then I think, oh, God, I’ve been blind so long

And the blind in this world are still so many

Those who don’t see Your smile

 

They can’t recognize it in their hardship

When they bow their heads low to the ground

Engulfed in their passing worries

 

And I seek, always seek and look around

For the places and the people that recognized the smile of God

Their faces light up with joyful love

                  They are the reflection of the smile of God. 

 

 

Gift for the soul

 

Suffering has carved in my heart

An awesome shape

As if a tree full of young shoots

Was pulsating with its own life

Independent of physical heart beat

And blood is flowing through it

With a slow, tender, comforting stream

It brings peace to the heart

My tree in the heart has a spiritual dimension

Its shoots blossom when I nourish them

With the Blood and Body of the Lord

They fill the heart with beauty and good

With a desire of the union with the Divine Love

And though the earthly heart sometimes

Tries to whisper that it feels the evil of the world

Then the tree comes to life and even speaks out

In defense of the neighbors whose suffering

Hardened their hearts and blinded their eyes

And it insists on praying for them

In the offering of the Holy Mass

And then I see this tree in my heart

As a gift of Jesus’ cross

Not discarded by me, but embraced tenderly

And I hear His loud, painful voice: I desire …

I ponder His: “I desire” in my heart

Where suffering has carved

This beautiful, spiritual, living tree. 

 

 In July I was in a small town with a sanatorium. There was a beautiful, modern church with a spacious Altar. The Mass was often celebrated by several priests. I felt as if it were a great grace – so many priests … During one of these Masses, when the priest was raising the Cup, I saw in my heart a large drop of blood over the Cup. It was a simple Cup, without any adornments. The blood was pouring down onto the Altar. Jesus, I thought, the Cup is too little … Then I heard in my heart: there is no such a Cup in the world or on any Altar, which could accommodate the immensity of graces which are flowing down during the Mass … I trembled when I heard these words. Then I understood the sense of kissing the Altar by the priests. Their mouths “gather” the graces that are poured out over the Altar … It is not a symbolic gesture … it is a real touching of the miracle of the Altar. The miracle of the Transubstantiation. Near the sanatorium park was a chapel that was being redecorated and a small tent with the Most Holy Sacrament. Every day, a group of people prayed there. A big poster with the Heart of Jesus was hanging over the Altar. Poor-looking place … But just in this chapel, so modest, I felt Jesus so close. As if I met Him face-to-face, as if He were next to me. I – the imperfect human being, and Jesus, who is far from luxury and the beauty of the interior that He stays in. He is the Lord waiting for a prayer-conversation in any circumstances, on any of our ways of life, ready to stop by and listen to us. With the eyes of imagination, while praying, I recall in my heart that chapel, the mysterious smile of Jesus from the picture and the love that I felt in my heart. The love that “obliges” me to be reciprocal.

 

The desert spring

 

There is time of penance when we fight for faith

Being cast into a barren desert

In distress, we look for the eyes of God

When tried with the darkness of the night

The words of prayer, once life-giving

Change into the alphabet of a foreign language

In this deadly silence of the desert’s retreat

We fight for faith, for God

 

In the desert heat, Satan tempts the body

With an illusion of an oasis that quenches the thirst

In this desert is also a spring of pure water

It flows from under the rock, out of longing for man

God cast His glance into the brilliance of this spring

Waiting patiently for the man wrapped in darkness

The humming of this spring carries the echo of the words of Love

This water current leads you toward the light

                          Straight into the arms of God.

 

 

Waves of graces

 

I would like just to thank You, Lord

In a simple prayer, on a gray day

For the graces, bestowed from You

But You granted the enchantment of the heart on me

As if Somebody broke a dam on a heavenly river

Showing the abundance of graces flowing on

I was standing in surprise over the current of this river

Over the power of the Divine Mercy …

Step into this river, I heard, let its waters carry you

That was the Offering of Jesus that broke this dam!

I plunge my feet, not being without fear

And I hold on to my baggage of life, it’s my last resort

 

I swim along this river’s current fearfully

Merciful waves get my baggage of life drowned

Only I … and the waves of graces, benevolent, purifying

In the middle of the river, I feel the hardship of swimming

The waves of graces are beautiful, but require much effort

They whisper about pure love, about trust in God

About faith, forgiveness to those hurting you, about suffering

The river that I swim along … becomes an endless ocean

I fear my weakness, I fear being cast out on the shore

With a painful cry, I call for the white Host

A sign of power, flowing over the waves

Be with me, I shout, I trust in You, Lord!

 

 

The Cross of Salvation

 

Oh, Lord, I asked, grant that I could see

The beauty, the miracle of the Holy Eucharist

Our eyes are covered with material thread

But the thirsty heart runs ahead, before the eyes …

 

When you trust your heart, I heard the words

You will spot the beauty but the pain will come along

The Heart of My Son, hurt by the people

Wants to share His pain with you …

 

For a moment, I was hesitant

Like a sinner, unable to give the offering

Shall I go along the way that I know

Or shall I meet the Lord with my heart, during His Passion?

 

I called to the Holy Mother, the Co-helper of the doubting

Asking for protection in my spiritual events

Oh, Mother, defend me against the pain beyond my understanding

And let me know the pain of the Lord that will strengthen me

 

Then I saw a high, dark cross, standing over the Altar

Made of strong wood, full of deep, small clefts

Like a field, full of river beds

They were filled with Blood, flowing into the Chalice

 

My heart was amazed with its abundance

It was flowing along the winding bends, like a rapid stream

I heard in my heart: as long as My Blood is flowing

In this Cross of Salvation …

                    You are protected with My Mercy. 

 

It is Friday and I was at the Holy Mass and I participated in the Way of the Cross. In the afternoon, I am going out for a walk and shopping. I have a strange desire to come back to church for the Chaplet at 3 pm, but I wander around the streets without any definite purpose or maybe I will come home soon. A street clock strikes 2:30 pm and then I am heading to the church, being a little undecided … But I do come in … for the Adoration of the Most Holy Sacrament. During the Adoration, I hear: at last you came to Me, although it was the roundabout way … I feel that these words reflect some friendly allusion and lack of criticism. As a “reward”, I receive a strange vision: Jesus is in Gethsemane, lonely, imprisoned in a grotto. I can see that “something” is throwing His body against the stony walls. It is a painful scene. Jesus is suffering from pain. He is moving away from the wall and is being struck again … I think that He is suffering because of the sins that He sees and is offended and because of the sins that will be committed in future.

A thought occurs to me: I love this church of mine. And then I hear: if you love this place, so imagine how great Love I have for it!

Each person who enters here is granted with gifts, and often he doesn’t recognize them. Even a person who accidentally comes here, is “granted a gift”. The gift that he received will make him come back after a few days, even months and years. Thank You, Jesus, for this “roundabout way”. I understood how much You want to have us with You, in church.

 

A talk with a stranger

 

You say that the world pushed you away
You threw loneliness, like baggage, on your back
And tightened up your mouth, not to whisper any prayer
And set off on your life’s journey

You pass by the people, not looking into their eyes
You watch your heart not to run after another one
There are others beside you, dressed in lonesomeness
Looking into the boundless future of tomorrow

You see light only under your fatigued feet
So that you don’t stumble over life’s crosses
The sky and the stars don’t evoke enchantment 
You don’t think about God for He is too far from you

In this hour of darkness, fear and distrust
When the frost of your conceit changes your tears into icicles
There is still hope with you, the hand of The Most Holy Mother
The Maternity care of Her Beautiful Love there

It is following you with the Rosary of your tears
It puts them together in tens, like the truth about you
The holy hand dissolves your icicles
Into the human tears, hot and salty

Throw off your baggage of pride, it harms you so
Bend your knees, gaze up and look for the light in Heaven
Let the hands of The Holy Mother lead you 
She will shelter you … against Justice.

 

 

Holy signs

 

You Are in the Holy Communion, Jesus

Like the light of countless suns

But for those who receive You

You Are just a little sunny ray

So that they wouldn’t get blind from Your glory

 

You Are the Power, Lord, flowing from eternity

The Power of the Creator, unimaginable

But for those who receive You in the Communion

You Are a little Infant

So that they could take You in their longing arms

 

You Are the Fire, Jesus, burning and powerful

The Fire that can heat the whole universe

But for those who receive You in the Communion

You Are just a little flame of a candle, lit in the dark

For a soul that thirsts for the light of truth

 

You received Your Passion on the cross, Jesus

The Passion that was burning Your whole body

So that those who receive You in the Communion

Could draw the hope of salvation from Your cross

And were protected with the rays of water and blood of Your heart

 

You Are the omnipotent Love, Jesus

Like a waterfall, pouring out endless waters

But You just softly touch with Your hand

A man who stands before You, in the Communion

Nourishing him with a white Host

 

How holy is the Might of Your Love, Jesus

When It comes close, in little, humble signs

To human hearts, to human life

In the delicate touch of the Host, in the little Infant

In the flame that doesn’t blind us

                            In the cross that saves us.  

 

 

 

Teaching about Love

 

Thank you, Prodigal Son

And you, who is called Good Son

For the teaching that comes from the Gospel

Thanks for your trust, Prodigal Son

In penance and your Father’s forgiveness

Even for your wrath I thank you, Good Son

That the gifts were bestowed on the one who doesn’t deserve them

 

You are like a mirror for the heart of mine

Where there is light on the one side, but darkness, on the other

We want to see a beautiful image in the light

The dark side absorbs what we want to hide

How much light is there in our heart, and how much darkness?

How much do we see with our eyes, and how much with merciful love?

The lonely Father on His way knows the truth …

 

You, Good Son had your share in your Father’s riches

But the bitterness of a slave sounded in your mouth

Your obedience toward your Father was an honest service

But it was … without love

And His forgiveness, you considered ungrateful …

How much of a slave’s service is there in our heart, and in our faith?

And how much love for the Love Itself?

 

We desire privileges for Your Love, Lord

We want the pay, like the soldiers’ pay

And You want to share the richness of Your Love with us

For the sheer joy of being in Your arms

How often do we see the Good Son in the mirror of our heart?

How often does the darkness of egotism … stop us

Against going out on the road with our Lonely Father

                                   And waiting with Him for Prodigal Sons 

                                   And sharing with Him the joy of their return.

 

During the Holy Mass (Solemnity of Trinity), a beautiful vision appeared in front of my eyes (or rather in front of “the eyes of my soul”). During the Eucharistic Prayer, when the priest raises the Holy Host and the Chalice, I saw a white Dove over the priest’s head. While the Host and the Chalice were being raised, the Dove moved down and embraced the silhouette of the priest so that his hands became Her wings. The priest looked as if he “sank” in Her hug. He was completely wrapped up in Her. I felt an enormous warmth of Love in this act, too difficult to describe with words. It was penetrating and bringing joy. It reminded of the miracle that occurs on the Altar at every Mass.

 

Two worlds

 

Our world is painted with the richness of colors

With the green of grass, the yellow of the desert, the blue of the sea and the sky

The light of the sun and the moon mixes the colors

And shows the shades, so important for the ingenious painters

The seasons, with their power of nature, interfere with the world of colors

They add juicy shades or humble gray

It is the world of our eyes …

 

Above this visible world of colors

There is another mysterious world of human thoughts and feelings

The world unrecognizable for the eyes …

It spreads out like fog over the world of colors

The fog, created out of words, smiles, tears and dreams

Sometimes it takes a shape of poetry, prose, music, picture

It is like a photo, taken with a shutter of a camera of talent

 

And though the creator of words and pictures dies, the fog remains

It came to being in the invisible space of feelings and thoughts

There are also millions of mysteries of the heart, not described with words, sounds, pictures

The mysteries that were created by beautiful, daily acts

They gathered tears, changing them into a stream of smiles and fulfilled dreams

The mysteries of millions of hearts, quiet, not described with human words

They are like colors, taken from the palette of God Himself and they color with the light

                                                          The world of invisible thoughts and feelings.

 

 

 

Grace of forgiveness

 

When Your boat, Lord, arrived

At the shore of my life

It was You, Lord, who came out toward me

And the light, focused in a mysterious mirror

Touched me with a luminous ray

It penetrated my body and reached the nooks of the heart

It lit up the teardrops before they flowed down

And lit up the thoughts that were unfinished and the beauty still unknown

And Your words, half-forgotten, half-rejected

I was standing at the shore of my life

Being x-rayed with this light, but I felt no fear

Like a child who was forgiven

As if the love, deeply hidden in my weakness

Got united and wanted to be on fire

And to purify what is forgotten and unknown

I was standing still, being pushed by other lives on the shore

Surprised, I was staring at the gentle waves

I dipped my feet in the warm water

And wanted to sail with You, toward love and goodness

But You ordered me to stay

With Your hand, raised up high, like for the blessing …

Your eyes seemed to say: at the shore of your life

There are still storms that you must go through

There are My words that you must get to know

There are deeds that you must perform

There is beauty that you must proclaim

Don’t be afraid of abandonment, of Calvary, of Mount Olive

During the Holy Communion, I will sail to you in My boat … 

 

 

The unique poem

 

Each of us is an author of a poem

We do not write it with a pen but with our own life

And though its pages are invisible

Time fixes its signs, like a devoted printer

Then the Angel of Transition, carries it to eternity

The careful reader is – Jesus Himself

Sometimes we would like time to shift back

And we want to make some corrections in our poem

And erase with tears, the words written with pride and anger

We will not catch up on time, it is faster than man

 

We hold on to hope, creating new stanzas

And cuddle time in our hands, like a precious pearl

We beseech the Creator, the Poet of Eternity, for a talent

Grant us Lord that we can describe our life with good words

Grant that we can recognize in our heart, the beauty of man’s fate

Grant that we have noble thoughts, deeds and will

May they adorn the gray pages with a colorful rainbow

And grant us, Creator, Poet of Love

With the awareness of Truth, for Whom we write this poem

For the eternal life or for the passing time?

 

And when the moments come, of doubts and sorrows

Which cover the written pages with darkness

Please write on them, Good Lord, the stanzas about Your Mercy

May they enlighten all darkness with Your light

May our soul, bathing in the hope of Love

Remember the song when You descended us to this world

The song about Parental Love and the Holy Mother of Perpetual Help

About the Holy Cross where Your Son died for us

And don’t leave us alone, Good Lord, with our writing

And be the Author of many stanzas

                           So that we could recognize Your Will in them. 

 

Good Friday. Feast of the Passion. I feel quiet and contemplative. There is Suffering Jesus in front of my eyes. I say: Jesus, I am not suffering now but I am pondering over Your suffering, Your Passion. I am engulfed in a great silence and suddenly I feel severe pain in my left temple. It is so penetrating as if someone pierced my head with a sharp tool. I am not used to having any headaches or migraines but this pain is amazing, hard to bear. It penetrates into the brain deeply, I lose my breath … It lasts for a few minutes, gets stronger and slightly weaker. I say to Jesus: I have nothing to offer You, so, at least, please receive my pain … Next, there is the Communion and I approach the priest with this pain, standing in long line. When I receive the Holy Host, I feel the taste of bread in my mouth and I slowly begin to accept this pain but it … rapidly disappears. Then I hear in my heart: behold, just one little thorn and you are lamenting so much! I had all My head covered with thorns for your sins.

 

Journey with a longing

 

Staring at the depth of blue water

I looked for a haven for my longing

I wanted to lean her upon the warm sand

And let her experience a relief of fulfillment

 

Staring at the azure of the sky

I was lifting up my longing high

Beyond the space, inaccessible even for eagles

But she came back, insatiate …

 

I looked for a place for my longing

To have a rest, even for a moment or a day

I have been in such places, in the Holy Land

There my longing … rested happily

 

She clung to the signs of the presence of Jesus

Like a bird, tired of the flight

She sat on the rocks, in the desert, in Sinai

I felt her joy, as if she discovered the family home

 

I took my longing to my return trip home

But she cried and asked to wait just a moment

I wiped my Jerusalem souvenir cross with her tears

And promised that we would come back there …

 

Every day I send my longing to the Altar

I don’t know what she thinks and feels

But she comes back to me after the Mass, happy, joyous

I hear her whisper of gratitude: I have seen Jesus alive …

 

 

 Pray like a child 

 

I want to pray to You, Lord, like a child

Praying more in the rhythm of his tender heart

Than with words

May it be a prayer of the eyes and body

Admiring the image of the beloved Father

May it be a prayer of a child

Who can not read the texts of strangers nor the letters yet

But he speaks out with his own, simple language

The language of love and tender admiration

I want to pray to You, Lord

Like a naïve child that hasn’t learned yet

The logics of thinking and decorative phrases

I want to take off myself the worldly robes of the language

Even the most brilliant and impressive

And those that the world tore apart with doubts

I want to stand before You, Almighty Father

As naked as a newly born child

And wrap myself with the gift of Your Love

To feel Your touch and Your smile

To experience the closeness while meeting You

And pray with the words that You Yourself utter to me.

 

Feast of the Assumption of Holy Mary. During Adoration of Lord Jesus after the Communion, a peculiar thought came to me. God was born of the holy woman, chosen by Him. The Holy Mother was also a human being, She felt like we did, and experienced daily hardship. God in His mysterious decision for His Son to be born of an earthly woman, had in His plans the maternal care and tenderness over the baby. Jesus, although He is God, being born of a woman, He needed human tenderness and care. He needed the touch of love. His childhood and maturity were shaped by the maternal love of His Mother and fatherly love of Joseph. God the Father has “given away” His Son into the loving arms of the Holy Family. Although Jesus is God, His “human” nature took power from the tender love of His earthly parents. This is a very special sign that we often forget about, while attributing to Jesus only the “divine dimension”. How is it considered in our contemporary times? We adore Jesus in the Eucharist. We think of Him as a Holy Symbol of God. But when we want to get closer to Him spiritually and personally, we must remember that the very fact that He was born in a human family is a God’s sign for us to love Him the way Mary loved Her Son. She loved Him like we love our children and make sacrifices for them. Jesus’ birth to the Holy Family and His desire for family love is also an example for parents to remind them of this fact, despite their own imperfection. By “giving away” His Son to a family, God stresses its great significance in His plans concerning children’s birth and upbringing.

 

A Song about the Holy Mother

 

Eternal Love has created Her

Out of the beauty of Heaven, She was made

Streams of graces were poured upon Her

And the miracle was performed out of the hand of God

Mary was conceived without original sin

The earthly Mother of Her Divine Son

 

The Immaculate has come to this world

To our life, corrupted with sin

She was not born in a royal cradle

Poor was She, this Holy Virgin

God bestowed the richness of the heart, love and humility

Upon Her, the Mother of His Son

 

I see Her on a path in Nazareth, in deep prayer

When Archangel Gabriel comes up to Her

On a day like any, filled with daily things

And a miracle occurs, invisible for the human eyes

All Heaven stops breathing for a while

Will Mary send Her fiat up to the Heavenly spaces?

 

In a small, unknown village, Nazareth

Mary sent Her fiat toward Heaven

And though the world was asleep with their own life

God opened the gates of Heaven widely

And He poured Love that Jesus’ body was wrapped up with

And all Heaven with angels were singing a song about Salvation

 

Thank You, Lord, for Holy Mary, for Her humble fiat

For Her painfully pierced, young heart

For Her life I give thanks, the Co-Redeemer of people

I am sorry for the eyes of those who don’t need the holy cross

May the blood of Jesus and the tears of Mary over the suffering Jesus

Wipe clean their eyes and may a miracle occur suddenly …

                 When the hangmen change into the saints!

 

 

The trust

 

I look at the gentle waters of a stream

Safe, warm, joyful

Encouraging to plunge without fear

Even the sea with the quiet surface

Lures those who want to cool down

Offering rest for your body

The threatening ocean with the multitude of waters

Throwing them far onto a sandy shore

Causes fear even with the perfect swimmers

 

Staring at the waters of the rivers, seas and oceans

I think about … trust, about human trust in God’s Truth

About the trust in God’s Mercy

Is the limit of my trust

Defined only by a safe, joyful river?

Am I ready to enter into this ocean of Mercy

With the complete trust in God?

While He watches over the poor swimmer, despite the dangerous waves of life

Am I harassed by a fear of uncertainty?

 

You give me time, Lord, to know myself

And the light of the cross, twinkling in the boat

That Jesus sailed into the ocean of Love

You show the way of the saints and the blessed

For them, the warm waters of the streams were not enough

Seeking Your Truth, they plunged into the ocean

Of deep, mystical experiences, with the loving trust in Your Will

I put my feet into Your ocean, Lord

And with my prayer of trust I ask You to help me reach the boat with Jesus

 

 

A dream about a mountain

I had a dream about an awesome world
There was a beautiful mountain, stuck among the rocks and sand
On the top, there was a castle shinning so brightly
That the walls looked like transparent glass

People in white robes were climbing lightly
Their steps were more like dancing than the hardship of ascending
Joy filled these strange pilgrims
On their faces was a smile of loving ecstasy

Oh, joyous world from my dream so quiet
Where no fake sound disrupted the harmony
Were you my soul's hidden dream?
Do you exist somewhere in the Heavenly space?

When dawn woke me from these dreamy memories
And daily life opened my eyes to the world widely
I saw my own mountain that I conquered so hard
With sad and painful downfalls, and joys of getting up

I saw a desert, scorching in the day, fearful at night
It absorbs travelers who have no drink of prayer or holy water
On the slopes of the mountain, there are the rocks of the Ten Commandments
When you stop there, they become a grace for the pilgrim

On the human mountain of destiny, there are no luminous castles
But the Salvation Cross of Christ is stuck on the very top
And man - a godly wanderer toward God will never approach It
Unless he experiences the hardship of will, sweat, tears and bleeding wounds.

Another day of my morning Mass. The beloved time of the dialogue with God. After The Holy Mass, I adore Jesus in The Most Holy Sacrament. What do You want to tell me today, Jesus? - I ask. Then I hear strange words in my heart … don’t dress your soul with rags … I think over these words. In my opinion, “rags”, it is all unnecessary things that we surround ourselves with. They are the problems of this world that keep us far from God, take up our time, draw us into sin, temptations. Jesus expects His children to wear “royal garments” at the Holy Mass (like it was in the parable about a wedding feast, when the invited guests didn’t come, but only the chance visitors). While standing before Jesus, we stand in truth about ourselves and the grace of confession, of repentance - purifies us, and then we are dressed in the wedding gowns. Let’s take off the rags of our attachments, sins. Jesus wants to see us at the Holy Mass, dressed in wedding gowns and not in rags. How great the effort of our will must be made, so that we didn’t collect the rags that our world often shows us … as “smart clothes” which are necessary to survive. These rags occur when we call debauchery - love, greed - shrewdness, indifference to other people’s pain - lack of time etc.

Angelic joy

When I wake up in the morning
I ask my angel, please smile to me
You are my Guardian from the world of brightness
You know the colors that we haven’t on earth
Please share your world with me
So that I didn’t dress my day in gray
Paint the joy of child’s faith
On the faces of indifferent people
Give my priests the words that transform hearts
Wash the faces of sad people
With the elixir of enlivening hope
Talk with the angels of my friends
About love which forgives and cures
Help me see those who need help
Even if they are as silent as a stone
Change the wooden sticks of old people
Into the angelic wings
Let them run lightly to their daily Mass
Stand by those who are tired of carrying the cross
Of daily worries
And whisper about hope to them

Silence came after my requests
The angel eagerly wrote them on paper
Then touched his robe with a common human gesture
And put the paper with requests into my hands
I noticed a spark of joke in his angelic smile
Your requests, he said gently
Are for people, not for angels
And singing a joyous song, he flew away.

 

 

Child's prayer

I would like You, Jesus, so tired
To rest for a while
At the door of our farm's cottage
In the warm, morning sunshine
Grandma will give You a loaf
Of warm bread out of the oven
You will drink spring water
Kids will wash your clothes
Grandpa will clean Your sandals
A lark' song will make You sleep
Although tired, You will sleep with no fear
We will see that Your sleep is sound
The cross that You carry with fatigue
Will be hidden in a safe place
And when You finally wake up
Grandma will serve You dinner
Aunt will pick red apples for You
For further travel over the world
Dressed in clean and perfumed clothes
You will move on like a humble needy pilgrim
There are still so many cottages and thresholds to pass by
Maybe some will be Your hosts?

 

 

In my paradise

 

In my paradise, even beautiful flowers wither

And leaves fall down from the trees

Adams and Eves get older

In my paradise, the sun sets down

And darkness is all over

In my paradise, people work hard

And although they wear clothes

They stand naked in the face of suffering

In my paradise, I buy apples at the fruit stand

And I don’t know if they are from the tree of Good or evil

In my paradise, there are concrete pavements

Noise from the machines deafens birds’ singing

And Adams and Eves lock their doors

Sometimes they cry, sometimes they laugh

In my paradise, Lord

That is so unlike Yours

A tree is growing, planted with Your hand

It has a shape of a powerful cross

And underneath there is aroma of the lily flowers

The leaves are evergreen

Storms and winds haven’t broken it yet

I stand under this tree every day

And draw my strength from Its eternal power and embrace It

And listen to the whisper of its leaves, Its wise words

So that I didn’t lose hope and could learn love

During my wandering through my paradise.

 

During meditation, after the Communion, I saw a beautiful, awesome image in my heart. High on the throne, there was a person of considerable size, seated there. A kind of light fabric or texture was flowing down this person. It was transparent, with many shades of white, not comparable with that seen on earth. I felt the softness of this fabric and I wanted to plunge in it, to wrap myself. It was like matter and at the same time, it was like warm water. I didn’t dare to raise my head toward that high soaring figure. The fabric was flowing down this person, and its glare did not dazzle my eyes, it was shining with light - bluish light. It made me feel great love and security. On the left side of this image, I noticed the cross with Christ, hovering high in the space. Blood was flowing down the cross and onto the fabric and was changing color into pink. Then I heard in my heart: as long as the Blood of Christ is flowing down to the earth during each Holy Mass, God’s Justice is being stopped then.
Lord, I thought, how important Holy Mass is for the world, for every sinner, even for the non-believers. When we participate in Holy Mass piously, with great awareness, we participate in the act of people’s Salvation. Jesus, shedding His blood, makes intercession for this sinful world before God.

Moments

In my life, there are moments of peculiar brightness
The curtain in front of my eyes is being torn apart
I can feel love in my heart, so strong and hot
It lifts me up to Heaven, with more than human longing
And gets spread in the body, with the power unknown on earth
It bends the knees in a joyous humility
My body gets numb and turns into a statue
I can only call to my Guardian Angel:
Take my soul
And plunge it in this fire of love
Although it lasts just a moment
Like a flash of light, a fragment of an awesome melody
Then my soul becomes a pure source
In which …
I can see sin as a treason of this Great Love.

 

 

Dawn on Mount Sinai

 

I am looking at dawn that disperses darkness

Still sleeping lazily, on the bed of the mountains

Darkness is still finishing its dreams

When dawn with its childlike joy

Sweeps it away with its sharp glare

After the night’s climb up Mount Sinai

I am waiting for the sunrise …

Leaning against a rock

And staring into the power of the mountains

I am the witness of an awesome miracle

A huge, red, burning sphere suddenly emerges

Out of the rocky tops that proudly pierce the sky

As if they possessed the knowledge of sunrises and sunsets

I have a feeling that I am in a large concert hall

With a great, mystical virtuoso

My body is submitted to the sounds, unknown so far

And to the feelings, deeply hidden

But it is this silence that trembles and sings its own song

I experience the beauty of silence …

That was the moment when Moses fell upon his knees

Before the power of God

The redness of the burning sphere of the sun

Is like the Eucharist for the world 

That is filled with the blood of the Son of God

Surrounded with dawn that announces Salvation

With the power, being revealed on Sinai …

I am getting filled with joy, gathered through many generations

Look, my soul, I whisper

I am giving you the treasure of the encounter of God and man

Don’t lose it and hug the stony boards of Moses

Don’t allow their weight to suppress you …

Oh, Sinai, your mountain imprinted a picture in me

I am still pondering on it while climbing down

Among the sharp rocks

And I have a desire to carry on this joy

Which is so great that the heart cannot contain

In the warm morning sunshine, passing by the rocks

I leave behind the flakes of this joy, as a mystery

For those who are following me

This is the love that overflowed through me, with a mystical wave

Granting the abundance of joy and the grace of sharing it with others

This is the gift of power of Mount Sinai.

 

Talk to me

I come to You, Jesus, with a prayer and requests
Like a child who still needs tender care
Trusting that You will listen to me in every minute
I entrust myself to Your Love
And You even listen to my silence
And feed me with the thoughts from angelic wings
They flow down on me, making my heart more merciful
For the people and life around me
You pour in faith that eternal Love exists
The Love that is suffering and resurrecting

There are days when my childlike requests get silent
The soul is filled with awesome maturity
Then I ask: You talk to me, Lord, now
Lift me up to Your eyes, show me Your requests
What is that I hurt You with? What is that I don’t want to remember?
The conversation with the Beloved One is so painful
Although You Are so gentle as a judge
I can see Your tears and Love that is hurt with sin
And in my human wish to reward, I bend down for the cross
I borrow Veronica’s veil and I beseech: talk to me, Jesus!

 

During the evening Rosary and the procession with candles, I was close to the statue of Mary that was raised high, carried by some men, my thoughts and my soul were filled with joy. Pilgrims’ candles flashed around in the dark, the golden statue of Jesus was shinning high in the square. The statue of Mary was flowing among these lights of human thoughts, intentions, wishes. My heart was shouting: Oh, Mary, I want to offer You my whole love … and exchange this little love with Yours, that is immense! But I thought that I was too weak to carry the Love of the Most Holy Mother and hold It in my heart. I had some doubts for a moment … maybe I expect too much? … Among the songs of Ave Maria and clattering of pilgrims’ feet, I heard: share this abundance of love with others, with every encountered person. You will not get drowned in My Love … you will quench your thirst with My Love every day … offer this excess of love to your close ones and to strangers that you don’t even know …
In Santiago de Compostella (Spain), at St. Jacob’s Shrine, there was a crowd of pilgrims and constant movement made it impossible for me to concentrate individually. The Cathedral is so beautiful with so many altars and architectural beauty that it “lures” our eyes. I embraced the statue of St. Jacob, like every pilgrim did. I had a feeling that I was holding Him at my heart although other pilgrims were at that place already. I felt as if I carried this statue with me.
Santiago de Compostella was the place of “purification” for me, it was as if I touched the gate that leads me into the world that offers spiritual richness. One should spend many hours there, on meditation and “yield” to the atmosphere of this place. The immensity of this temple, its beauty did not suppress but it lifted man toward the power of God. I had an impression that the temple is filled with the power of human prayer and offering. It is a great grace to participate in Holy Mass and receive Communion in this Sanctuary. There, we leave the “baggage” of our life experiences, our pilgrims’ “rucksacks” of intentions and requests and we wander on …

Embrace the cross

When there is foul weather in your heart and outside the window
Then embrace the cross
Send your soul to Calvary
There, on Golgotha, in silence
The cross stands like a rock
Murderers’ shouts made death silent
And although their echo got spread all over the world
Hurting with blasphemies until now
But at the cross, the blessed silence is still on
Waiting for those who look for power
In the wounds of The Savior
Raise your hands high
As if you wanted to pick fruits from a tree
Look for The Savior’s eyes
And tell Him about your suffering
Silence will lift your voice up
On the wings of the vigilant angels
And the melody of Christ’s words will reach your ears:
Don’t be afraid … I Am
Take these words into the foul weather
Of your heart and the world
And answer - Jesus, I trust in You
And the peace that the world confused
Sowing poisonous cockle in your heart
Will come back to you
There, in the silence of Golgotha
The blood and tears of The Savior
Will give you strength and courage to fight evil.

 

 

Contemporary crucifixion

 

A man is going along the street, full of people

He is looking for friendship on the faces of passersby

Loneliness has driven him out of the four walls

Of his dwelling, early in the morning

She didn’t want to talk with him any longer, she got mute

And so she’s been silent for many years now

The man went out to seek voices, smiles

He went out to nourish his loneliness with another man

He is old and tired of his own freedom from responsibility

From time, from the passing seconds

In his hand there is a shopping bag

Like a traveler’s rucksack for a hard pilgrimage

The pilgrimage through the streets full of unknown people

He sees anxiety on their faces, and impatience

When he tries to talk

He doesn’t understand that time for those faces is too precious

They rush by him, as silently as his solitude

The man is moving on, and is carrying his invisible cross

But he feels its weight

He, the contemporary man, crucified …

Crucified with indifference, loneliness

I will send him my prayer, short but cordial:

Oh, Jesus, please stand close to him, with Your own cross

Maybe he will see You …

And then you will both come back together

To the place where his loneliness has been silent for so long

But now she will start to smile and talk.

 

 

Our Mount Tabor

 

Our human sins are like rocks

Arranged in a pile

They often form a mountain so big

That Heaven is hidden behind

And we, so little, under this mountain

Capable of doing evil with our nature

And powerless to reach the top

To rise up, above sin ...

 

There are courageous, daring men among us

Who want to conquer this mountain

The Holy Spirit, bestowed upon them through faith

Leads them and helps to reach the top

Every step upward brings sweat and tears

Strength is running out

How hard it is to conquer this mountain

How easy it was to build it with the rocks of sin!

 

The hands are bleeding, the body, mortified

With heat and lack of water

With voices that cry: what is this hardship for?

The legs slip over, we are falling down

The holy effort goes on, sometimes all life long

The most important is to climb up again

To put the hands against the rocks

To fill the dried-up mouth with prayer and look upward

 

Maybe we can see the light already?

Maybe the stars are twinkling already?

Maybe the saints will give us more strength?

Up there, on top, the cross is standing, the Savior

Up there, on top, He will make the Transfiguration of the heart

He will sanctify the hardship of our will

Up there, on top, the shadow of the mountain of our sins

Will not put Heaven out of sight.

 

Fatima. I asked the pilgrims coming back from Fatima about their impressions. They said: it was beautiful … some mentioned the vast space of the square (much bigger than St. Peter’s square in Rome). This vast square was too big for some and it disturbed them in their concentration. I listened to them, considered their words and waited … quite long, a few years and at last I decided on this pilgrimage of the lifetime. So far I have traveled to many sanctuaries as a pilgrim. People described their Fatima experiences as beautiful but it was not enough for me. Their words lacked … the spirit, the very essence of Fatima. The day has come and I made up my mind to go there and what a coincidence! On this very day I received a quarterly magazine “The Immaculate” of The Marian Helpers, about a pilgrimage to Fatima and to Spain, to St. Jacob’s shrine. I felt that it was my time. Fatima became like a “crown” of my all pilgrimages. It strengthened my faith, I was overfilled with the grace of peculiar sweetness, as if I reached the Home of the Most Lovable Mother, my love toward Her was overflowing through my heart which was not big enough to hold it. Jesus, I said, I am so grateful … then I heard in my heart … your gratitude is like a little flower in the ocean of graces of Divine Mercy that God wants to pour down on His faithful. This is an unimaginable ocean of Love, plunge in It. I would like my heart, Jesus, to beat to the rhythm of Your Love, like a clock ticking for You. then I heard: everyone has such a “battery” that activates the clock of love in the soul. Don’t take it out of your heart for trifling reasons, for sin …

Fatima

There is no silence on the hill of Cova da Iria any more
There are no sheep grazing in the sun
There is not Francis and Hyacinth running over the hills
There is a huge, stony square, pulsating with people’s steps
And with the air filled with the words of prayers
With the hearts and eyes staring at Madonna with love

Many years ago, the Angel appeared before the children
He announced the news and the words became blessed for the world
Then The Holy Mother spoke to them
She announced the message with the voice so sweet
She called for beseeching and repentance for sinful men
And Her eyes were worried about soul salvation

Today, Golden Jesus on a high column
Welcomes all pilgrims, spreading His arms
Once, the wind was humming on these hills
Today, words of prayers are heard in all languages
Once, the sun and the moon were shinning proudly
Today, thousands of candles light up the darkness

Once, there were paths covered with mountain green and trees
Now there is granite, shinning from the pilgrims’ knees
Only birds, surprised a little with this change
Do not stop their morning chirping
But they stop singing when the big cathedral bell
Rings Ave Maria for the pilgrims

Over Cove da Iria, the constant prayer is flowing
And rises up to Heaven with the incense smoke
Wax flows down the candles, every drop is like calling for help
Sins are burned out and God’s Mercy blows them out with powder
They shake with hope for forgiveness, Rosaries are held in warm hands
Every next bead discovers the mystery of human longing

Human voices wave with the sounds of world’s languages
The words of the pilgrims are not known
But the Rosary joins them like a rope for the mountain climbers
To get higher and higher toward Heaven
Where the Holy Hands of the Holy Mother are waiting
To bless all the travelers toward God

Oh, Holy Fatima, the gift for soul salvation
May silence never dwell over Cova da Iria
Nor the prayers of next generations
For the miracles of sinful hearts transformation ever stop
May the pilgrim, touched with Mary’s love
Beseech here for his salvation.

 

 

Trustful joy

When a man receives a gift
Of a peculiar, trustful joy
He stands before the Altar, surprised
Like a child being gifted
With an unexpected fulfillment of his dream
Then the trustful joy fills up the whole heart and body
And spreads out with bright light
That is unlimited
Like the fire that doesn’t burn out
But warms and gets further around
Wishing to bestow others with the miracle of this experience
It sweeps past and future worries out of the heart
Leaving a sign of an awesome power
The memory that never forgets
When a man receives such a gift
He feels the Hand of God that leads him into the world
Where the roads are lit up with unknown light
He feels the beauty though his eyes don’t see it
This is the feeling of the unusual Love
That raises man high up
Above the poor experiences of a suffering body
And there is only this common, human fear
That is still stuck in our human body
Will I keep this gift for ever?
The soul gives a sign to the words blessing this joy
And a prayer flows out of the heart with a bright flame
May God grant such joy on all people.


Prayer to The Holy Mother

You look at us, Holy Mother, from the pictures and statues
Artists’ imagination creates different visions of Your face
And only the heart that is hungry for love, is able to know
How many graces flow down on us, in prayer before You

The swords of sorrow injured Your heart, Simeon predicted it
You know the pain of mothers whose children got lost
You are a woman who suffers also today, at the crosses of sons
It is You who take our dead body in Your arms

When I kneel before Your Holy Picture today
When I touch Your hands on the statue
I close my eyes and see You, Mother, alive
An ordinary Mother, with an Infant in the arms

I see Joachim and Ann when they hug You
I see a Virgin, beautiful, carrying a jug of water
And a woman on a donkey, heading to Elisabeth
I see Your sorrow and a joyous smile

You are so alive, so present in our life
When You hear people’s complaints that God is silent
Under Your protection we keep our dying hope
You make our faith alive with Your Heavenly Apparitions

For the orphans, You are like a motherly touch
For the lonely - great support and the nurse for the sick
Like way back You were a tender Mother for Your Son
Today You are - the Perpetual Help for us

When we fall on earth’s dust, being injured with sin
You, Veronica of contemporary times, stand by
And wipe our faces with a veil, like she did
So that we could see the reflection of suffering Jesus

I say this prayer before You, Mary
And I beseech The Lord, in His Mercy
To give me the grace to see You further than the picture’s frames
The grace to see with my heart, Your Love toward people.

 

My last procession in Fatima, our last Rosary together. I accompany The Holy Mother again, walking close to the statue and I “complain” to Her that I have to leave this beautiful place of prayer. Then I hear the words in my heart: I insist, in all austerity, that you should pray for sinners … I got frightened with these words. The emotional affection connected with the atmosphere of this place is gone. The seriousness of these words reaches deeply within me and fills my heart with responsibility for … other people. The word “austerity” penetrates within me like a wound that I must keep remembering about and not cure it with emotions which pass away. I understood that I must not forget about the beseeching prayer for those who are far from God, for those who don’t think about their salvation. I thank the Holy Mother for the words: “with all austerity”. Now I will remember.
I am back home and I have a beautiful dream about Fatima. This huge square in Fatima is like an ocean with moving waves. The golden statue of Jesus in the middle is like a sea lighthouse. The square is filled with waves which are human prayers, intentions, they live in this ocean which pours graces onto the pilgrims. The waves of graces like the waves of the ocean, flow violently beyond the square and cover even those who are not there but who are prayed for by the “swimmers” in this ocean. Everything around is alive, is moving and sparkling. This place is not empty, huge space - it is the ocean of God’s Mercy, where praying people are on their knees and Mary feeds the hearts of those who beseech for consolation.

 

Ortiga

 

There are sanctuaries like oceans

So deep from the faithfull’s prayers

Humming with human voices

Like the waves striking against the shore

Pulsating with hope, with pain

With requests, with the words of gratitude

Pilgrims prayers are like the incense smoke

Longing and reaching the pictures and statues of Mary

Sometimes a pilgrim whispers a long Rosary

Sometimes his soul utters a silent shout

In Fatima, Lourdes, Guadalupe

The human prayer flows out like an ocean

The boats of human hearts are sailing over

Like lonely cradles

That wish to be hugged and rocked

With the Motherly hand of Holy Mary

 

There are also churches with an awesome silence

Just humming with the music of a little waterfall

Or with the echo of a final verse of a monk’s prayer

Who just rose from his knees after a cordial talk with Mary

It’s a creative silence that encourages to open your heart

As if the church were a … confessional

The whiteness of the walls, the sunrays, the lit candles

The figure of Mary in the Altar, so close

The breath of the praying gets united with the breath of the church

The church lives in the Eucharist, hidden in the Tabernacle

You feel it strong, you feel this house full of love

The house-confessional that burns sin …

There is such a church in Ortiga, near Fatima

Out there the Holy Mother also appeared

Before a mute shepherd girl and cured her when asking for a lamb

I say goodbye to Ortiga, feeling the blessing of this place

                      And I still see Mary with the lamb

                      As if She wanted to tell me: give Me your pure soul.

 

 

Between pain and joy

 

Between human pain and joy of life

There is a space for … Purgatory

For understanding the feelings that pain has imprinted

For being nourished with hope that joy has provided

Human Purgatory on earth is a field given to us

To grow … life

 

And though pain seems to be like hell

Time covers it with dust but scars remain

The memory about them, we put in the field of Purgatory

They are an experience of … growing up

When we plant this field with the weeds of fear and anger

It becomes barren, like Purgatory of ever-lasting torment

 

Human Purgatory can be like a growth of noble plants

Like farming of charity, love and forgiveness

When we put the cross of the Savior on it

And sow with prayers like with life-giving dew

Though the human pain is pulsating under the scars of the wounds

We keep sowing despite hardship and sweat on the face …

 

We call to the Lord of Life and He appears

In this field of our human Purgatory

He strides over with His injured feet

And unites His pain with ours

He picks the flowers of hope, charity and love that we had planted

And transforms our human Purgatory into the hope of joy in Heaven

 

Memorial Day of St. Francis. Who wouldn’t love this saint! He gave Himself away to God. He can be the symbol to follow for the doubtful.
I am attending Holy Mass in Warsaw. After the Communion I “see” in my soul, an image of a wide open gate in a green meadow full of colorful flowers. Next to it, there is another gate, hardly open, just a narrow slit. I wonder what this image means. I refer it to the teachings of St. Francis. He wholeheartedly devoted Himself to love for God, He trusted Him in all. He let His heart open up totally (like the first gate). Don’t we, people who are weak, often doubtful, not trusting - open our hearts for God’s Love only a little? We are afraid to trust, accept God’s Will completely. We “control” our love, trusting our thoughts and our will much more. Give us, Lord, the grace of opening for Your Will.

 

Feast of the Priesthood and establishment of the Eucharist

Joy of Holy Thursday

I experienced undeserved Love
A joyous gift for the heart
It didn't sound with the shout of happiness
Nor did it use beautiful words
It tasted like fresh bread .
On Holy Thursday I was squeezed
In the crowd of the faithful
Still being locked in my evening fatigue
Suddenly I saw the silhouette of the Lord
In luminous garments
Passing by
As if He were a breeze of a light, crystal figure
Giving a sign: I Am, I touch you
I still couldn't believe this feeling
But my wise heart ran out in front of Him
Leaving the body in surprise
Then the heart came back with a childlike joy
Making my maturity ashamed.
Hot tears flowed over my face
I was penetrated by gentleness, patience, tenderness
I felt the touch of Love, silent and generous
The Love that joined the crowd of the faithful
With the Rosary heads of grace
Forming the great Rosary of the hearts that desire Salvation
And is laid at the foot of the Altar
I experienced undeserved Love
It tasted like fresh bread.
Like the still living Eucharist.


A child

My heart is too small
To embrace all Your Love, Lord
It is like a disabled man running to the finishing line
Among the healthy runners

I can only, my Lord, change into a child
Who gives all his trust to his Father
And follows You along every path
Hearing Your voice ahead

I want the food of the Holy Eucharist
To be the enlivening, nourishing milk for me
And I want my childlike enchantment over the Good Father
To remain in my heart forever

May my prayer be a child’s crying
Eager for the caring hands of the Father
And He, seeing the child’s helplessness and trust
Will sing him a lullaby about Love

My heart is too small
To measure the size of Your Love, Lord
Being a child, I believe that You - the Good Father
Will plunge me in the clear source of Your Love.

 

Waterfall

 

The pure, spring water of Divine Graces

Flows down over the rocks and stones, into the world

Like from a waterfall, rich with a variety of sounds

Forming a watery depth at the foot

The depth of Love, Goodness and Beauty

No one knows the real depth of these waters

It evokes fear with many people

They prefer to hold on to the rocks of the waterfall

And only wash up their feet safely

Every stone is like a sin of man

There are piles of sins, known for generations

The petrified sins in the sharp shapes of the rocks

Aggressive, hurting, the same for centuries

And those smoothened ones, seemingly gentle in touch

Deceiving, hiding evil, deeply rooted

The pure water of graces flows down over them

Still patiently, mercifully

Sometimes it gets stormy with the white foam of God’s wrath

For the thirsty, it is warm with Love and Hope

The angels soar over the pure depth

They whisper to the castaways clinging to the rocks of the world:

Plunge in this water, tear your hands and feet off the stones

Free your will from fears, distrust, hatred

Nobody will drown …

In this water of God’s graces

Where you receive the cleansing Baptism of God’s Love. 

My everyday Mass. This morning is rainy and sad and my mood is the same. On my way to church, I pray one part of the Rosary and I think how great grace Holy Mass is, but I feel so … ordinary, just usual “daily life”. I apologize to Lord Jesus in my heart, for my human “mediocrity”, I feel unworthy of His Love. During Mass, the priest sings so beautifully that it forces me to apologize to Lord Jesus for all that I did wrong, for my indifference, sinfulness.
During the Transubstantiation, I have an impression that I am surrounded with strange fog which also fills the altar and makes the altar rise a little, as if the sharpness of my eye-sight changed, being covered with white, transparent matter. It lasts a moment, a while. I see a cross with Jesus over the altar. Jesus s pulling His arm off the cross and like a priest, He is holding a large Host and is raising It toward Heaven. The arm is raised at some angle. When the priest is raising The Cup, Jesus, at the same time, is raising It high toward Heaven, His arm is straight upward. I have an impression that The Cup really touches Heaven, indeed. The church roof disappears somewhere … Jesus offers His Blood - to God, I thought … Strange, but I watch this vision carefully, rationally observing every gesture, as if I registered a real picture, painted by a genial painter. The gesture of Lord Jesus when He is raising The Host differs from the gesture of offering the Cup. The highly raised Cup has something to do with the Great Request … The image disappears and I am filled with great love. I am not able to rise from my knees …
The beauty of this image evokes a feeling of reflection in me, such great miracles occur at the altar. How great our faith must be, how much we must beseech for it, so that Holy Mass was not an ordinary “coming to Mass”, but the encounter with The Greatest Love - The Offering of The Body and Blood of Jesus for us. And even if our “human feelings” could not recognize this miracle, being “busy” with daily life - this miracle is waiting for the thirsty, it occurs in every Holy Mass. I beg you, Lord, that my soul, my heart could remember about the essence of Holy Mass and that my imperfection would not deprive me of the joy of this encounter with You, Lord.

Trust The Lord, my soul

My eyes can’t see You, Jesus
My hands can’t touch Your robes
And even if I force my eyes to see Your image
And hold my hands out high
I will not reach You …
So I close my eyes, put the hands on my heart
And ask my soul, the gift of the living God
To have the encounter with You
At the Holy Mass
Go on a pilgrimage, my soul, with The Lord
To Gethsemane, along the Stations of the Cross
Stand in humility at the Last Supper’s place
Kiss the holy places
Sprinkled with his blood and sweat
Run beside Veronica, in front of the angry crowd
Touch the Cross, like Simon did
And if you feel pain from His wounds
Don’t cast it away
Look over His body for the wound that you caused
And cry out of pity …
Kneel in the dust of Jerusalem road
Beside your Lord
Don’t be afraid to look into His eyes
Despite the sneers of the world
That only adores what it sees
And desires what it can touch
Oh, my soul, gifted with the wisdom of The Holy Spirit
And not human
Trust that The Lord is at the altar
And only He can fill your hunger, your longing
With the holy food of the Communion
Between God and man.

Candles of hope

 

I thought that only people pass away

But their houses and places

Keep on living …

And perhaps it is like this, in the real world

But there is also the invisible world of the heart

The world of feelings

Splashing over the real world

Showing the traces of human feet, talks

Sounds of laughter and crying

In the places where we stayed and lived

With those who passed away …

 

When I am passing by such places

They seem to be strange, dead, abandoned

As if petrified in the passing time

I avoid them for there is no life in them

Of those whom I loved

There are the walls of their houses, the new life, resounding there

But it is strange to my heart, unknown

Only the church is for me

Like a tender place of an encounter of life and death

There are still lit-up sparks of prayers of my beloved ones

Like the candles of hope for the encounter in eternity.

 

 

Time of talking

 

I talk with You, Lord, because only You

Don’t lose my words

You know my feelings and intimate intentions

 

I talk with You, Lord, because only You

Surround it with holy meditation

Like the Wise Father

 

Sometimes in silence, I lift my eyes toward You

Feeling joyful because I know that You Are here

And with no words, You get to know my human love

 

I talk with You, Lord, when I feel happy or sad

Full of humility and being lost

And You always wait for me patiently

 

You sit at the table loaded with gifts

As if I were a welcomed guest

And You graciously watch which gift I choose

 

In our talks, You are the Merciful Father

Who opens the confessional’s window

When I, ashamed of sin, kneel down with contrition

 

You are, Lord, like the Home, safe and generous in love

I go inside and get nourished with its power

Which strengthens me for my life’s journey

 

And when Your justice must touch me

You send Holy Mary like a pure dove

May She collect the tears of penance and surround me with hope

 

I talk with You, Lord, at Holy Mass, and on the Way of the Cross

And listen to the words of Your tormented Son

I feed my soul and body with His Blood and His Flesh

 

I talk with You, Lord, with the prayers of my heart

And of my soul, saved by Your Son

I talk with You, Lord, for I want to listen to Your Voice

                                               And Your Answers … 

 

Saturday. I went on a pilgrimage with our Divine Mercy group (Faustinum) to visit the places where St. Faustina was born and where she lived (in and near Łódź). In Łódź, in the park called Venice, there is a stone where St. Faustina met Jesus when she was 19 years old and she was having a dancing party there. At that time Łódź was a small town and she was born in a small, unknown village. But God chose this poor, uneducated, weak sister as the Secretary speaking about The Divine Mercy! How great this fact is, and how often we do not realize that God has a definite plan for each of us. In every corner of the world, God looks at us, not like at a “moving crowd” but at an individual person that already follows a definite God’s plan. Each of us is “included” in this God’s beautiful intention of Salvation and it is up to our will to carry it out. St. Faustina followed the voice of God although she had some doubts, like everybody.

Talent

So beautiful the world has the Creator given us
With the mountains so elevated, the oceans so deep
And forests full of life and aromas
And the light from the sun, the stars and the moon
The Creator gave it so that while staring at the ocean
We thought about the depth of our own humanity
And while staring at the mountain tops, we lifted our hearts high

The Creator poured talents into us, giving a chance to describe this beauty
Some, paying homage to God with words
Writing verses of tender poetry when being overwhelmed with love
Others have eyes like mirrors that reflect the beauty
And their hands skillfully transform them into colorful paintings
There are still others who hear the harmony of sounds
And compose music, the fragrant incense for the soul

Alas, there are also people who listen to Satan’s whispers
And conceit is poured into their minds, making their senses blind
They paint strangely dark and threatening pictures
Their words are contagious with ugliness and rebellion
They describe evil as if it were the king of the world
And life, as roaming around the world with no Salvation
And love, as cheap commodity for small money

Oh, Creator of Beauty, oh, Poet of Eternal Words
The Painter of human souls, redeemed through the Cross
Please, send us down poets, musicians, painters
Who can see Your beauty with their faith and hope
And can feel the Holy Plan of God with their hearts and know
That He created this beautiful world for the souls who are immortal
For the eternal beauty that does not pass away.

 

 

Searching for Her Son

 

There are many ways that man must pass

Sometimes blindly, without the Decalogue

Until he finds the way of Hope …

 

There is such a way, sanctified with Mary’s feet

The way from Nazareth to the Jerusalem’s temple

And the return one, for Her lost Son

 

The mystery of this way is woven into the beads of the Rosary

And though Mary experienced painful feelings

We meditate over them in the Joyful Mysteries

 

We lose the Countenance of Jesus, just like Holy Mary

And the fear of life without hope, and many doubts

Pushes us on the return way …

 

We come back to the temple for the faithful prayer

For the childlike, joyous trust in God’s Mercy

For Jesus, the Lord of Love and Hope

 

And I see the purpose of Mary’s return way

It is the time when She, the Mother of Perpetual Help

Walking along in great pain, gathers human defeats

 

She picks up our hopes and loves that we abandoned

And betrayed on our way of life

She carries them like stones to the temple, to Her lost Son

 

And though Mary does not understand

Why Jesus stayed in the temple with the preachers

Yet She also carries to Him, our pains and fears in Her arms

                                  She carries our search for Jesus. 

 

Anticipation

 

In the darkness of December mornings

And the streets still asleep and motionless

The faithful are heading to churches, to the Rorate prayers

The church greets them with turned-off lights

And with a peculiar mystery of meditation

Over the miracle that is about to happen

 

These days are like the pearls of the Rosary prayer

Shifted slowly to rejoice the moment

They are like a lace, slowly woven out of the thread of hope

While waiting for the masterpiece of God, the Birth of His Son

During these days of the holy pilgrimage, step by step

The pilgrims of the Rorate prayers are heading to Bethlehem

 

Together with us, Mary is going to Bethlehem, too

With Her Infant in the womb

She asks to hold the lamps of faith in our hands

And share the olive of love with all

This time of anticipation is a great feast in Heaven

God Himself blesses us, sending the Savior to earth.

 

There are truths in a life of a Christian which are accepted as evident … as long as we don’t have to accept them into our hearts personally and stand for them ourselves.
We refer with sympathy and compassion to those who suffer from illnesses, who die for faith, who are afflicted with life misfortunes (8-th Station of the Cross, when women weep over the tormented Jesus). But when we are afflicted with a misfortune personally, we start to feel rebellion, anger in our hearts, we are not able to accept this cross as a grace that is sent upon us, that is often so hard to carry. It does not mean that this cross is to make us fall down because we don’t know the mystery of sending it to us. But there are such people who implement the Evangelic truths in their lives and carry their crosses with dignity. They feel that their cross is a sign from God in their lives. By carrying their crosses with prayer, they participate in Jesus’ Passion, in His Salvation purpose. These are the people who deeply feel the sense of Christ’s teachings. Not only do they accept the word but they also live by it. The Holy Mother stood by the Cross of Her Son and She did not want to show Her tears and compassion but together with Her Son, She wanted to become the co-redeemer for the sins of mankind. She was carrying this cross with the sorrowful heart. The contemporary man wants to use egotistical pleasures and wants to take as much as he can from the world of goods. In His teaching, Jesus also tells us about our responsibility for the world. When we accept our crosses, that is, God’s will, with dignity and prayer, we participate in the Redeeming Act of Christ wholeheartedly. God speaks to the cross-bearers - I Am with you, I do not turn away from your cross. May God help us so that we could always have enough God’s helpers - the authentic followers of Jesus’ Teaching.

My Advent Rorate Mass

Having been awakened on a winter morning
I am heading to my Advent Mass
Darkness still envelopes the streets
And the wonderful silence of the sleepy city
The sputtering snow plays in the light of street lamps
Salesmen bustle in the shops
Dark figures of those thirsty for morning beer
Stand by the doors and wait for their opening
The crows, crowded in the trees, croak loudly
Cutting the motionless silence of the morning, like a razor
Oh, Most Holy Mother, Are You here, in my time?
Are You on vigil?
Hail Mary, full of grace … I repeat
Stepping carefully along a slippery sidewalk
What were You thinking about in Nazareth
When Archangel Gabriel announced You the News?
Did You feel joy then, or did pain penetrate You?
The church is dark inside …
The pews are filled with the faithful on vigil
The candles light up with hope
It is this hope that I head for, along the streets of my city
I am like any human being, dipped in everyday life
Feeling joy from the encounter with Jesus and Mary
And feeling sad when people look for hope outside The Son
Hail Mary … - I keep praying
Help those who live in darkness
And those who lost their light of hope
Due to their wicked life
You, Mary, who gave birth to The Infant
Please, walk along my dark streets
And pick up all the abandoned and indifferent hearts
And light up their feeble spark of warmth
Before they turn into a freezing stone
Which terminates every light of hope.


At the manger

I give You my love, Little Infant
Kneeling at Your manger
And I hold You in my arms with motherly tenderness
I sing a litany for You, an Adoration lullaby
The strength of Your arms is greater than mine
Although You are the Infant only

I stare at Your eyes, beautiful and trustful
Your breath relieves my fears
And my heart, full of peculiar hope, whispers:
Hold this Godly Child in your arms tight
Take Him into your life
He is the Savior of yours

Don’t leave Him among the figures, in the manger
He is the living sign of Salvation
Hug the Infant to your heart
When darkness of sin tempts you
May your life be a cradle
And not a cross for His arms

God - Heavenly Father had painful knowledge
When He sent His Son to earth
But His Love for people is eternal
And His hope is all patient …
When the Little Infant in the cradle
Has been beseeching for Love, in trust, for hundreds of years

Don’t be afraid, He asks, to take Me in your arms
I know your hard life quite well
Your tears and your smile
And your deeds, worthy of man, will be enough to feed Me
I will fill your heart with Love and Peace
And I will not be afraid of your cross, either …

 

 

The light

In the silence of contemplation
I erase words from my memory
I beseech an angel for holy silence
For a rest in a grotto
Protected by his wings
In a boundless desert, full of light
Where the wind carries prayers of a hermit
Longing for an encounter with the Creator

In the silence of contemplation
I try to fill the longing of my soul
Bent over with daily worries
But trying to carry on the pilgrimage toward this light
Which does not blind but enlightens and cures
Gifted with the holy gifts of faith
Engulfed in comforting silence
I am waiting …

I remove a desire of my own will
And go along the ways of my life
I see the sanctifying mountains that I haven’t reached
I look for protection under the roofs of the forests
To wait over, to repent for my sins
I bend my will to keep on my pilgrimage
Although my body gets weaker
But the longing to see the light is urgent

I hold out my hands high when I roam in darkness
May the prayer in my lifted-up hands
Lead me like a blind man’s walking stick
I trust that God’s Justice gets weaker
When He hears our prayers
And His merciful smile leads on
Toward the place where Heaven leans down to earth
And looks forward to a wandering child.


Plock. 80-th anniversary of St. Faustina’s Revelation of Merciful Jesus.

The Anniversary

There was a moment of mystic ecstasy
When Heaven leaned toward The Earth
And sent a vision of Merciful Jesus’ image down to Faustina
Paint this image, she heard, for souls’ Salvation

You, Holy Nun, are still contemplating the beauty of the Master
From the world, worthy of angelic painters
And yet You are worried how to paint the revelation image
With a human paint-brush

The essence of the image is in signs, You hear, not in paint colors
You carry the image of Jesus in Your heart, like the dearest icon
And reflect with love on the holy signs, written into the image
And direct the hand of the painter with Your prayer

And the painting is born, filled with grace everlasting
A luminous vessel, full of Divine Mercy
Bringing hope and forgiveness, not for our deeds
But for the trust in Divine Mercy

Resurrected Jesus appears and blesses
Out of the dark background of human fears, pride and lack of faith
The pain of crucifixion comes from His eyes
The wounds on His feet and hands are still open

He enters our life’s Last Supper
And penetrates darkness with the rays of light from His pierced heart
He stops by each of us, whether we are saints or not
And He asks: what do you know about My Mercy?

His eyes see what our hearts want to hide deeply
He asks each man by name: why do you escape from Me?
Do your pain and suffering separate you from Me suddenly?
Or maybe sin made your conscience frozen, throwing you into darkness?

Look at this painting, created for you
Look at My hand with a wound, lifted up, with a gesture of blessing
Look at My wounded heart, where the gifts of God’s Sacraments flow from
Trust Me only, I will never let you down

Kneel before Me, before My Mercy
Not like a servant, forced to pay homage to the Lord
But become a little child waiting for gifts
Not because of your merits, but for your great trust

Maybe this image looks silent to you
But you must know that Jesus held His breath for a moment
So that nothing could deafen the words of your prayer
Especially when you say with love: Jesus, I trust in You.

 

I know people who are so devoted to their passions, hobbies, they adore an actor, a sportsman so much that they use a lot of time for that. This is my love – they say. Although they declare themselves as Catholics but they prefer to give themselves away to their pleasures more than going to Holy Mass. It seems to me that they don’t  even realize that they sin against the First Commandment: you will not have any other gods but Me. In spite of fatigue, lack of time, they rush to a concert or a match as if it were their great love. They give away themselves, their feelings, being unaware that they become slaves of their passions. Holy Mass, God – it is only a duty. Their love gets exhausted due to their passion. They don’t notice other values. They give away their adoration to various interests, idols. They forget WHO blesses our life. To give away yourself, your personality, your humanity is a tremendous waste of time. And time runs out mercilessly. You may get bored with an idol, its place will be taken up by another singer, sportsman – we yield to our passion. The time we could devote to our own spiritual development or emotional maturity, passes with no return. We become like empty boxes that look for “treasures” in the outside world, to fill them up. We just get infantile and run out of our love that we could devote to God, to the family, to our fellow human beings. The world of mass production (films, games, sports, idols) helps us to get more infantile and deprives us of individual thinking, criticism and introduces other patterns to follow. Being weak, not strengthened with the teaching of God, we fall into these “booby” traps. Do we feel free then? Happy? So why are there so many people around us who require psychologist’s advice?

God’s Grace

God’s grace penetrates with a mysterious spark
It feeds a dying flame of hope
And touches unexpectedly

The mind isn’t able to explain Its works
Nor is the wisest theological treatise
It is like a breath of God’s Love …

On our way we encounter doubts and hurting events
When we have no strength to rise from a fall
Then we see the face of Christ …

His eyes beside ours, on a dusty road of Calvary
The noise of indifferently running-by feet is getting silent
We look at each other …

Amazement overwhelms us over the power that His Love has
Darkness disappears from our loneliness, courage arrives
God holds out His hand …

God’s grace doesn’t flow with words of consolation
It builds up the Act of Mercy in unusual silence
For the beloved sons of men

We feel enchanted over the transition of our hearts
And take the dust of doubts and despair off our clothes
Peace flows down on us …

Overwhelmed with God’s grace, we become witnesses of His Mercy
And follow Jesus toward the cross where the Good Villain hangs
And like him, we feel redeemed …

God’s grace is not like human justice
It is the Holy Gift for a sinner, from Father who forgives
And waits patiently for us to reciprocate this Love.


Too much time …

We devote so much time to things
That are passing and superficial
We make money, our great idol
And strive for money more than for people

We yield to the fashion of worldly truths
And are seduced by commercials and neon signs
In this rush for success, we forget somewhere
About the end of life - the Station of the Old Age …

We put God and prayers on the bottom of a trunk
And lock it tightly, so that our mood wasn’t spoiled
We trust that money will bring us happiness for sure
And gold will provide us with respect and love

But the clock is incorruptible and will not stop the time
And our mirror won’t be deceived by our make-up
The morning will come when you look at the mirror
And will hear a chuckle of the time that passed

We boarded the train with inscriptions: success, power and money
And we hoped for victory
But the train rushes to the final destination so fast
That we have no time to encounter our own life …

The time will come when the young make us leave
When we are too old for the world of success
Then a painful thought will strike us: the world played unfair with us
And we believed in its swindling truths

Let us pray then, for a grace of Lord, for help of His merciful hands
To make us open the trunk where deeply hidden on the bottom
We can find an old, yellowish Bible and our parents’ wooden cross
There we can look for the words that don’t cheat

If you were indifferent to the Stations of the Cross of suffering Jesus
And you don’t remember His painful face any more
Come to the cross where the crucified Truth is stuck
The Truth that you forgot about but this Truth did not forget about you.

 

 

The Tabernacle of the Heart

 

In the Tabernacle, locked with a golden key

You are the Guest here, Jesus, You, the Prisoner of Merciful Love
And you are so delicate in this white Holy Wafer
Like a petal of innocent, beautiful rose

Being thirsty for Your sight, in a common, human form
I can’t see You with my eyes
But my soul, being in love with You
Intertwines my love with Yours and changes You into a person

During this Holy Feast, when a priest gives the Host
My heart loses its rhythm for a moment, my breathing stops
And the white flake of the Host of Your mouth
Gets nearer and nearer, in our close encounter of the Communion

I would like to hold You, Jesus, so much
Imprison You in my heart for my whole life
Create a Tabernacle in my heart
And lock It with a key of non-sinfulness

But I am a weak, mortal person
I learned what light is, but also a dark night of sin
When You are a prisoner in my heart and my mouth
Not only do I hear beautiful songs, but also Your painful groan

And it is not a groan of human disillusion
You are God, of course, and You know human faults
So it is rather a loud signal of an emergency ambulance
Of a conscience that hurts Your Mercy

Then I look for signs in the Communion, the proof of Your Love
I even catch a cross that stands on my way
I look for Your presence, to be near You again
And I find It in the confessional and tell my conscience to kneel in confession.

 

Before the Holy Mass, I pray for forgiveness of sins, I ask for the power of The Holy Spirit for my soul and heart … and then I hear in my heart: you are a royal child, the child of God, redeemed with the blood of Jesus, your Brother …
I am surprised with these words and try to meditate … How great was dignity and love that we received from God. We often forget about it, yielding to our own weakness and to the rules of the world that we live in. We indulge ourselves, saying: we are only sinners. But actually, we are not only sinners - we are the children of God who is the King of Universe. When we take up some life’s tasks, we should remember about our dignity of a God’s child, about the requirements that we face, about the struggle with our own sinfulness. We must remember who created us and whose children we are. The world shows us values that are far from our vocation. We succumb to such values as money, senses and impressing other people. We become servants of these values and our awareness of being a child of God, is slowly dying out. How much we must overcome all this, how strongly we must fight evil in order to keep our human dignity. I understood that our life on earth is not a comfortable “passing through” the years of our lives - but it is a moral rising higher and higher, toward our Father, it is the struggle with our faults, sins, which the world often dresses in colorful clothes, thus, justifying human nature. Help us, Lord, always remember Who our Father is and Who redeemed us with His blood!

There is time …

You are stubborn, human time
When suffering and pain touch us
You stretch, turning minutes into hours
And you don’t allow to forget about suffering
Even when your time passed already

You are like a light breeze
Like a hardly felt breath
And when man flourishes with joy
You are gone soon
Turning hours into minutes

And if we wanted human time
To subdue to the logics of mechanical passing
Then the feeling of suffering and pain
Is like a guest in the coming time
Like an evergreen plant

Oh, human time, the unfair clock
You strike the hour of suffering much more
Than the hour of joy
Please stop for a while …
So that we could give sense to our feelings

Oh, human time, the clock of life
Allow to transform the memory of suffering into the offering
The sacrifice of the incense of love, and not the moan of the unhappy
There is time of suffering, time of the cross
And there is time for resurrecting to life.


A conversation at the cross

Once a non-believer asked me
About my God and the strength of my faith
I knelt at the cross, staring at the Lord
In prayer I asked for God’s inspiration
My brain and words are so poor, Lord
To show Your all-might to the doubting
Tell me what this man should do
And what I should do, to make him encounter You

Let your hands do good to people, I heard
And lead your legs where good waits
And don’t go with conceit in your heart, like a battle banner
Just to win wars and receive rewards
Be on your knees when you fight evil
As if you were an extension of My Son’s cross
Be a nurse of His wounds with your prayers and deeds
Share with your fellow being the graces that you were granted

God has no regard to a powerful man’s strength
The little ones’ prayer is what He helps to win
He grants grace and David’s sling
That defeated Goliath with a small stone
Those who rely on the mind will not understand God’s Love
So tell this man that your God is all Love
And He makes miracles out of the depth of His Mercy
Indeed, He made so many saints out of … non-believers.

After the morning prayer I was looking at the picture of the Holy Trinity. The picture is a vision of a painter. God Father is there as the Holy Old Man, the Dove nearby is the Holy Spirit, and Jesus Christ. Jesus - bleeding, tormented, with a driven-in lance, is supported by His God-Father at His heart. Three persons in Oneness. A thought about this Holy Oneness occurred to me. God “gave birth” to the Son out of His Heart and giving Him the human shape, He sent Him down to Earth. Jesus is the Heart of God and He became man in His shape so that man could recognize God in Christ … through His holy deeds on earth.
The next day I had a reflection that I preceded with a prayer: I pray to You, Lord and thank You for the faith that allows to “touch” Heaven …
We are physical beings and we learn about the world with our senses. We don’t know Heaven, the World of Eternity. God gave us His Son and the Holy Scripture - this is the rope that we climb up to Heaven. We are not only the “species” that live according to their senses or physics. We follow them but … being gifted with spiritual abilities, we tend to head toward the higher world of eternity. Different philosophies try to deprive man of faith and reduce him to senses. The stronger, the more skillful, the younger - these are the ones who win in this world. If we look at other people in this way, we will become the living “species” that gets adapted only for survival, for making use of love and other feelings so that we could survive better and more comfortably in this physical world. Even faith is “tolerated” as a peculiar ritual for a better psychic well-being. God and Christ’s Passion on the cross don’t give us such teachings.
Dedication, fidelity, noble feelings - are not appreciated. I wonder why there are so many mockers of faith in this world. I think that it’s easier to rule a “faithless” society, just giving simple, mechanical truths to follow … and how to live to feel more comfortable. To dedicate our lives to the laws of the Decalogue - this is our Christian courage of opposing a vision of a man who must only “survive”. Like a thing? Only here and now? Then what sense would a human life make, the life that was redeemed by the Passion of God Himself? But it is up to the man himself, up to his choice to survive only or to be Somebody, created out of Love and for Love, to stare at Heaven or earth …

Thank You, Jesus

Thank You, Jesus, that I met You
On my pilgrimage around the world
Thank You, Jesus, that I recognized You
Because I could have passed by You, on my way
For my eyes and ears, I thank You cordially
That they recognized Your words, Lord
In the humming of pictures and voices
Thank You, Jesus, for the place of encounter at the cross
And for the moment when You covered the world so much
That it didn’t make sense for me to keep running
Since that moment I’ve been circling around Your cross
Drawing love and hope out of it
Thank You, Jesus, for Your tears that I hear
Like striking raindrops against the window pane
May this sound move my heart
Every day, whenever I sin
Thank You, Jesus, that You caught my hands
So that I could dance the holy dance
Adoring Your life and Passion
Thank You, Jesus, for the time of my life
So that I could devote it to prayers
Thanks for my cross that I carry
And for the church where I can prop it up against the Altar
And I do thank You, Lord, for Your Love
When You, through the hands of a priest, give me Your Body and Blood.


A Soul and an Angel

When my heart is short of words of love
When I get stuck on a shoal of daily routine
Then listen to the silence of my soul, Jesus
She calls to You with her silence

She is woven out of sighs of an awesome longing
I can’t feed her with words
She weeps, calling her Lord with the tears of repentance
She is happy when she feels the touch of her Creator

She hears Your footsteps, Jesus
Although their echo doesn’t reach my ears
She sees You in the darkest gloom
While I don’t see You even in bright light

My soul, Lord, never falls asleep
As if she waited for Somebody
And when I try to make her sleep with prayer
My Guardian Angel comes and talks with her

Sometimes I hear their whispers in the dark
They are like friends’ hearty encounters
I eavesdrop and sometimes I recall some words
But with dawn, oblivion often comes

And though sleep breaks the vigil of the mind and the body
The trace of these encounters is deep within me
I accept it as a gift of love of the Father for a child
The gift of the ever vigilant soul with the sleepless Angel.

 

 

Horizon

I was staring at the horizon
The mysterious line where the longing gets fulfilled
The line got further with every step toward it
But the horizon remained and encouraged to go on
It became remote when I was running
When I stopped over, it was awaiting
It was for me like the Eyes of God
Looking down at the pilgrim’s effort
I was walking toward it over the green meadows
Full of spiritual nourishment
Juicy fruits of faith
I entered the empty, stony fields, full of thorns
Being thirsty, I looked for Moses with a stick
And for the rock where the enlivening water will spout
I suffered from the hunger of faith and the cold of feelings
The horizon was leading me toward the gardens
Which were feeding me and protecting with their shadow
I stood by the dangerous ocean
Inaccessible to cross over, in human terms
The setting sun of God’s grace was leading me
It removed fear, the waves were yielding
I was in the cities where tall houses
Covered the horizon and their noise
Deafened the call of the Eyes of God
I opened the pilgrim’s bag with the prayers
And looked for the Houses of the Lord with high towers
Kneeling before Him, I asked for His power
He was leading me toward the spaces
Of the contemplation of His Love
And being armed with His Love now
I am going toward the Eyes of God, toward the horizon
Where the longing will come to pass.

 

I was thinking over the phenomenon of holiness of man. Here on earth, we are subjected to the “laws” of our nature, we are limited by our body, we are deceived by our senses. We get to know God by our “imperfect body” where our soul dwells. God is The Perfect Spirit and thanks to His Grace we get closer to knowing Him. I think that knowing God fully is possible only at the moment of our … death. Our soul is then “liberated” from the imperfection of nature and stands in front of God - The Perfect Spirit. Then we can see our every flaw, every sin. Nothing justifies us then. Only when we live in this world of ours, we can find some excuses for our imperfections. Then we make excuses before God, saying that our faith is fragile because we are … desperate, in pain or we have doubts. At the final moment of death, the “scales” fall off our eyes, we can see very clearly then, our soul is encountering God. At this very last moment we can feel the grace of The Divine Mercy and man can be converted and redeemed even then. God waits until the very end and gives the choice. It is the same way as it was with the Good Rascal. God knows our body limitations, resulting from the original sin. He looks at our intentions, at our attempts to rise from our downfalls. He knows that our human nature does not allow us to know God profoundly. Even these whom we adore today as saints, had their downfalls but their eye-sight was trustfully directed toward hope that God would help. God speaks to us through “signs” that are comprehensive for us, for our human body nature. God reveals Himself in our human life. Miracles of encounters with Him occur. The greatest miracle was the Offering of His Own Son. God is not a remote being, living somewhere in the outer space but He penetrates our lives with His plans, intentions, although we think that our life seems to be “neglected” and sunk in the crowd. Each of us has “his home” in the kingdom of God, furnished with His Love, with His Patience for our weaknesses. All we need is only the grace of faith that confirms that Merciful God is The Gracious Father Who finds us whenever we get lost. He will not lose us in this world but He will find us in every corner. All we need is just to pull out our hands to Him and not hide in despair that our sinfulness, our imperfection excludes His Love. Our road of faith often runs in darkness. This darkness means our great hardship and responsibility for our own Salvation.

 

The holy pain

There is such pain in our life
It comes without any cause
It is spiritual, bloodless and it hurts
It shakes our soul, covered with daily routine
Wishing to recover the lost truth

This pain is like a never-ending longing for perfection
We run toward the light but it moves away
We treat this pain with dainties from the world’s supermarket
We sing popular lullabies
But the pain lasts … like an incurable wound

And even if we deafened it with the noise of the world’s discotheques
Or used the incense of pleasures
And cheated with drugs of comfort and timely joys
Or gave away to the laws that make morality sleep
Still, the pain lasts silently and waits

This is the “holy pain” of our soul in searching for the Truth
The wound that reminds us of the essence of our humanity
Thank You, Lord, for this “holy pain”, this perpetual longing
It leads us to the cross where human conceit dies
It is the hurting pain … for man’s salvation.


The Mountain of Crosses

I visited a place on the Lithuanian soil
There is no place like that anywhere on earth
It is a hill with thousands of crosses
A little mountain rises in the empty space of fields
There are no flowers or grass but crosses of wood or metal
They flow from the hill like a rapid stream
Spreading with crosses at its foot
The Pope’s cross opens the way upward
Our Pope was kneeling there
Mary’s statue is heightened on the hill
It surrounds all the crosses with its praying sigh
The crosses look like a crowd of people from a distance
Raising their hands to the Lord in a beseeching gesture
There is a conjured memory in every cross
About human harm, injustice
Of those who fought for the dignity of life
And those who put their crosses as an offering today
At Mary’s statue, someone left a picture of Jesus
Who raises His arms high
As if the Lord wanted to bring Heaven to this earth
And Heaven lifted the hill of crosses in the holy offering
Pilgrims go among the crosses along the well-treaded paths
There is so much history of human life in this place
So many tears that were often dropped in vain
The wind goes round these crosses
And knows each of them stuck in the ground
The crosses, joined by their arms
Resemble people united in a solidarity gesture
Against violence in the world
And it is not a mountain that thunders like a volcano
That demands revenge, blood and war
This is the mountain of hope that God listens to people
The mountain of the offering
Where Abraham wanted to sacrifice his son
This is the Mountain of Faith in God’s Mercy
Where we can put our crosses
This is the faith of man in the loving gesture of God’s hands
Who sent His Son to this Earth
So that He filled human crosses with love and mercy.


The Heart of Jesus

Among the ways of your life
You move ahead, man, pushed with the wind of history
And world’s fashion
You feel like an abandoned seed
By an indifferent sower
You want to shout but the world doesn’t hear you
As if you were mute for others
Like a silent number in a computer
You are pushed by a crowd rushing nowhere
Along the ways of success that you’ve already passed
You’ve collected the fruits and  feel their sour taste now
And your heart is still uneasy …

There is such a place where you  find peace
A wide-open house with no doors and windows
This is the Heart of Jesus that looks for you
It calls you night and day with your own name
This Heart wants to talk with you
And calm down your earthy worries with silence
And bestow grace of inner peace upon you
And teach how to love yourself and others
So when you kneel down being tired of running
You will feel love poured into your heart
Then you won’t be an indifferent number for this world
But … a beloved child of God.

 

Second day of Lent’s Recollections

The subject is my getting closer to Jesus. I saw an image of Jesus standing at the cross. He was supporting it with His back. I had an impression that He can’t get away from it. He must support the cross … I thought that I must keep “approaching” Him with my life. There was quite a large, empty space. Please come closer – I whispered … Jesus held out His hands – the space between us got shorter. I also held out my hands … What does this image mean? I thought. The held-out hands of Jesus and mine … Then the Communion time came … The Body and Blood of Christ – the empty space was filled with The Most Holy Sacrament – the union of Jesus at the cross and mine with Him. Our hands were connected.

 

The root of the earth

 

One evening I was looking at dark clouds

Pouring out like ink-like shadows

The shadows were taking over the remains of daily light

But the light was defending itself bravely

Hiding in the tree branches and in the grass

This struggle between darkness and light

Was like a childlike frolic

Like the music of low and high tides of sea waves

I was praying, enchanted with this beauty

And then …

In my heart I saw an awesome picture

An empty field, rather a fallow, left over by the farmers long ago

It reached out as far as the horizon

Suddenly … a huge cross

Is falling onto this empty field

The long beam is piercing into the ground

As if it wanted to become a powerful root

The horizontal beams were propped against the ground

And in a beseeching, human gesture, like human hands

They were lifting up to the sky

The wood of the cross and the light cast around

A red, bloody glow

I desired some words, some explanation

But this tranquility, this closed mouth of silence

Prompted me to endure … in adoration.

 

The Station of the Cross

I was going to the Mass to see You, Jesus
On a day that was weeping with rain
It was painful to see gray, daily life around
And no beauty at all
The world seemed withered with sadness
I ran out of words of a fervent prayer
Silence was all that I could offer You, Jesus
I asked the Angel to surround me with His light
Like with a protective coat
In this silence, I suddenly saw the Station of Your Passion
The executioners were bent, on their knees
Driving nails into your Holy Hands
And You were stretched out on the cross
Your eyes were close to theirs
Sadness was in them, no hatred whatsoever
It was a strange picture … the hangmen on their knees
You were just a convict for them
And suddenly a painful thought touched my heart
While kneeling with a prayer in our mouths
Don’t we hurt You the same way
Although You are the beloved Lord for us?
How many times do we hurt Your hands with our sins
Looking away from Your eyes, Lord?
Time has lost those nails somewhere
But the sins of Your present believers
Are still lacerating those wounds.


The Infant in the snow

 

On a certain Advent morning

I found a strange gift

On a bench, full of snowy fluff

Somebody left the little Infant in the cradle

He was lying lonely in the white

As tiny as a child’s finger

Did You slip out of the angel’s pocket?

Or were You a problem for somebody at the Christmas table?

Your solitude in this poor cradle

Was so painful but also holy

It reached my heart with a maternal warmth

You became an awesome gift for me

Though someone abandoned You, like a plaster puppet

You were the gift, whispering silently

About the sense of Your Nativity …

You whispered to me that nothing frightens You

Neither the street noise, nor frost, nor rejection

Left alone in the cradle, without Mother or angels

Painfully but patiently, You wait for our love

And maybe for my prayer, too?

For those who cast You away from their hearts

And they are stuck in the icy cave of their life

You have been waiting patiently for ages

In the wooden cradle and on the holy cross

With the message of God’s Love

So great that incomprehensible.

 

During Adoration, sometimes after prayers during the day or in the evening, I “invited” God to talk with me. To my surprise, I realized that I “heard” in my heart some poetic verses, where God was speaking to me personally. He was teaching, consoling me. He showed me the right direction of my meditations. There are some poems which reflect this phenomenon in my poetry.

The exchange of gifts

When you fall down
I give you a sweet-cherry-wood cane
When you bow your tired head against the bench
I put Veronica’s veil beneath
When you stand lonely and sad
I surround you with a bouquet of flowers
When you, being afflicted, kneel down to pray
I move a comfortable kneeler toward you
When you take the cross of suffering on your shoulders
I help you carry it
When you feel the pain of life, I heal your sore
When awkwardness presses like the thorny crown
I soothe your thorn infested irritation
When you don’t understand anything anymore
I send you the wise Angel
And you, what do you do?
When I fall down
When they hurt Me
When I carry the cross …


Hunger

I don’t come to a soul
Accompanied by a flourish of trumpets
Resounding drums, even the singing of the violin
I don’t come to a soul that chatters like a box
And deafens the silence of the encounter with words
The soul is too busy …
I come to a soul that is hungry
She is not fed with the world of sounds, colors, words
Not even with human presence
The thirsty soul waits in silence
She stands vigilant
She waits for the Feast of Eucharist
And then I come in a light breeze of a touch
I stroke the soul lightly, and she recognizes Me
Then she opens her portal
Recognizing the Heavenly key
I come …
Sometimes when you are in deep sorrow
Sometimes I open your clenched fists
Sometimes I fill up your loneliness
Sometimes I touch you suddenly in a sun-hot meadow
Sometimes with the hands of a priest, a man, who, like an angel
Opens the soul on hearing My voice
And then …
Let the violin chant, let the drums rumble
Let the people say how Merciful God is.


Mercy keeps waiting

I come to you among the storms of your life
I am not a thunder that roars and hurts
But a light breeze that gathers storms
I am not a judge, man, I am Mercy
I come to you, bearing My own cross and yours
Please, put all your woes on it
Give Me your hand, relax your clenched fist
May My Mercy lead you on
Although you pass by far from My House, The Holy Church
You are afraid to stumble over its steps
It was Me who fell before you, at the Stations of the Cross
They kicked My Mercy in dust and shout

At night, My House has the gates locked
Like a people’s house, with a key for protection
I don’t lay My head on a pillow at night
My Mercy is sleepless all the time
What can I offer you, the unfaithful man
Who prizes your own will, above all?
I have surrendered My life already, the hangmen have taken It
But they haven’t slain Mercy n Me
The day will come when you lament over your free will
It forced you not to give Me your hand
Remember, in your despair - I will always be with you
Come and let Me embrace you with My Mercy.


The Conductor

I have given you a worthy heart out of The Holy Spirit
And not a mechanism that ticks indifferently
I have given you the heart filled with God's rhythm
Built out of Hope that it will play a beautiful concert
And inspire your life like a virtuoso composing hymns of Love
Of God toward man, and man toward man
Just hear this holy concert in your heart
Written only for you
Don't allow the rhythms of the worldly drums to deafen you
Your heart is not a clock that strikes the hours, passing inevitably
Your heart is shaped out of the Holy Spirit, out of Hope
To exist in the time of eternity
Which has no seconds, minutes, years
Let your life play this God's concert, written for you
Master the keys of this God's solemn adoration
Of the plaintive complaint of suffering in your heart
Of the loud beating of Hope
Wait for the silence
When God, the conductor of your concert
Commands silence to the musicians of your heart
So that He could speak to you
And then you will beautifully play this concert of your heart.


When you look at Me

When you look at Me
Humiliated, with a cross on My back
I don’t need any laments from you
I haven’t come to this world for pity
Oblivion … is mother of pity

When I pass by, being injured
I don’t want any tears from you
You should recognize your sins in silence
And crucify them with nails of repentance and humility
Then My pain will surround you with mercy

My Passion was not for the despair of onlookers
But for your salvation
I did not fall down because My body was weak
I fell, being humiliated with the sins of your immortal soul
The complaints of souls were My painful downfalls

When you look at Me, being crucified
As if I were a carved, dead symbol
My wounds reopen again
And the blood pouring out of them, beseeches:
Don’t give away your soul for perdition

Being whipped and crucified by the hangmen
I wait patiently without tears, in silence
For your examination of conscience
For the seriousness of prayer, sincere and repentant
Your confession brings relief in My Passion

I carried the cross and pains of human body
I saw the weakness of your nature
And I got to know the short moments of earthly joy
I came to this world to give you eternal joy
And I did suffer for this joy

When God gives you a cross in your life
Then look at My Passion with love
You will see the light of your cross in My wounds
And just trust that the Eyes of God see this light
Not as a momentary flash but as an eternal gift for the soul.


When you hug the cross

When life brings pain to your heart
You seek love at the cross
You hug My cross like the rescue’s last resort
On the ocean of your own wounds and disappointments
At these moments, you should know that you don’t touch
Just a wooden and dead statue
I am not a talisman, protecting from doubts
I need your faith and complete trust
When you hug My cross, I become alive
I offer you the pain of My head, bruised with thorns
Stuck in My heart, there is still a piece of a lance
The nails, covered with blood, didn’t get rusty
When you once hug the cross, this holy relict
You must know that My Love serves you with faith
Do you have enough courage to accept such Love
Which is the Offering of My life, for your salvation?
If you say: yes, although your heart shakes
I don’t promise you relief from crying and suffering
You will follow My way for people’s salvation
And will discover Love that you never find on earth
I am not only a cure for all injuries
I am Love that calls for your trust
Give away your life, your will, and thoughts to Me
Become an apostle of My Mercy
Then Heaven will open up for your trust in Me
The cross of hard wood will turn into My body
You will feel a flame of spiritual joy
And your suffering and tears will burn out on My cross.

 

Growing up toward Love

Our Love does not get mature
Through songs and beautiful words
Our Love is a difficult struggle
And no beauty of the world will attract it
Our Love is united with the cross so painful
You, underneath, with your body, so sinful
And I, stretched on it, with the blood pouring down
To wash you off your sins

Our Love was pierced by the nails of the hangmen
And My body was stripped off the garments
So that you could see my wounds still alive
And My Heart, still open for you
With no robes that cover it
Our Love is getting mature in pain
Without hymns or loud fanfares
She shouts but you can hardly hear a whisper.

Our Love is getting mature in pain
When you fight with your own weakness
When you want to lean against the world
And the world gives you the sword of pride and anger
On the way of our Love, the Way of Passion
Even a bird gets silent in his chirping, voices get down
And trees stop humming
On the way of our Love, silence spreads all over.

Silence like emptiness, with no sounds
Then your heart can hear the beating of My Heart
And your eyes, looking at My gaze from Golgotha cross
Can be pierced with the ray of the Holy Spirit
And get stuck in your soul
And when you give away your desire of Love to My Heart
Then our Love will get ripe like a fruit
And I will take the green of this fruit in My bleeding hands
And will change it into the red of a ripe fruit.

 

The oasis

When the vehicle of life, called your fate
Leaves you on the desert of the world
The world where the law of pleasure reigns
And virtues are mocked
When the sand of this desert covers your eyes
And deafens your ears
Until you lose your hearing
And your legs must keep dancing madly
Instead, listen to your heart
It knows the holy language
Different from human speech
Shake down the sand of this desert
And don’t take its books in your hands
Scattered lavishly for those astray
And tempting with golden titles
Listen to your heart and to My Holy Speech
It will give you power for your lonely journey
Toward the oasis where the Living Water calls
For those thirsty for the Truth
Just keep going, don’t stop over
Don’t be afraid of fatigue
And of the voices calling from this desert
Sand will be their grave
And My Holy Speech will survive for ages
Submerged in the oasis of the Living Water
And in your heart …

 

Prayer of love

 

When your eyes are blind and your mouth, mute

For the criticism of your fellow men

When you pass the understanding of the world over to your heart

Then you gain the prayer of love

It will open the eyes that are blind, not seeing Me

And will fill their mute lips with beseeching words

When you fill your heart with love

The armor of this love will help you in this fight

For your and your fellow men’s salvation

I Am the Lord of all human weaknesses

I transform them like a crystal of ice

Into a rapid, warm stream of graces

I Am awaiting your loving prayer

To melt the sin-frozen hearts

I wait for your penance and fasting

Give away your blind eyes and mute lips to Me

When they don’t criticize your fellow men

Then I will bless your merciful prayer

And will give you new eyes which can see the light

And new ears which can hear the voices of the saints.

 

Time of our common way

 

How to persist in faith

When the world shows other values?

How to believe in eternity

When the experience of mortality penetrates?

How to offer love to people

When they answer with indifference?

We bring so many questions under Your cross, Jesus

It gets so heavy that You fall down

But You rise to give the answer through Your Passion

Stand by Me, You say, with your cross

Come with Me, along this Way of the Cross

It will be the time of our spiritual conversation

Maybe you won’t notice My Cross in the beginning

Maybe yours will seem to be too heavy for you?

You shout loud walking by My side

You ask about sense of suffering, sense of life

Time passes, even the birds get silent

Being so much surprised with your crying

We are going side by side, through the next stations

Your voice gets lower and you become silent

This silence is the time of My gift

The gift of answers to your questions

Your pain also gets silent

You even want to help Me, like Simon did

And look for power for yourself, in My eyes

We go together, I invited you to go along this way

As far as the Station of Crucifixion

I see, you want to defend Me from My executioners

Merciful love evokes in you

The love that doesn’t demand any answers

And doesn’t ask questions

There are still a few stations ahead

You look at My death on the cross

You kneel and weep like the Jerusalem women

I see you, My companion of our common way

I must die and defeat death

For your salvation

For our encounter in eternity

And now you can come back to your life …

 

Banneux - Sanctuary of the Holy Mother of the Poor.
 It is the tenth time that I’ve been on a pilgrimage at this beautiful site. I devoted this pilgrimage for the intentions of the Holy Mother. During this pilgrimage I was particularly touched by a testimony of faith of a priest who accompanied us, especially his wonderful humility and ardent prayers. When I received the Holy Communion from him, I heard in my heart: the hands of this priest are like caress for My wounds. During the Mass in Chevremont, when I was adoring Jesus after the Communion, I heard wonderful words: yield to everyone who wants to run ahead of you, let them run forward, following their ambition. At the end of the running-toward-Heaven pilgrimage, there is Holy Mary and it is She who closes every “procession” toward God. Joy and peace are always with Her.

 

Desire

 

You have given me, Lord, the cross for my size

First You had weighed it not to make it too heavy

You have also given me, Lord, the Love of Your Son

To enrich my pilgrim’s route

You had prepared the cross for me with Your own hands

And put it gently on my human back

Although I carry it, being bent down under its weight

I remember that it is You, Lord, who created this cross

And when the cross presses me down and I get weaker

I beg like a beggar, before Your Countenance:

Give me, Lord, Veronica’s veil to wipe off my sweat

Send Simon to me to help me carry my cross

And keep reminding me, Lord, that it was You

Who gave me this cross according to my size

So that I wouldn’t cast it away during my hardship

And wouldn’t hang my own complaints on it

I have a desire in my heart, beating like a living spring

That someday, halfway between Heaven and Earth

Our hands could meet, in a loving grasp

Then I could give this gift back to You …

Like a treasure, bestowed and not wasted.  

Prayer for sinners

So many crosses that today’s world throws down
Empty temples, demolished with crowbars
Your cross, Jesus, stirs indignation among many
Satiety becomes god and comfort is a virtue
The world wants to have fun, prayer is a stranger

I embrace You, Jesus, with all my heart
And thank You for the crosses at the roadsides
They still stand there, stuck fast in the ground
Thank You for every cross in Your churches of glory
Thanks for Your Holy Presence and Your Love, betrayed

I pray for those whom the world convinced
That without a cross is easier to lead a quiet life
And I pray for those who, with a smile, indulgently
Pass by the crosses, that are old-time symbols
Like historic monuments, standing for ages

In my prayer, I ask You, Living Jesus
To cleanse their faces with Your Mercy
To make them remove the masks that the world sold them
Giving illusion that all can be bought
So that they learned the lies of the world which doesn’t want God

You are so close to me, in Your Passion on the cross
I see how much Your Mercy bleeds today
And I beseech You, Good Jesus, in my prayer
To make the crosses that still stand fast in my world
And move indifferent hearts with Your Grace

Give us, oh, Lord, the pilgrims who love You
The words of a beseeching prayer for stubborn sinners
To bring them grace with the Hour of Your Divine Mercy
So that they weren’t punished with the hand of Your Justice
When at last they want to kneel but they do not find Your cross.


Confession of the conscience

I apologize to You, Jesus, for my love
That is sometimes clumsy, fearful and shy
Still asking for gifts impatiently
The love that forgets about graces, granted free

I apologize for love that is naive with desire
Looking for comfort more than for the offering
While You want me to have Veronica’s courage
And to stand by You, carrying the salvation cross

I apologize for the days adorned with egotism
Hungry for their own, daily joys
And I apologize for the words: give me this, Lord
As if I didn’t see Your hands, nailed to the cross

I apologize to You, Jesus, for the years spiritually empty
And for my life’s garden, sowed with sorrow
And for my blind eyes when You show a bouquet of holy roses
The Rosary of Your Mother, the prayer for fellow men’s salvation

I apologize for my prayers, scattered like birds sometimes
Words flew up but the soul was out of focus
And You looked for silence, for the heart in adoration
When You wanted to talk to me about Your Love

Today I want to thank You for Your patient Love
It flowed down with grace, with a rapid flame
And though there is more weakness in me than strength in a giant
I trust in Your Love which lifts me up like an eagle.

 

During the Mass I saw a gray sphere – our Earth, and our human life. In the western part of this sphere, life was beginning to exist, as if it were after the sunset, in some darkness. The life was growing up and was moving further … toward the sunrise. At first I didn’t understand this image. What is this east that we are moving toward? East may suggest creating something new, new hope. We are heading toward east, toward living in God … Human death is only a transition to new east, to new life that is lit up with Eternal Truth. This vision showed me a sign that man’s death is not the end of his life, not his sunset, but it is his east, his sunrise, the beginning of the mystery of his true destiny.  

So far, yet so near

 

When Christmas hustle fills the houses

And colored papers rustle

And Christmas trees are lit up with little lights

Then our world changes into a holiday procession

Of colors and flavors of Christmas dishes

Then I think about the modest with poverty

But rich with the Spirit – the Nativity of Jesus

I also think about those who passed away …

For them, I light a lamp on a cold stone

Let it light with a memory of our past Christmas, spent together

 

And a strange picture comes to my mind

A narrow corridor, with the doors on both sides

We, standing there, with the keys to open the doors of our lives

Though unable to open the doors of those who passed away

But they are there, quite near, yet so far …

Their prayer stays with us and shares the Host

And though their plates and chairs are empty

They still adorn our Christmas table with love

Reminding us that we together have one key to their world and ours

It is the Love, being born in the Bethlehem manger. 

 

 

The fire of love

 

I long for the fire of Your Spirit, Jesus

When I look at the Altar during the Transfiguration

I would like a strong blow of wind

To burn my weakness in me

And deliver me from sin

I take this longing before Your Altar, Lord

Carrying a small candle of my own spirit

You have, I hear, a little flame

That was lit by My hand, at your Baptism

May this gift blow it into a big fire

There is nothing that happens without your will, my child

It is able to kindle like your love toward Me

Let it not be just an empty vessel

Like a prayer whispered by a sleepy heart

But the armor of fight, against the evil that lures

To put out the flame of faith that is too small

Let your soul know My Love

She is more faithful than a capricious heart

When you open up your soul for the fire of My Spirit

It will flare up like an eternal lamp on the Altar

And no blow of evil will ever put out

Your love toward Me … 

 

 

Contrition

 

She is not the mourning hymn

Sung over the sin

The hymn that wraps the sin with a shroud

And buries in oblivion …

 

Contrition is like grace, bestowed on the heart from Heaven

To know the essence of sin, the killer of souls

The grace of contrition allows to shatter the rock of sin

Into small pieces but they also hurt …

 

Contrition dozes in man in the cradle of memory

Even after the holy confession

It reminds how hurting for the soul and God, sin is

Contrition hurts, she makes you think and pray …

 

When we move along the river of life, in the peace of heart

Contrition rests with the joy of pure heart

She wakes up like a wound with a removed dressing

When sin invades …

 

The man, gifted with the grace of sincere contrition

Does not want to scratch the wounds of Jesus with his sins

And if he sees his own sin

Then contrition will give him the tears of repentance and conversion

 

Pain and joy are the richness of contrition

As well as despair and hope and struggle and the will to win

Contrition never turns down her sight toward the turbid waters

Her eyes are always turned toward God, toward her Gift-Provider.

 

During prayer, after the Mass, a beautiful vision went through my thoughts. People who were stepping aside from the confessional, after their confession, had light, shining garments on. Those who were coming up to the confessional, wore spotted, dirty garments. If we “resist” too long, against cleansing from sins in a good confession and avoid the Holy Sacraments, then our spiritual clothes are simply dirty. We can feel it ourselves inside. Months are passing and we still “wander” in these unclean clothes. Satan watches such people and offers them his beautiful, colorful, shining garments. These garments of his take form of our “excuses”, our looking for other ways of life, different from Sacramental life. These Satan’s “clothes” can seem to be very attractive like the clothes of career, fortune-telling that seemingly “comes true” or looking for our own freedom and comfort. Satan has lots of attractive clothes for us in his store. But nevertheless, he has no access to a man dressed in white robes.

Advent

I wait for You, Jesus
At this Advent time
So that You filled my longing with the joy of Nativity
I wait for light during dark nights
To leave my perdition, in the dark
During the holy confession
My waiting becomes my way
Where time disappears
It is the time of adoration of Your Mother’s life
The time to fly over to Bethlehem
My heart is filled with holy faith
In Your Second Coming, Jesus
And then You will wipe away all darkness with Your hand
And light will fill the earth

I wait for You, Jesus
And open the door of my soul widely
And though human fear turns into the memory
Of justice that judges our deeds
I wait for a miracle of the light of life
For the voice of Your Mercy
My soul runs out of me
As if she wanted to shorten the time of waiting
And raise up, all that is so weak and earthly in me
On the wings of mysterious power
Time is running short, hours strike in pains
My longing turns over the waiting for You, Lord
And becomes a great gift from You, Good Lord
So now my whole life is like this Advent time.

 

 

The Congregation

Staring at Your heart, Jesus
In the Eucharist, raised high
I should cry out loud: I love You
But my mouth just whispers silently
As if I didn’t want to disturb
The space of Love, filled with Your Person
I desire this moment to last
And to be determined with the holy time of eternity
With the blessed time of the Miracle of Transfiguration
When the Angels sing: Alleluia
And the saints bow with adoration
During these holy, earthly moments
I am filled with joy, seeing the faithful beside me
And it is they that I want to give the leading voice
In the choir, singing: I love You, Lord
Oh, Jesus, how great the grace of pilgrimage is
When we experience the unity of the faithful
I raise my thanksgiving prayer to You, Jesus
For the gift of loving people who stand beside me
For the faces whose feelings and life I don’t know
But who are so close to me in spirit
For the hands held out, as a sign of peace
Although they are not the hands of earthly relation
But we are united as a congregation that You bless, Lord
With Your own Body and Blood in the Holy Offering
Making us one family in the Spirit of Yours.

 

 

A beseeching prayer

 

I beseech You, Holy Spirit, Spirit of Love

To touch with Your Merciful Love, the blindness of my eyes

For the invisible beauty and break the curtain of carnality

May the power of Merciful Love reign in my heart

And the pieces of ice break up with a crash

The ice that freezes, hurts with anger and sin

 

Give me, Holy Spirit, Spirit of Love

One teardrop of Jesus of Gethsemane, salty and sour

One drop of His bloody sweat

May I wipe my blind eyes with the power of their holiness

May the egotism of the heart and body sink in them

Like a black bird of evil that hunts for the soul

 

Give me, Holy Spirit, Spirit of Love

Such a rebellion which kills evil thoughts and deeds

And such a prayer which rescues the sinners

Such faith that when being under the cross of Jesus

I will not turn away from His wounds

And will not seek consolation in the world

 

Oh, Spirit of Love, pour over onto me, Your Spirit

So that I could submit my will to His will

While receiving Jesus in the Eucharist

And did not react with silence to His pain

And did not become the image of faith, dusty and rid of light

By which Jesus is passing with sadness

 

Give me, Holy Spirit, the hard gift of Merciful Love

So that I didn’t assess my neighbors by what my eyes see

Grant that I had the will of fight to heal the souls through prayer and deed

Take the image of my faith, hanging awry with my imperfection

And with Your grace, put the pure colors of Your light on it

And be by my side when I sail out in a frail boat of my will

                                         Over the ocean of Your will. 

 

In our climbing up to the top of faith, we received precious signposts. The Seven Holy Sacraments are such guideposts: Baptism, Confirmation, Most Holy Sacrament, Penance, Anointing of the Sick, Priesthood, Marriage. The seven miracles which give power to persevere in faith.

 

The Mountain of Seven Sacraments

 

I saw two mountains, full of human beings

And though they were sinking in darkness

There were some lights blinking on them

The signposts, showing to the top

On one, there were seven bright lamps shining

On the other, hundreds of little lights were vibrating

Carried by climbing people

I was tempted by the mountain with twinkling lights

It looked like a colored, Christmas tree

 

But the warm glare of the seven lights attracted the sight

It had the power of promise and unknown hope

Who are you, the light of this mountain? – I asked

Then I saw an inscription for a moment: Baptism … Confirmation

I entered the mountain of seven sacraments

And though the darkness separated

The light of every next lamp with  black space

I could see the wanderers climbing up bravely

As if someone bestowed courage upon them

 

I saw the silhouettes of priests under the living light of PRIESTHOOD       

They were blessing, anointing the sick, listening to confessions

In the glare of the lamp of the Sacrament of Marriage

There were couples of young and elderly people    

Warming up at the life-giving fire

Their faces were adorned with a mysterious smile

As if their hearts were touched with the sanctity of a gift …

The top of the mountain is just ahead, dawn is waking up

Through the hopeful prayers of the pilgrims of this mountain

 

On top, the light of the Eucharist is waiting

The pilgrims quench their thirst with It

Up there, God Himself embraces us

With the grace of the Holy Sacraments, we can reach the top

For a moment we look at the other mountain with merciful eyes

There are blinking little lamps with feeble, little lights

Of those who believed in the power of their own light

Finding emptiness on top, they descend into darkness

Oh, God, we beseech, show them the Mountain of Seven Sacraments

                                             The Holy Mountain of the Divine Grace.

 

Before the Mass, I was thinking how man, in his possibilities, can get closer to Jesus. Then I looked at the naked Jesus on the cross. We, people come to Him, “dressed” in our habits, minor sins that we don’t even try to get rid of. These “clothes” of ours don’t let our soul rise toward the Lord. Hence our dispersion, careless prayers, anxiety. Jesus is naked on the cross. He doesn’t hide. He gave away His life for our salvation. We always want to keep something for ourselves, to make excuses. So it is hard for our souls to free ourselves from these “clothes” and stand before the Lord, being naked and free from our life’s imperfections and give away our “clothes” to Him in order to be closer to Him and feel His presence. Our soul that Jesus can have contact with, is enveloped like a coco-nut. We must be determined to fight with our weaknesses, in the name of our love toward Him. Saints were the living testimony, when they abandoned sinfulness to demonstrate their love to Jesus, ready to annihilate their will, give away their “clothes” and stand before Him with naked soul that was sensitive enough to encounter Him. Jesus also touches the soul with many mystical experiences, she is defenseless against His Love. Saint Francis, dressed in his poor habit, is a good example of this. We may be far from sainthood, but there are, in our life, such habits, features of character, as criticism, egotism, that we should fight with. Every fight with ourselves gets us closer to Jesus, who is smiling although suffering. He sees and appreciates these “wars” against ourselves.

 

My King

My King doesn’t sit in the golden throne
The cross stuck in the rock is His throne
His scepter - the nails stuck in His body
The crown - the intertwined thorns that hurt His head

My King doesn’t have garments of royal purple
He is naked, torn off from earthly adornments
He, with His suffering, with humility of a servant
Attains power, with His glance of Love

My King doesn’t rule with the hosts of the army
That enslave nations with weapons and orders
He gives free choice to human will, and asks
Whether we want to dwell with Him in His Kingdom

My King is the immortal ruler
And is reborn at every Mass, feeding with His Body
Those who believe in the miracle of Resurrection
And in His victory over death and evil of this world

Only one King touched the earth with His feet
Dressed in the garments and body of man
He threw away the hate of revenge with the power of Love
And poured Mercy out of His lance-pierced side

My King drank a cup of bitterness in His Gethsemane
He yielded to His Father’s Will to save people for Truth
Which is the Word of Eternal Kingdom
And calls people, lost in the world, with Love

My King knows my thoughts, sufferings and daily life
He doesn’t rest in royal chambers
He stands before every despaired child
And wipes the tears when He hears a beseeching prayer

I kneel before my King every day
Not like a slave before a powerful master
It is my love that bends my knees, great longing of my soul
For the King who showed me the way of salvation with His Passion.

 

Love is the greatest …

 

If I had the voice of an opera singer 

I would sing You, Lord, the most beautiful aria

If I had the talent of a famous painters

I would paint Your picture with awesome colors

If I knew the most precious words

I would write a poem that adores You

If I knew Your profound love

I would devote my life to Your adoration

But I am just a tiny common man

And I often lack beautiful words, pictures look gray to me

I carry daily burden in my hands

Although my soul wants to rise up high

 

While I was thinking over my desires

My Angel brought me a hymn of love on His wings

The hymn was once written by Saint Paul in the Gospel

The hymn was about the essence of true love

Love is patient, gracious, doesn’t need any applause

Doesn’t burst with anger, doesn’t look for profits

Love never stops …

And I understood, my Guardian Angel

That God doesn’t demand any great arias, pictures from us

And talents that are often like a loud dulcimer

God wants the love that sets hope on Him

Without this love, there is no salvation for us.

 

 

Tower

 

There is a high tower on my soul

Like an antenna, turned toward Heaven

Made up of the holy sacraments

Of Baptism, Confirmation, Eucharist

Pictures, music, beautiful words, flow out into the soul

The soul does not always understand them

But the warmth of love of the Holy Sender penetrates her

And creates joyous peace

 

From my tower, I send to God

Prayers and pictures from my life

They run like an arrow, when they are pure and sincere

Sin disturbs them, like a storm on the joints

Then the picture is distorted and out of contact

Night appears, the soul loses the brightness of the screen

Heaven is waiting patiently, and the Holy Sender

Repairs the broken agreement, with His Merciful hand

 

And I hear the angels flying down from the tower

They warn: your tower is shaking …

Sin means a betrayal of the Beloved One

It hurts the heart with thorns, it pierces with pain

Thank You, Lord, for this pain

It is like Your memory, about my soul

I cleanse our holy agreement with a confession

And I hold Your hand that is the wing of the Holy Spirit

And I beseech: give my soul, Lord, Your pictures, words and music.           

Every Holy Mass is a miracle, hidden from our eyes, but not from our faith and love that lead us to the Feast with Jesus. It happens that our personal engagement during the Holy Mass, and the awareness that Jesus is real at the altar, all this makes us close our physical perception and we begin to see with our heart. This desire for the encounter, this longing for the Savior makes that we can be touched with the grace of an unusually close encounter with God, that I wrote about, in my poem: “Eyes of the heart”. I received this image with great humility and gratitude. It gives me a direction how to meditate over the Word of God more deeply and rejoice when I experience the living miracle of Holy Mass. And indeed, it is not so important to see something with our eyes in order to believe but what’s most important is that we should keep Jesus in our heart and talk with Him at any moment. There is no greater love for man on earth than the Love of God.

 

Eyes of the heart

 

There was such a moment at my daily Mass

When my heart became a painter

It got petrified for a while, liberated from time

And I saw wonderful colors over the altar

Red was pulsating with a living flame

In its background, angel’s white looked like a colored spot

Just beside, a blue garment, maybe of the Holy Mother?

It glittered as if sewn out of crystal water

Hundreds of tiny hands were lifting a large loaf of bread

Over the white tablecloth, during the Consecration

I didn’t see the persons, entangled into the color

They whirled with colored spots, fading and lighting up

The large loaf drew my eyes

It was shining with light and pulsating with life

The Chalice that was raised with the hands of the priest

Bowed down a little, and the drops of red blood

Poured down on the bread …

I was motionless, amazed with the vision

Like a humble painter, unable to reproduce

The beauty of this vision on the canvas

Then silence prevailed and time began to flow

I saw the priest in a beseeching bow

Over a common tablecloth, decorated with embroidery

The great miracle occurs … of the Transfiguration

Jesus, I thought, is it a grace or an illusion?

Indeed, my eyes were wide-open

Then I heard a quiet whisper, somewhere deep in my soul:

When the eyes of the heart look with trustful love

They see much more … and reach much further.

 

 

The Eucharistic Miracle

 

There are miracles so invisible

As if they wanted to hide before the eyes

Designed for the hearts filled with love

For those who recognize the glare of the miracle

But there are also miracles performed for the eyes

Flowing out of God’s Mercy

As the signs of the eternal presence of God

I have seen the miracle of the bleeding Host in Sokolka

A tiny stain of blood

Placed on the whiteness in the Monstrance

In its very center

It looked to me like the face of a clock, without hands

Waiting for the watch-maker

Who will attach beautiful clock-hands

To this red sign

Then the clock will start working

The essence of this blood stain will bring life

And will activate the clock of our human existence

The sign of the blood of Christ will give a new meaning

For the passing minutes of life

Through this Eucharistic Miracle

God speaks to those who trust Him

And to those who are still in doubt

He says: I Am … it is up to your will

To make such clock-hands that can be moved

With the blood of My Son

And they will become the wings leading to the eternity

I have made this miracle

So that you could also make miracles with your lives.

 

 

Holy moments

 

There are mortal moments, dying through time

Their death passes away along with memory

Like daily jobs, forced by daily routine

The impact of experiences, even the tragic ones, gets weaker

It’s like a stain in the heart, spreading with gray pain

 

There are also holy moments, existing above mortality

The moments, when between the hand of a priest

And the mouths of the faithful, the white Host rises

The sign of existence of the mystery of immortality

The moment of mystical veneration of life

 

Two mortalities, that of the priest and ours

And in between, raised within the space of the prayer

There is Jesus, the Lord of Eternal Love, His Body and Blood

The Miracle so great that even beyond understanding

By the fragile love of man

 

For this one holy moment of the touch of God

You are standing alone, before the Countenance of the Lord

Heaven is looking at you and filling with grace

Your soul feeds with the Eucharist, the Lord’s Blood and yours are mixed

The color of eternity reflects on your mortality

 

Humbled, with humility, you submit yourself to the Will of the Lord

And though it is beyond your mind to understand this miracle

You only hear the sounds, filling the temple, and see the faces

But the miracle of the encounter with God has occurred …

Overflowing your heart with unknown peace

 

There are mortal moments, dying down in the routine of life

There are also the immortal moments, the holy ones, the gift of God

When the Offering of the Passion of His Son, calls in the soul, with the white Host:

I am your food, your Salvation, for eternity

Give me your mouth and I will touch you with the kiss of beautiful Love

                                         For such moments, God created you … 

 

 Having commented the words of the Gospel of the day, the priest asked the faithful if they met Jesus during this holiday, like Simeon did? I met Him … but not during the holiday hustle and bustle and not while being in emotions over the manger. He spoke to me through a vision of a blind child, during the holiday Holy Mass. When we were exchanging the sign “peace be with you”, I turned back. Usually, on Sunday Masses, there are blind children from a nearby center, sitting in the front pews. I caught sight of one child, a girl. I saw a delicate smile on her very pale face and she was holding out her hand shyly, waiting for somebody to greet her. Time stopped for a moment … the sight of people around me got obliterated. I had an impression that it was Jesus Himself, pale and so unusually humble, who was asking for this gesture of peace, like a beggar beseeching for a bit of love. Then I heard in my heart: among the colorful lamps, among the holiday hustle, I AM … so modest and humble and waiting … I Am not lit up with the glare of your holiday lights. Don’t look for Me in beautiful cribs, in shops full of goods, in Christmas presents. I Am near you, so often imperceptible, because your eyes are turned to the dazzle of this world, they are blinded by this dazzle … I was staring at this child who was so weak that she would not survive in dignity, without other people’s help. This child was holding out her hand shyly … none of the nearby people touched it … I didn’t, either … because I was too far. After the Holy Mass, everybody ran to the crib. I couldn’t look at the plaster figures without pain. I prayed at the picture of the Holy Mother of Czestochowa, “carrying” in my heart, the image of this humble Jesus - child, which was revealed to me during this awesome encounter.
 

Wood and stone

 

There are days in our life

That are wrapped in gray sadness

We look at the clouded sky

That is indifferent to our mood

Under our feet is greenery

Changing into dying leaves

And thoughts are coming about the loneliness of existence

 

Then I look at huge trees

Strong and full of hope for endurance

I look at the cross, made of wood, for Jesus

For His loneliness on the cross …

The very last touch of the living God-man

This is the touch of wood …

That was changed into the cross, by man

 

Jesus, exalted high and dying

United with the wood, blood, sweat and tears

He is far from the human touch

Already dead, protected only by a stony grotto

Stone and wood, this is the power of this world’s perseverance

The stony grotto persevered, heated with the warmth of the faithful

The cross survived, too, its wood gets green as the hope for next generations.

 

 

The seed of holiness

 

We are like billions of seeds, sowed in the ground

That bloom and whither, giving space for next generations

The newcomers seem to think

That they are born on a virgin soil

They don’t think how much suffering and blood was buried there

And how much human pride it absorbed

The pride that deluded that a “passer-by”

Can be made a ruler of the earth

 

And there is no piece of land in our world

That we can come into possession and use forever

Every centimeter of the ground

Is like a trace after another life

It’s a witness of transition of suffering and joy

If we believe that we are the seeds

Sowed by a loving hand of God and not accidental

Then we discover the true bridge … toward eternity

 

Every existence is like a colorful garden, full of fragrance

If holy flowers grow in this garden

The flowers of kindness toward our neighbors, white lilies of virtues

And this garden doesn’t disappear in the memory of generations

It becomes a chapel, the prayer-place to the saints

Those who discovered the bridge toward eternity

And possessed the earth with love, and not with a notary act

They left their fortune, the cross of the Lord, for the new generations

                To become the bridge toward eternity.

 

 

As long as …

 

I experienced a strange day

It was like many others, full of city noise

The noise that flowed all over the streets

And suppressed all attempts

Of  bird singing, wind blowing to be heard

The clatter of wheels of speeding cars, the creak of brakes

The terrifying sound of hooting ambulances

Were making the cacophony of sounds

Or rather the “cry” of the street that feels hurt from traffic

That is indifferent to people, to their needs

In this street music, I felt … fear

 

Suddenly as if on the inner screen of my consciousness

I saw the written words of prayer: Hail Mary, full of grace

 

The prayer hugged and embraced me, softened my fear

It took me to Nazareth, over two thousand years ago

To a settlement, dazzled with a burning sunshine

The cries of the people were like chirping birds

The donkeys, loaded with goods, the clatter of their hoofs

Time seemed to be gentle for a man there

Time wasn’t in a hurry … there were different voices, different smells

Though that life had its own … fear

I feel an awesome, mystical bond of these two worlds

This bond is the miracle of the Divine gift, the miracle of prayer

As long as the prayer endures in people’s mouths and in people’s hearts

                                          The world endures as well

                                           So does the hope … 

 

I think that every prayer is precious, but the most precious is the one that is a gift in a hard, painful situation, when prayer “wakes up” our hearts so much that we want to change ourselves, step higher up the ladder toward God. Then we abandon the “alms-like” duty of Christian’s prayer, and we offer the gift of prayer of what is good and beautiful in us, so that we could subdue ourselves to God’s Will. We offer our readiness to agree with His Will concerning our lives.
The same night it occurred to me that it is very difficult to put into effect the commandment of love to our fellow human beings. Then I saw a picture of myself hovering over a man. His outer appearance, his face, clothes, sex - became unimportant to me. I was speaking to his soul … I saw beauty in this man. I found a strange understanding and union between us. His words and facial expression were not important. I was looking deeper … as if a God’s creature found another God’s creature on his way and felt happiness because of that.

Lenten meditation

 

There are such days in the life of man of faith

When  a question stands before us

Who am I? And Whom is God for me?

This question goes around like a bird asking for grains

And you feel as if you struck against a rock in the darkness

It is the Truth that wants to reach you …

Memory rises up over the past life

You look  for excuses in human nature

Lives of the saints come to your mind

Their humble life, sacrificial suffering

 

Don’t cast away these moments, which are the grace of meditation

Over the essence of faith and our humanity

Don’t look for accusations which want to judge you

Plunge yourself in God’s Mercy with hope

This is the time of Mount Tabor, your meeting with Jesus

The time of your heart’s transfiguration, and rising up higher

Beautiful are the hands in a praying gesture

They are full of beauty when they lead your brethrens to God

You adore the Cross of the Lord in a humble bow

Yours is also precious when you carry it with love

 

Look for Truth in the Bible, maybe covered with dust

Just like faith which is often poor, if locked within customs

And when we hear the words: convert yourselves …

Don’t we fight for love in our faith?

For the merciful hands and legs, and the language of love for others?

Faith is not a refuge from pain of any kind

It breaks down at the moments of hardship unless there is love

Let’s beseech for such Love that flows down from the cross

Its power is in the Savior’s cry: “I desire”

And it occurs at this very holy moment of our eternal salvation.

 

 

The old cross

 

Once I was kneeling before an old cross

Christ was on it, He must have seen a few generations already

The cross was hanging in the church vestibule

And stopped many pilgrims with its mystery

 

The artist painted the wounds of the body with pietism

The open eyes of Jesus stared at those praying

His hands and legs were pierced with powerful nails

The wooden cross with Christ was speaking …

 

I raised my head toward the injured feet

They were smoothened by the hands of the pilgrims

I fixed my eyes on Jesus’ wounds

And kissed them with my heart full of pain

 

And a thought came to me, like an angel’s inspiration

Where will Your eyes, Jesus, and mine, meet together

Within the space of pain radiating from the cross?  

Will it be on the feet, hands or will I look into Your eyes?

 

Will I touch Your feet softly, with fear?

Will I kiss a part of the cross shyly?

Will I be a humble passer-by or a hundredth pilgrim?

Does my love have enough courage to look into Your eyes?

 

Minutes of meditation were passing, the pilgrims were gone

The cross embraced the words of their prayers

I felt Jesus’ eyes looking at me

Waiting, alive, in the dark vestibule of the church

 

I didn’t say a prayer, but just listened to my soul

And she said: they killed Your body, Lord

Your heart got silent from the lance, the body was dead from nails

But Your eyes, Jesus, have been still open for ages

 

I cast away my fear that sin forces upon

Trust has won, so hungry for love

I stuck my eyes in Yours, Lord

I learned the Mercy of God’s Love.

 

 

Our Gethsemane

 

I have experienced a deep heart transformation

Meditating over Your pain, Jesus, in Gethsemane

You asked the Apostles to stay with You

But they, so tired, fell asleep

A dead rock was Your companion

A cup of bitterness, lightening in the darkness

Your sister was solitude, at this moment of distress

Nobody wiped the bloody sweat off Your body

Your destiny was to save man

 

What does man understand out of Gethsemane

This pilgrim who follows the traces of Jesus’ Passion

When he touches the time of Your Gethsemane with his heart

And  recognizes, in his life, his own Gethsemane

These lonely nights, full of tormenting hesitation

Whether to yield to the Will of God, or cast away, out of fear? 

Or drink the bitterness of life, or change it into penance?

Or offer God our own suffering?

Or go through life in accord with our own will?

 

There are also such holy moments, granted upon man

When he stands face-to-face before God

God asks a question and waits silently …

And you, in your Gethsemane, must make a decision

Whether you follow His Love or the world’s comfort?

In this struggle of conscience, what can be our consolation

In our human, contemporary Gethsemane?

There is no dead rock and lonely night any more

Resurrected Jesus stands there, to surround us with  courage of Love.

 

During the Holy Mass, I thought about how great and unlimited God’s Love is. It occurred to me in a form of intellectual consideration. I saw a beautiful, golden treasury, filled with the richness of colors and brilliance. Great love, hard to make out with human senses. The richness of God’s Love … I saw myself and other people with golden coins going into this treasury. It looked as if we wanted to “exchange” them for God’s Love with our deeds, or “buy” graces with prayers because we think that we “deserve” them by living a good life, in our opinion. How poor did our coins look against  the immensity of the treasury of God’s Love. I asked in my heart: What do You want, Lord? And I heard: I want your complete trust in accord with My Will. I don’t need your “alms” … I visualized blessed Michael Kozel whom we prayed to, that day. He gave away his life as a priest, to God, and died being tortured in Dachau. He didn’t “bargain” for his life with God. He “paid” God with his trust and love. Man is concerned about his life, health. He is afraid to enter the “treasury of God’s Love” with complete trust to yield to God (a parable about a youth whom Jesus told to sell everything and follow Him). There is a conviction in us that God rewards us here on earth and suffering is like punishment. But our faith teaches us that the “treasury of unlimited Love of God” opens up with the human cross. With the cross that is carried patiently, with humility. And it can’t be exchanged for the golden coins of our egotistic desires. And we should keep being grateful for the graces and miracles in our lives. They are like gifts from the pharmacy of God’s Love.  

 

Uneasy longing

 

I long for a touch that can hold my hand

And for a merciful look, I long for words

Which fill with purifying hope, like summer rain

I long for Father, coming out toward me

He prepared a feast for my longing

 

This longing cannot be filled with human words, with a touch and look

It works invisibly and comes as a gift from the Creator

It is put into the heart and it sings about pure love

Uneasy love, until it rests at God’s feet

In eternity, where its desire for love will come to pass

 

And the wandering longing looks in its world

For thoughts and brothers created out of God’s Love

It passes by the ways where waters are treacherous

They lure with beauty and cheat a careless traveler

Who mistakes human longing for the longing for God

 

At the cross, the longing beseeches for a gift of merciful deeds

For a prayer for brothers whom the world seduced

For forgiveness it beseeches with the words of contrition and says:

I haven’t appeased all their crying and haven’t cured many wounds

I give over my longing to the Mercy of God.

 

 

Gift of love

 

If you received the grace of filling your heart

With love that surpasses all other senses

And doesn’t want reciprocity, paying back, devotion

Then you  got  a gift from the Holy Spirit, the most expensive one

The freedom of bestowing love …

Being freed from the chains of the body

You experience hovering over human faults, sins

You don’t judge, but leave the judgment to God

Your love, plunged in freedom

Doesn’t feel touched or thirsty

It is like life-giving, clear air

Ready to share breath and give away pearls

Out of the inexhaustible source of this Love

You are like a bird, bestowed with space

Released from the prison of the cage of the body

Constraining you and waiting for gratitude

Oh, beautiful gift of Love of the Holy Spirit   

Given to the soul like a singing prayer

If you hear its sounds once

It will last inside you with a never-ending flame.

 

 

Testimony

 

In the crowd of the faithful, I used to stand before the Altar of the Lord

Out of the custom of my ancestors more than of the need of my spirit

Hidden among the praying people

I didn’t feel Your presence, Lord

The Mass used to be a Sunday duty for me

The words of the priest got lost in the dispersion of thoughts

But, somewhere deeply hidden, under the cover of indifference

There was a vibrating string of unknown longing

For the encounter with You, Jesus, in the lonely space

 

I entered a church on a common day

The church was empty, voiceless pictures, silence like silky veil

Was wrapping up the pews, walls and the ornamental chandelier

I spotted the Altar and the Monstrance with Jesus on It

He was standing alone, as if He were waiting long for me …

Hoping that I will console this loneliness of His

I fell on my knees, afraid to raise up my eyes

Then my heart was beating with strange love

I wanted to hug this Monstrance with the Lord

 

Oh, Jesus, You have been carrying my cross so many years

You’ve been standing by me for so long, hoping for an encounter

Wishing to grant love and holy words upon me

You’ve been lonely, abandoned, by my empty heart

But now I experience the miracle of faith, oh, Merciful Lord!

This Altar with the Monstrance became like Mount Tabor for me

The silence of the church vibrated with the cry of the conversed soul

Like Simon, I wanted to catch my cross, that was cast on Your shoulders

And staring into Your eyes, Jesus, I want to carry it as far as Golgotha. 

 

I consider the words of Jesus, written in the Gospel of St. Mathew: Shame on the not repenting cities, shame on you, Corozain, shame on you, Bethsaida! Because if in Tyr and Sidon miracles had occurred, which had occurred in your place, they would have been converted a long time ago … Then I thought how many miracles do occur in our present time and we don’t even notice them. A priest is a miracle for us, indeed, because he continues the mission of Jesus on earth, not to mention the miracle of the Eucharist. All the holy orders, contemplative orders are miracles as well. Despite hundreds of years of passing time since the Son of God appeared, the miracle of conveying His words has been still going on … The miracle of healing souls by the people of vocation who serve God, has been going on, too. Those people contemporary to Jesus saw the miracles that He made but they quickly forgot about them, as it is typical for the human mentality. Maybe it is worthwhile to think over or “renew” our daily life and look for the miracles that happen near us, and then we will discover that what seems to us to be a common, regular event of the day, is a miracle that occurs in front of our eyes.

May our blessings and prayers for the priests and monks be a sign of gratitude to God for the miracles that He is still making.

One day, while adoring the Most Holy Sacrament, I heard in my heart some peculiar words and I saw a silhouette of Jesus holding a little white dove in His hands. At first I didn’t know what this vision meant. Later I understood that these words could be … a request of a priest.

 

A request of a priest

 

Hold me Jesus, in Your hands

Like a dove which folded its wings

And doesn’t try to fly

Although the nature shouts: fly, you’ve got the wings

 

Hold me Jesus, in Your hands

So that I could breathe with the rhythm of Your heart     

And filled my body with peace

And didn’t want to fly to unknown lands

 

Hold me Jesus, in Your hands

May I live in the warmth of Your word

With no desire of the food from this world

Feeling safe in Your hands

 

Hold me Jesus, in Your hands

And just give me a beautiful song to sing

For Your Glory, Your Truth 

And for the salvation of people

 

Hold me Jesus as long as my wings

Become Your hands

Then I can bless the others with my priesthood

And grant them the miracle of Your existence. 

 

 

Jesus in His Mother’s arms

 

Once You hugged the Infant, the Treasure of God

In the cradle of Your arms, Holy Mother

You could embrace the Little One and hid Him at Your heart

But it was different on Golgotha Hill

Up there You were holding

The dead body of Your Son, in Your arms

Silence of God came upon the world

When suffering was carving the pieta

Out of Mother’s tears and Her Son’s blood …

You cuddled grown-up Jesus then

Like a little baby long ago

New Eve, Mary, chosen by God

The Holy Mother, crying over the sinful world

Crying over the man who kills God in himself

Though Your body is dead already, Jesus

Mother still feels the warmth of Your pain

Indeed, Jesus’ pain is immortal

As long as sin reigns over the world

God laid Jesus into the womb of His Mother

In the tenderness of His Mercy

The dead body feels the caress of Her hands

At the last moments on earth

Her eyes are staring at Her Son with dedication

Her tears are flowing down into His wounds

And Jesus’ redeeming blood is mixed

With the tears of the Holy Mother

And though there is sadness in this pieta

Like in every last farewell

This pieta is not a dead stone

It enlivens with hope for the redeeming death of the Lord

With Mary’s Love, ready to embrace every man.

 

 

Recovered hope

 

You sit down on the threshold of a temple to rest

And look at your injured feet

You doubt the sense of the further journey

The stony threshold cools down your injuries and broken heart

You have walked along many roads, but haven’t reached the goal

Sorrow has remained and you feed on it

Feeling like a beggar, without faith, without fortune

Behind your back, in the Tabernacle

There is Somebody waiting with bread, faith, hope and love

But your eyes are still looking toward the world

Although it’s enough to turn around and open the door of the temple …

But you yield to your suffering

Minutes and hours are passing, the night is coming

The usual one, after the day, and the one in your soul

Homeless suffering and homeless night …

And you are still stuck with your back turned to hope

 

When the night painted all with dark paint

And your eyes could see nothing of this world

There came a little light from a lamp and showed you the direction

Toward the cross by the church …

How precious it looked to you, in this gloomy night

At dawn you walk into the temple and see

The four walls around – looking like home

You’re homeless, but you’re at home

You recall your mother coming here with you

Singing of the faithful, the organs, light, memories

You hear her voice: remember, this Mother never dies

There is a priest in the confessional

Somebody is leading you to him, you kneel down and speak

And then you are given the white Host, covered with your tears

You are on your knees, facing the Lord, your Hope

This time, you turned your back to the world …

 

We enjoy holidays and talk about family meetings. But we forget that next to us, there are also lonely people who will spend these holidays alone. And although there are some institutions that try to arrange for suitable holidays for them, yet loneliness will not disappear … It will only cover them up with charity …

 

There are such holidays …

 

A tiny present under a small Christmas tree

Wrapped up by yourself with last year’s paper

Also, there is a package with coffee and cakes

The nuns prepared it for the lonely

Clatter of children’s voices got silent long ago

In this house, silence was made royal

Looking with surprise at holiday changes

And at the man who just sat at the Christmas table

As if he waited for the silence to speak …

 

The white candle is lighting out with sparks

There is an empty plate for a pilgrim from nowhere

With a wafer with Jesus, lying on a piece of hay

The man is staring at the colorful Infant

Like at the cradle of his own children, long ago

Christmas carols are heard from behind the walls

The world is waiting for the first star

The lonely man is nourished with thoughts only

And gets more satiated with them than with red borsch

 

And words are flowing to the Infant with the wafer

All, brightening in the manger, on the white plate:

I will take You in my arms, Your Mother will agree

I will hug You with my old age that nobody wants now

My kids are grown-up now, somewhere overseas

They fight for better life for my grandchildren

I am still well enough not to be a burden

Also, I have enough love for You, my Infant

So I will not cry over my loneliness

               Please give thanks to Your God Father, for Your Birth

               For His Gift of Christmas Eve Hope.

 

Christmas Holidays made me strangely sad this year. Praying the Novena to the Holy Infant, I was feeling anxiety, as if the Infant wanted to convey something about us, people. On the very day of Christmas, during the Mass, I “saw in my heart” the Infant at the Tabernacle, next I saw Him at the Altar. I received it as a gift for my soul and in my prayer, I recommended all my close ones to Him. Then I was deep in prayer, forgetting about my “vision of the heart”, feeling interior peace. All of a sudden, I “saw” as if a high wind were “dropping” something from above onto the Infant. I shivered, being moved with this sight. The Infant, with an unusually fast movement, caught a small, falling arrow … and pierced His heart with it! The blood poured out of the Infant and down on the Altar. I stopped breathing for a moment because of sudden pain. Then I heard the words: How can you worship Me as long as you kill the unborn!

I was embraced by immense sadness then. I thought about millions of conceived children that we didn’t allow to be born and those who will not be born in future because we introduced the law that favors killing of the innocent unborn. For our own convenience, we forgot about the holiness of every human life. 

 

Encounter in prayer

 

You appear in our life, Jesus

So alive that the heart stops beating for a moment

It becomes unbelievable for our mind

When the light of this mystery penetrates the body

The prayer in our mouth hasn’t ended yet

The thought about daily life hasn’t gone out yet

But a peculiar love starts flowing in with a hot wave

And you have a feeling of a perfect care …

 

Unusual joy lifts you up, above the worries of life

You are like a bird in unknown space

Tears of joy flow in a salty stream

And what has been a holy ritual in your heart so far

Changes into a love union with Jesus

Then you see a crystal spring and a few drops of blood of the Lord

A white flake is floating there, the Eucharist

You desire to dip your heart and soul in this spring

 

You want to keep on in this holy enchantment

It seems that a shroud came off your eyes

It separated the Altar from your soul, that was asleep so far

You hear a beautiful song although silence is all over the temple

Words of thanksgiving flow straight out of your mouth

With the echo of angelic prayers

You want to shout: hold me Lord, in Your arms

I want to be Yours, forever …

 

You appear unexpectedly near us, Jesus, when we pray

You are so alive then that all our senses can feel it

At this beautiful moment, the pictures look empty

Because Jesus alive is coming toward us, out of their frames

The Pilgrim, Who is on His never-ending journey to human souls

With the same cross that He was carrying to Golgotha

With the same merciful look

With the same resurrecting Love, for which He died for us.

 

 

Whom are You for me, Holy Host?

 

In my life, so attached to people, places and events

You are the awesome Power

Supporting my frail health, involved in the history of life

The Power that fills with courage to fight on

And does not allow to bend the knees out of fear of evil

 

You are the Light

For my soul, engulfed in the darkness of distress

The Light that reminds of the joy of Resurrection

The life-giving medicine for the withered hearts

The scorching flame that burns out all wounds

 

You are the Love

Above all words and beautiful songs

That man can create, even with the most tender heart

You are the balm that makes our scars gone

And man rises from a fall with trust

 

You are the Helping Hand

When my own cross seems to be too heavy

And the eyes look for a place where to cast it away

You become the bread in my mouth

The bread that offers the holy moments of hope

 

You are the Prayer

Silently filling my heart with forgiveness

When I, on my knees, repent for my sins

And the breath of my Lord, coming from the pure Host

Fills up my soul

 

You are the Joy

That spreads at the foot of the priest and is surprised with this miracle

Of the encounter with the living, blessing God

The Joy that fills up the body, heart and soul

Oh, God, I think, this is the Love that loves me …

             Whom are You for me, Holy Host?

             The Power, Light, Love, Help, Prayer …

             You are my Savior. 

 

 

Song about St. Faustina

 

Wearing a habit, a veil of purity and humility

With the Countenance of the Lord, the sign of Truth, Way and Life

You have taken up the holy mission for the world, Faustina

To proclaim divine works about God’s Mercy

 

In the golden cup of your soul

God found the infancy of pure heart

And filled it with the grace of holy inspirations

And showed you faithful love

 

Your heart trembled, hurt with uncertainty

If you, so little, are worthy of the mission

That Heaven sent down on you

Jesus from the Way of the Cross was your support

 

You put your will down at His feet

Giving away your life for the salvation of sinners

The light of hope sparkled out with power

For those plunged in fear of God’s Justice

 

You are a flame out of fire of eternal Love

That was lit up in the world to save souls

For those who forgot about God’s greatness

About Mercy that brought His Son as far as the cross

 

God has built the Temple of the Spirit of Mercy on earth

Out of stones of your suffering and those of the priests

With the patience worthy of eternal Love

So different from this distrustful world of ours

 

As a sunray penetrates a crystal

So Mercy went through the Heart of Jesus

With the promise for the souls plunged in the darkness

Who render their trust to God’s Mercy

 

And the enlivening power of hope for the sinners

Has poured over the world, like living water

For those who, in faith, want to trust the Lord

And cleanse themselves from sins, for eternal salvation

 

Jesus, the barefoot wanderer, came to you, Faustina

With the blessing hand, and wound-prints, not healed yet

With the heart, pierced with a lance once

Out of which, the rays of graces flow down to earth

 

You still have time, man – so say His eyes

My Mercy still lives on

As long as the beads of the Chaplet move on

And the words: “For the sake of His Sorrowful Passion”, fly up to Heaven. 

 

I know that every Holy Mass is an encounter with the living Jesus. But why am I, during some Masses, celebrated by priests, a little dispersed, while with others, I am concentrated, free from unnecessary thoughts? Does the voice of a priest make a difference?

But voice is only a physical sound of man and it doesn’t have to be beautiful. Then I heard in my heart that it is the soul of a priest that makes the words powerful. Our heart, our soul “hear” the truth of the spoken words and yield to them. The strong faith of a priest penetrates the mystery of the Mass. The faithful can feel it, they yield to the power of the priest’s faith. And these words don’t have to be spoken with an actor-like beauty. It is the Holy Spirit Who ”joins” the Altar and the faithful through the well-felt love toward God by the priest who celebrates the Mass. May God grant charismatic gifts upon priests and may the faithful have a gift of a “loving” participation in the Mass. 

 

Hope and the cross

 

How easy it is to say: I am not afraid of the cross …

While singing songs with the faithful, when the organs play

How hard it is to receive the cross, in despair

When the music is the painful tears of loneliness

How hard it is to overcome the weakness of human heart

That is hungry for the reciprocity after every gesture of love

And tries to receive the cross of life with trust

Feeding on hope coming from the cross of Christ

 

These moments of deep despair

Are like a challenge for our faith

And the encounter with Jesus on the cross

It is the holy time of being with the Lord face to face

In His waiting presence … …

Will this time be a downfall or an uplift of faith?

His cross is bending down toward us with love

Somewhere in the soul, a gentle question sounds …

 

Will you give away your despair, your cross, to My wounds

Or will you run away from Me with a loud cry?

And where will you go, you, human despair?

Will you disappear in the crowd shouting: put Him on the cross?

Or will you trust in MY Merciful Love

Like the Good Villain, with his heart black from sins?

Give us, Jesus, Your saving blood from the cross

So that It can become the power and the grace for our faith

                      And Your words: you will be in Heaven with Me today

                      Will transform our cross into hope.

 

 

Grain of immortality

 

A clod of gold, shining in the sand

A diamond in a necklace, a worshipped idol

How much passion they arouse in people!

Though they are painted with man’s pride

They are only the matter that passes away

Like deadly pride that leaves tears and despair

When fate takes them away and feelings are gone

 

I have pondered over humility, the Pretty Lady

So rarely seen in my world

Silent is She while walking between poverty and disease

Where there are no cameras and human curiosity

Where gold doesn’t shine and diamonds don’t glitter

The Humble Lady seeks hearts full of devotion

For love itself, not paid with a twanging coin

 

Wandering in Her footsteps, along the winding roads

I got to the Altar where the Humble Lady knelt down

Before the white Host, as little as a wafer of bread

I prayed to God for those who have no faith

That God in His humility can humble Himself

And hide Himself in the Host, the defenseless crumb of bread

Offering His Love at the price of His own life

 

And only those who wander along with the Humble Lady

Those who thirst for love and are love-giving themselves

They recognize the mystery of the power of the Host

Which is like sowed seed that bears the Immortal Tree

It grows out of the seed, the living Body and Blood of our Lord

Oh, Holy Eucharist, the Fruit of the saving Passion of Jesus

It is You where the breath of God dwells and gives life forever.

 

 

Quiet joy

 

Quiet and mysterious was the joy that I discovered in myself

She didn’t erupt with a geyser of laughing

She didn’t lift up the body in joyous leaps

She didn’t sound with the echo of a bronze bell

Patiently she waited in me until I recognize her

During common and gray days

 

If it weren’t for God’s grace, during one of the Masses

Perhaps I wouldn’t discover her

When she was seated so quietly and modestly

On the bench of my soul

Waiting until I spot her

Maybe for many years …

 

She had gentle eyes, shy was her smile

Her gray garment of a nun did not glitter

But an awesome gift of love was in her

The love that provides safety and hope

She wasn’t the joy of temporary emotions and feelings

She was like a friend … forever

 

She guided me through a narrow gate, into a garden

Its fragrance was like music, its colors, like singing

The garden itself was a reminder of the beauty of the Creator

And of the miracles of the Holy Mass, so quiet that hardly recognizable

Like the joy that I discovered, quiet and gentle

The joy … of the Communion with the Lord.

 

I was thinking over the sentence that I heard in my heart: you are looking for a spiritual life, digging in the ground like moles, and not looking for this life higher … Indeed, a contemporary man is strongly tied to what is earthly. The contemporary culture deals with physical emotions and calls to cultivate them and apply a philosophy of living the happy life above all. Emotional, scream-like songs, art, literature full of erotic scenes. Is all this a pattern for a spiritual development? It is rather for a cult of impulses. Man, being pushed to the work that is often enslaving, has no time for reflections. But if some anxiety appears in his life, he protects himself by using drugs or the like. Family traditions are ridiculed by enabling a free choice of sexual life. And all this is in the name of modernity and in the name of stopping man from thinking about his own destiny. We search and dig in the ground so that we could find some easy prey, something that justifies our carnal nature. We sink in the temporary things which are like an SMS, short, ungrammatical, informative. And so, days and nights are passing. Life is passing. Somewhere, next to us, some elderly people are going to church. What are they looking for, over there? – we ask quickly, sending another SMS to our so-called friends. Man is not a mole digging in the darkness. He received the light from the Gospel. He received the Savior. Man must raise up his head higher, above the molehills made by the culture of consumption and must start thinking about himself like an unusual person who is able to have beautiful thoughts and experiences. He simply must look up at the sky … so that he wouldn’t be lonely in the deceptive culture of noise and shouting of those who create the culture of darkness for  us. 

 

Where angels cry

 

On a hot, windless day

When even to sigh is hard

I keep walking, spreading around

Thoughts that are sad and mutilated

Like dark, twisted mouths

Painting the space around with gray paints

Creating an image that is left somewhere in the gallery of sadness

The image that nobody wanted to buy

 

I felt a delicate blow on my face

Like a friendly touch of an angel’s wing

Here you are, my angel, I whispered, where have you been?

I have been where angels cry

Where suffering, indifference, crime dwell

I have been in an empty church, before lonely Jesus

I have been where angels get together

To cry … instead of people.

   

 

Hard vocation

 

There is pain that is so annoying

Piercing with the arrows of spiritual struggle

Invisible for the eyes of the world

The pain that doesn’t make the face wry with suffering

But, like a bird, it sits in the nest of the heart

Reminding of its existence

The pain that doesn’t cry … but it perseveres and waits

It allows the face to smile

It allows to live, though it is more painful than bodily torments

 

The pain of spiritual struggles is like a bird

Waiting to fulfill … the vocation

To recognize the way assigned by God

The pain, like an empty cross, mute

Waiting for the will of man, free will

To accept … or discard God’s plans

Toward the world, we turn our face, to appease this pain

But the empty, mute cross is waiting, patient, sacrificial

For the time when we hold out our hand, to Christ.

 

 

 

Holy Mass

 

Beautiful are the moments of enchantment during the Mass

The sight of the flowered Altar, songs flowing from the choir

The words of the Gospel filling the soul with sweetness

The heart being embraced with love

There are such Masses in our life

As if the Heavenly light descended to the Earth …

 

There are also peculiar Masses, painfully experienced

The Masses where the cross is stuck into the Altar so strongly

That we suddenly feel the Passion of the Lord

And it touches our body like a piercing thorn

Then we see the bleeding wounds instead of flowers

And the suffering face of Jesus, His tears falling on the Altar …

 

The cross of the Lord speaks with the living power

Over the golden chalices of the Altar, over the white cloth

And asks our terrified heart:

Do you want to participate in My cross?

Do you want to be with Me on Calvary?

Or only to share the joy of Mount Tabor?

 

The questions of the Lord hollow the heart, disturb the soul

But it’s a grace for you, at this Holy Mass

There are such Masses, beautiful, adorned with emotions

But there are other Masses, demanding to answer the Lord on the cross

There are Masses of childlike emotions, beautiful but temporary

And other Masses when the cross with Jesus appears in front of us

                Asking about the maturity of our faith

 

 In the morning, before the Mass, I was thinking over human faith and I wondered if it does not become a routine, not moving our heart. During the Mass, I forgot about these thoughts, and I focused on the liturgy. After the Communion, I saw the face of Jesus during His Passion. His body and the cross were covered with white fog. In my heart, I only saw – the face of the Lord, covered with blood. The crown of thorns slid a little down His head on one side and it pressed on His eye and cheek. Then I heard in my heart: you are right - for many, I am only a picture from the past and even those who come to Me, have dried-up hearts. Then I remembered my strange, morning thoughts. Strange but in this vision of my heart, I ran over to Jesus, climbed up the nearby ladder and I wanted to shift up the sliding crown of thorns. At the same time I lifted the crown a little higher so that the thorns didn’t pierce His head so strongly. There was a soldier standing by (I didn’t see his figure) who noticed it and yelled at me to stop it. At this moment I felt a strange pain in my heart, as if someone hit me …
I understood that Jesus suffers more when those who come to Him regularly, have dried-up hearts. They get into the routine of … love. But our love to God requires our constant “falling in love” and it cannot be just a habit because such habits lead us toward the dried-up feelings.

 

Chalice of bitterness

In Gethsemane, You drank for me, Jesus
A chalice of bitterness to the bottom
The will of Your Father was holy for You
I drink my chalice of bitterness with gulps
And often put it aside with fear
As if I were afraid to see
The truth about myself on the bottom
The truth about sins rattling like stones
Which give away a painful melody
About the weakness of my human nature
Every time the chalice is raised

I can see Your chalice, Lord
Raised with the hands of a priest at every Mass
You drink the bitterness of our sins from it
But Your Love dissolves
Even the hard stones of human hearts
You forgive in the sincere confession
And with a grace of the Communion, You heal our weakness
I know, You say, the bottom of your chalice of bitterness
I Am with you when you drink from it
With every gulp, you come closer toward the Will of the Father
In Gethsemane of your life, it is the gift of Eternal Salvation.

 

 

Two windows

 

Staring at Your picture, Holy Mother

I silence the emotions of the day, the desires

I even close my mouth for the words of a prayer

Hiding them deep in my heart

I permit my heart to pray for me

Maybe it will do it better?

 

I just want to look at You, Mary

In the silence of this empty church

Like a child, anxious to see the Mother

You become a window for my soul

The window looking over the world of Your Son

Looking over the world of Your United Love

 

I contemplate Your life, Mary

In the pictures revealed to my eyes

And You say: open the window of your heart

I will pour the peace of My Son into it

These two windows, the huge one of Mary and mine, the tiny one

And between them, the drops of graces are flowing down …

 

They are like a spring rain, enlivening

In the silence of the church and in the silence of my body

I absorb them and salty tears fill up my eyes

I hear: don’t close the window of your heart

So that the drops of My graces didn’t become just like an echo

Resounded against the glass of the window of your heart.

 

The temple

Life is like a holy gift if you appreciate it
Build a temple in the center of your life
The steadfast rock as the Offering Altar
Fixed with the Cross of Christ, blessed with His blood

I get closer to the Lord’s Tomb in Jerusalem
Along the stony floor, warmed by the feet of the pilgrims
The cool of the stony walls surrounds me
Like a grotto, filled with life-giving air
The entrance to the temple makes the body tremble
Before touching this unique mystery
You may get lost in the clatter of voices
And yield to a wave of daily routine and lose the mystery
Oh, Lord, I shout, You Were here and You still Are
Guide me with the prayer of the heart
Remove the humming, fill with silence …
I touch the uneven stones with my hands
Like a blind-man, free from temptations of the eyes
I fill the time of waiting with prayer
To get to the Tomb and I look for a space in my heart
To plant white lilies, like a tender gardener
For the encounter with You, in this holy place
For these holy moments when I touch Your Tomb
And see the cool, stony plate and a few candles
And feel the grace of being with You, dead and resurrected
I left a few tears there, strangely sweet
And forgot about beautiful words …
As if the body, heart and soul suddenly got silent …
Oh, the Mystery of the Holy Tomb of the Lord
The Rock of Christ’s Passion
Whenever I look for the lost mystery in myself
I move over the threshold of that Temple with the eyes of my soul
Oh, the Temple of Jerusalem, the Offering Altar for the world
The Mystery of Love, vigilant at the threshold of every temple
The Mystery that wants to be known by every man.

 

During the peregrination of the statue of the Holy Mother of Loreto in my parish, there were many solemn Masses and Services. I yielded a little to this outer atmosphere and sometimes I wasn’t even concentrated enough.
On the third day, when the Mass was beginning, I wanted to tell the Holy Mother how grateful I was for Her “visit” in our parish. Then, in my heart, I saw the Holy Mother on the throne. The throne was made of transparent crystal, shining with a variety of shades of colors. The blue shades of Her dress were reflected there. The crystal of this throne seemed to live a strange life, as if it were in a constant motion. The faces of people were reflected there, too. I had an impression that there were thousands of people stuck in there and marching in a solemn pilgrimage … As if the throne of the Holy Mother were absorbing human life.

 

Silesian Sanctuaries

 

When your heart suddenly puts on the pilgrim’s robes

And stands, ready to go

You feel that it’s time to set out on a spiritual adventure

And let your eyes know the beauty of adoring God

 

In the gothic churches, baroque interiors

In the Sanctuaries of Silesia, Czech Prague, Wroclaw 

In Klodzko, Wambierzyce, Brdo, Czermna 

The spirit of old creators is still alive for beauty is long-lasting

 

And nothing is the beauty of sculptures and pictures

Unless the artist fills them with love for God

On our knees we pray to the Divine Spirit

To uncover a bit of Heaven for a moment, bestowing an inspiration of beauty

 

In Czermna, near the church of the Mother of Good Council

There is a chapel full of human skulls and bones

One near another, no faces, no history, all looking alike

No one knows who is an enemy and who is a friend

 

This sanctuary of death fills us with fear

Many thoughts flow into those who are still alive

How anonymous and physically equal we are when death comes

But I do believe that God knows our faces and names …

 

There is a mysterious spirit in old sanctuaries

As if the sculptures, pictures, altars had eyes and were alive

A hundred-year-old cross with Jesus, wooden statues of Mary

Have been on vigil for centuries like soldiers of faith, like an immortal army

 

Maybe it’s the power of the faithful, of millions of pilgrims

Whose traces got reflected in the walls of these places

For sure it is the power of Holy Masses, Gospels and Liturgy

Filling the interior with the living presence of Jesus

 

You can absorb the beauty of these sanctuaries with your eyes

And remain in this inspiring enchantment

You can also let this mysterious power embrace you

And personally experience its awesome loving touch

 

You can feel as if you were in a treasury full of jewels

The jewels that have been stored on the Altar for generations

The jewels of love, hope and faith that were carved out of people’s hearts

Invisible for the eyes, abundantly scattered at the side chapels

 

I say good bye to the sanctuaries from my pilgrimage

Which have given me an interesting gift – the gift of a childlike joy

I dipped myself in their interior like in an enlivening ocean

They were like a sanatorium of a spiritual renewal for me. 

 

 

Mother of Beautiful Love

 

As a child, I looked at Your picture, Holy Mother

It was like a crystal, shining with wonderful light

Warm, colorful rays were blooming

In its gentle curves

And were sparkling with colorful flowers

From the meadows of my innocent childhood

Out of pure, joyous love, unblemished by the world

Longing for safety, trusting in the beauty of goodness

Without fear, I was cuddling Your hands with my heart

I wasn’t afraid that the sparkling fires of the crystal would go out

I experienced an awesome miracle when I was near You

The miracle of charity that didn’t know the pain of Your face, yet

 

The world forced me to grow up, out of my child’s dress

It was sowing weeds in the meadow of my childhood

They were blinding the bright colors in the meadow of my innocence

The fate put crosses there, the memories of those passed away

The innocent, trustful child was learning what pain was

I found this pain in Your face, Holy Mother

And in the injured cheek of the Mother of Czestochowa

In the pietas that were carved with the sadness of suffering

In faded flowers, forgotten chapels

And a peculiar love touched me like an arrow

I discovered Your humility, ready for suffering

The humility of the Mother of Beautiful Love toward Her children

 

 

Getting closer

I am getting closer to Love
With my own love, given to me
In the Offering of the Lord
As if the Holy Spirit stood between us
And locked me in a luminous corridor
No longer are there any emergency exits for fears and doubts
The loving tenderness that radiates from God
Draws me in like a stream, like a blow of a hot breeze
I am standing there just a few steps back
Holding out my hands with my heart on them
My body is still touching the earthly spaces
The heart and soul plunge in the spring of the Divine tenderness
The One that I have never experienced before
I am floating away in a mystical meditation
Over the miracle of Love, unknown so far
I feel as if a warm ocean of non-stormy water
Allowed me to float gently
Although I am a poor swimmer
But the Divine Mercy watches over my breathing
And over my tired legs and arms
That are so anxious to be touched by the arms of God
I am approaching Love.
With my own love, given to me
In the Offering of the Lord.

 

While observing people, especially the elderly ones, it occurred to me that many of them look back into the past, consider past problems, return to their life’s tragedies and reconsider them. Life, I thought, is like the existence in a large, lit up room, and we, while getting closer to the old age, should slowly “turn off” the lights in this room. We can’t pretend to be young and live in their “light” (the problems that the young wrestle with).
Depending on his age and experience, every man has his “light” for himself. What has passed, still exists in the darkness, and looking into the darkness, we often experience a feeling of lost life (hard experiences of Poles). Sometimes we want to come back to the time of our youth (nice moments) and we act silly, pretending to be young. Our life’s way is lit up “in front of us”, we must accept our illnesses, our age, and even the feeling of being “cast away” by the younger ones. The older, the younger, the children - they all have their individual ways. It’s good to have the awareness of “turned off light bulbs” of the past, so that we could go toward the light that is still on and shows the way. Otherwise, we can get lost in life.
Those who “give away” their advanced maturity to God, will not get lost because they realize that time will not come back. They don’t despair over the lost youth because everyone lives it only once. There are people who are always stuck in the moments that were tragic for them. They come back to them, reconsider them, instead of giving them away to God and move forward. I remember an opinion of one elderly actress: “old age is not for the soft guys”. We can see from this opinion that the awareness of man who is “coming to the end”, requires a lot of wisdom, and first of all, courage. Hiding in the past (darkness) may cause that we can overlook the light that is still on for us.

 

A necklace

 

Old age is like a broken necklace

With little pearls, scattered around

Old age bends down to pick the past time

The time of old years, fragrances, flavors

Old sins and joys

 

Old age can be like collecting memories

But also it can be the wisdom of … cleansing

Of body lust, of pride, of vanity

Old age teaches transition

Of what is volatile and passing

 

The scattered pearls of the necklace are covered with dust

New youth strings the pearls now

In their own necklace of life

Old age watches how they do it joyfully

The young hearts, desiring hope to come to pass

 

In the necklaces of new youth

Old age sees a passing glare

Of her own scattered pearls of hope

Scattered in the dust, like worthless tinsels

Old age wants to tell them about the pearls of faith, hope and love

 

The young hearts listen carelessly

To the whispering voice of wise old age

Then old age reaches into the pocket of her coat

And caresses in her hands, the only necklace that never breaks

The Rosary … and she prays for the young hearts.

 

 

Silence of Golgotha

 

There is holy silence

Absorbing the pain of human words

And there is deadly silence, indifferent

That even the sound of drums will not break it

There is healing silence

Running out toward a man

Embracing and soothing our suffering

There is also silence that is infertile, fruitless

Like a barren land

I got to know the silence of Golgotha, the saving silence

Sanctified with the Passion of our Lord

The silence that opens up for eternity

The silence that absorbs all pain and suffering

And even sin

The silence that lasts minutes but it heals

I also met the silence of the world

When it touched me

I thought that it would hear me and would heal me

But it was deaf for my calls

Indifferent, with a smile of a conceited sphinx

Oh, holy silence, running out toward a man

May the sufferers recognize you

May the sinners recognize you

So that you could speak to them.

 

 

Signs of Love

 

Like a bird making a nest

For the new life

I look for words, holy places

That enliven my love for You, Jesus

 

I desire Your fire

That burns the frozen icicles of feelings

I want my hunger for love to be awakened

And to be ever-lasting

 

I pray for the gift of never-ending memory

Of the beautiful experiences in the encounters with You

On Mount Sinai, in the Holy Land

In the sanctuaries, blessed with the hand of Mary

 

I ask for Your voice that penetrates through my dark thoughts

And for the light to understand Your life on earth

And for the little signs of Your presence

Which I can recognize, thanks to Your grace

 

I will build a nest for my new life

Out of these little, holy signs

Like a bird, out of blades of grass

To get to know You in the Eucharist

 

Teach me how to talk with You during Adoration

With my heart pure, filled with Your peace

Give me the eyes that can see You in the day

And the ears that can hear You at night

 

Lead me from one station to another on Your Calvary

And may Your patient love wait

Until I pass through all the stations, with my life

So that Your Love and mine could meet under the cross. 

 

 Sunday Mass in my local church in Nobla St. in Warsaw.
During The Offering, being concentrated, I saw the figure of Christ, as if He were there instead of the priest. He had light-ginger hair that was shining but He was dressed in the clothes resembling a beggar from the Middle Ages. His clothes could be described as a bag made of light-brown linen. I ask: Jesus, why are You dressed like a beggar. I heard the answer: because I beseech for your love all the time.

Advent prayer

Guide me, Jesus
When I swim in the warm waves of Your grace
So that I didn’t forget about Your pain

Guide me, Jesus
Among the stormy waves, where even the courageous die
And don’t move away Your helping hand

Guide me, Jesus
Along the high mountains of faith, when Heaven seems near
And don’t let me fall into the abyss

Guide me, Jesus
Across the sad plains of infertile fields
Give me extra strength in this melancholy of life

Guide me, Jesus
Through my dark days, when the light doesn’t get through
May Your hand be like a flame

Guide me, Jesus
When I pray and my heart isn’t on fire
But just a complaint of loneliness

Guide me, Jesus
Through the solemn holidays which shouldn’t be like a greeting card
Or a wooden cradle or a lamp on a Christmas tree

Guide me, Jesus, along the way of Your grace
Where I can see Your living Countenance
And please, hold my hand so tight that I can even feel pain.

 

 

Encounter  in the desert

 

Looking for consolation in Adoration

I hugged the silence of the church – like my good sister

Then I saw an image of a desert, satiated with sunshine

The desert got warmed up like a ripening fruit in the hot sunrays

A lonely wanderer was walking across this desert   

Whispering words unknown to me

Maybe it was a prayer?

Being curious of the words, I waited for a blow of the wind

The words of the wanderer were falling down like small pebbles

On the hot sand …

I was picking them up in the basket of my heart

I tried to join them in sentences

I was like a child, learning a foreign language

That was so difficult to understand

And I experienced such a severe pain

That I couldn’t give away any sobbing nor tears

Also I felt joy so unexpectedly

That I even forgot to smile …

I was following the wanderer and my will

Was covered with sand of different shapes

The wanderer was moving with such confidence

As if he had known the destination for ages

I didn’t feel any fatigue

My desire to get closer filled me with more strength

The silence satiated me with sweetness

A peculiar love embraced me with an unknown feeling

Suddenly the wanderer turned around to me for a moment

I saw his beautiful eyes … and a smile

There was joy in them … and pain

As if he had known me and my whole life

 

 

House of light

 

My soul was touched

For this one peculiar moment

Like an architect, amazed with the vision of beauty

I try to build a house

That I saw in a twinkling of light

The house of prayers, psalms and implorations

Sanctified with the Eucharist, the miracle of the Lord’s Passion

The house with a big window overlooking Heaven

Through which the pure-colored blue is flowing in

The house with walls, painted with the colors of a rainbow

Music sounds there, delicate like the violin singing

It is adorned with little chapels of living trees

Covered with leaves and flowers

Inside there are the faces of Jesus, Mary and the saints

The night never comes to this house

And no crying is heard

Only the tears of happiness decorate the walls

The tears, changed into the crystals that reflect light

The walls look like made of fog

And are covered with the pictures without frames

Where living persons are moving

The soul that is enslaved with earthly attachments

Dreams of the blessed peace

That dwells in this house

God’s gifts of Love, I bring to this house

For the offering, being grateful for the beauty of this dazzle

And when the night hangs a veil on the day

When the eyes cannot see the light

I conjure up this house, for my soul

And she whispers: keep on building it

Out of prayers, implorations and psalms

Out of merciful deeds …

This house should be built not with bricks but out of love.

 

 I was listening to a “spiritual preaching” of a certain priest some time ago. His words penetrated me very deeply and forced to meditate over them. He talked about the sense of existence of every man in this world, about seeking God in ourselves, in our own sanctuary of the soul. God has left His own seal in us, we must find it within us, and find our individual purpose of our existence. Consequently, I had my own considerations connected with this. Each of us has his own way to Salvation, according to God’s plans. Every newly born child, even the handicapped one (that the abortion enthusiasts are so “worried about”) is included in God’s plan. We may cast away this plan of God, with our human will. Accepting God’s will leads us along the way of His plans, toward our Salvation. The mother who raises an ill child, is gifted with a peculiar grace of God. She builds up in herself heroic feelings of love and grows spiritually in maturity as a human being. It is an unusually difficult task, it is a fight for a dignity of human life, for a dignity of man in this world. If she hadn’t been “gifted” with such a “task”, whom would she be? We should value and respect such attitudes. They make sense as for the moral value of man. The contemporary world “teaches” us to remove all the inconveniences of life and aim at pleasures. Isn’t our interior emptiness an effect of such attitudes? We cancel God’s plan concerning us, with our “convenient act of will”, we cancel His graces, hunting for the illusive “graces” of the world. I recall some accounts of the people who took up the challenge, the task of hard life, who accepted the cross. It’s strange but they smile sincerely. There is love and gentleness in them. There is a smile, and not a momentary chuckle.

Come into your little chamber

There is such a place within us, a peculiar, little chamber
With no windows, but the light is in
No fireplace, but it’s warm
We look for a shelter in there, disappointed with the world
To listen to the voice of God
It is where the deeply hidden feelings become alive
Those about love, as pure as the angels’ wings
And the prayer full of heat is flowing
We hear the words that we desire so much:
Child, I Am here, don’t doubt My Love
Then we get filled with power, with courage for life
And though we are so weak in our human nature
We want holiness and submission to the Will of God
God Himself has carved this little chamber for us
In the grotto of the body that gets weak easily
Mercy is on vigil there, not justice
And the holy gifts of the Spirit
Once we discover the beauty of this little chamber
We feel like a rich man with diamonds in his hand
We want to share their brilliance with others
When filled with love toward the world and people
Jesus holds the key to this chamber in His hand
He puts it into the lock of our free will
It is our will that opens the door to this lonely shelter
Where God is waiting for the encounter with you.

Sanctuary of the soul

Please hurt the heart of mine, Lord
With a ray of Your Love
May it reach the sanctuary of my soul
That God has gifted me
May it burn down my sins
Making our union holy
May Your blood, Lord, fall like hot tears
And may the memory of Your Passion be like an obstacle
For the thoughts of temptation
Allow me, Lord, to build with You
The sanctuary of the Divine Spirit in me
That shouts loud in my conscience
Against conceit, egotism, sinfulness
I desire to build the House within me
For the Host of Your body
And not to make You feel abandoned and hurt, in there
I desire to be in this House together with You
And hear the whisper about God’s will, out of Your mouth
I desire a consolation, with childlike trust
And I want to learn a sincere prayer
That is laid on the white cloth of the Altar
And will be cleansed with Your Mercy
Please keep knocking with love, Lord, day and night
On the door of the sanctuary of my soul
May she recognize Your voice, the voice of the Holy Chaplain
Who makes the Offering, for my Salvation.

 

 

A miracle of conversion

 

Like a child that desired charity and beauty
So did I, when I was seeking You, Lord
You were like my father’s hands and my mother’s smile
But I didn’t know that it was You …
My love was blooming with their love
When I was dipped in my childhood and youth
You were for me, Lord, like a Sunday Mass
Like singing of a choir and playing of the organs
You were the symbol of the faithful, praying
Even the Communion was only a solemn event

 

And a day came over, like a false note in the psalm of life
I lost my father’s hands and my mother’s smile
When I buried them at a nearby cemetery
Then I also buried You, Lord …
And I put on loneliness … and anger
Then I got silent and turned away from the cross
Even when a grace came to me
Through the eyes of a loving woman, I still doubted
Only my heart was shaking strangely when I heard songs
While passing by a temple

 

I wasn’t seeking You, Lord, but it was You who found me
Through the joyous eyes of my daughter during her first Communion
She said: Dad, Jesus wants to talk to you …
Then the crowd of the faithful disappeared from my eyes
I saw a cross with the Lord, bleeding
And a great sadness on His face
And the words that I heard in my heart, strong and severe:
I am waiting for you, My son …
I knelt down, lonely, before His loneliness
Then I saw my mother’s smile and my father’s hands
I became a child, desiring charity and love.

 

When we go on a pilgrimage so that we could find spiritual support or healing of the body and when we expect that our very presence will cause transformation in us – then we have a wrong expectation. The holy places of the Apparitions of the Holy Mother require from us, first of all, to “open up our hearts” widely. We should beseech for it in our prayers and Masses before the pilgrimage. And beseech for the grace of a personal “clinging” to the holy place. But it needs time and interior peace. Clatter of voices and rushing of the outside world disturb us to achieve it. We look with our eyes, we listen to what is going on around us but the heart remains “mute” although the lips whisper the prayers. The Holy Grotto, the statues will be only the “mute” signs. Then we just become tourists, plunged in the crowd, in a hurry to see everything. Sometimes a pilgrimage is bestowed with a miracle when there is even one sincere sigh toward Mary, coming from the heart, filled with pain of our life and a complete submission to God’s will. It may convert our whole life. The drops of the Holy Spring water of Lourdes which fall upon our “Mary-devoted hearts” mean more than liters of this water, drunk in a hurry, without a sign of a cross. The holy places require our holy clinging, our submission to God, then the “mute” outward signs will become the living Mary, the pictures of the saints will speak and Jesus will enter into the wide-open doors of our hearts. And He will perform miracles, sometimes great ones and sometimes tiny ones … but our soul will recognize them, better than our ears and eyes.

 

The Holy Mother of Osuchowa

 

There are clearings so lit up with sun

That they penetrate the body with an awesome fire

And the man wants to shout, cry and laugh

As if he found himself in a mystical circle

There are such clearings amidst the forests

Where the trees protect the newcomers

They nourish with the fragrance of resin, with sunrays

Curiously penetrating through the boughs of the trees

The trees full of dignity and memory of amazing events

Of the encounter of Heaven and Earth …

 

There are narrow paths in the forest

Destined for lonely journeys through the forest, through our life

The paths that don’t know the noise of the concrete highways

The paths that direct the newcomer to a chapel, to a cross

To the places where the Holy Mother appeared with a message

You are led by a strange light, by silence, by fragrance

And even if there were other people near you

You become a lonely prayer, looking for a chapel

Where you kneel down before … the Mother

Being touched with Her love

 

The love that you might have experienced once

In a quiet, countryside church

Holding the hand of your mother or grandma

Staring at the picture of Mary with a childlike wonder

There is such a place where silence embraces you

So tightly that you must long for

The innocence of a child, the warm touch of your mother

The sinlessness, the adoration of God

The place where your heart receives the seal of the touch of Mary

The unforgettable gift of the Mother for Her beloved child. 

 

 

Silent calling of Love

 

In a little chapel in Lourdes

Without pictures and flowers

Only a cross with Jesus sanctified the Altar

And a lit-up lamp at the Tabernacle

There were invisible votes of pilgrims’ prayers

That adorned the white walls

I experienced an awesome encounter with the Lord

Suddenly His calling of Love, mute, without words

Reached my heart with a hot flame

It was like loud sounds of musical passion

And filled the cell of my heart, striking with power

Getting round the sight of the eyes, the hearing of the ears

It was mute for the senses, loud for the heart …

Calling for the love of man

 

It seemed to be a sign of a crumb of the Eucharist

Defenseless, speechless in its gentleness

But enlivening with a beautiful call of Love

When the priest touches our mouth with the white Host

Thank You, Jesus, thank You, Holy Mother of Lourdes

For this beautiful encounter of the hearts

Oh, Mother of ill hearts and bodies

Mother, washing us in the holy spring

I went on a pilgrimage to Lourdes in Your intentions, Mary

And I recognized the grace that You bestowed upon me

I understood the intention that You wanted me to accept

When You said: open your heart widely for My Son

Don’t hamper your thoughts, your eyes, your ears

Against His calling of Love.

 

 

The Holy Mother of Czestochowa

 

You, Holy Mother of Czestochowa, were for me

Like an icon, so great in Your Holiness and our adoration

That I felt so little and sinful before You, Queen of Poland

And hidden somewhere among the people, with my humble prayer

Until the day has come of my pilgrimage to You

When I was stuck in the crowds of human bodies

And pushed toward You like a little grain

With the flowing waves of still coming people

I got stuck before Your picture, wearing a diamond dress

And though my weary body was irritated

I was overwhelmed by strange peace

And felt Your living presence …

The presence of the Mother who loves Her children

You came out of the picture toward the people

Like other mothers, in a common garment

This garment seemed to be like a child’s blanket

That mothers use to wrap up their children

To protect them with their warmth, against this world

You carried us like little children

I saw You with my heart, going along the roads, through the cities

The roads of our fatherland and our broken families

You walked bravely through the woods, like a gypsy mother

And didn’t get round the lonely households

Courageous despite the wounds dealt upon You

Marked with painful signs on Your cheek

You never stop while on a pilgrimage to human hearts

And on the way, You pick up the ill and the dying

Your coat is stretched widely over Poland

This is the coat of Love, offered by Jesus

It protects everyone who runs to You

And those who just stand waiting for a miracle

I saw You, Mother of Jasna Gora, so alive and present

Like the faces of the pilgrims standing by …

And even though I couldn’t kneel down

In this crowd, pressing on me

But my heart did kneel down …

 

I was listening to an opinion of a well known writer about faith and God. He said that in spite of his mature age, he still has some doubts and still is waging a struggle with God. He tries to reach faith by means of his mind. His way to God is also a valuable way and it also refers to the educated theologians, but … it occurred to me that on our way to God it is extremely important to be granted with the grace of … falling in love with God, with His words. Without this “falling in love”, we face our constant doubts. This “falling in love” provides us, through grace, with many arguments that are unknown to those who want to use their minds exclusively, especially when they consider the matters of faith.

 

Closer to Heaven

 

When you want to feel the greatness of God

In this world of daily trifles

You should stand against the majesty of the mountains

And soar high, like a lonely bird

To the very top, to be closer to Heaven

And wrap up your solitude with the silence of meditation

And listen in silence, to what your heart says …

And though fear engulfs you and loneliness hurts

With trust, believe in the Eyes of God

Watching you in the hardship of this spiritual climbing

When you want to feel the greatness of God

In this world of daily, earthly trifles

You should stand alone by the seashore

And look at sunrise

As an announcer of spiritual hope

And don’t be afraid of these lonely moments

They will get silent in front of the beauty of this sight

Your heart will open up for the greatness of God

You will learn a prayer that was lonely in your heart so far

It was waiting for you to be conveyed to the Creator …

And then you will climb down this high mountain

After your spiritual climb to God

You will leave the seashore, at sunrise

And will look for Jesus, hidden in the monstrance

You will send Him the prayer that your heart discovered

In this mysterious closeness … to Heaven.

 

 

Intercession prayer

 

You know, Lord that the way to Your Countenance

For the human beings, entangled in the world

Is not a wide gate, beautifully flowered

Where an angelic choir calls to enter this holy road

 

The way to Your Countenance, Lord

Is broken sometimes at the abyss of sin

It goes through a quagmire of pride where evil lurks

And it gets lifted along the slippery stairs of suffering

 

There are years of darkness, like a pall wrapping up the dead

When a man looks for light for himself

And he yields to the will-o-the-wisps of the world

He stumbles over a stone of deceit and falls down

 

Being hurt, with his last efforts of will for survival

He beseeches for the Truth, for the Countenance of the Lord

And then, a little flame that was once lit up in the child’s heart

Leads him … to the fire of the Tabernacle

 

Dazzled by the light that touches him suddenly

He wants to devote himself to this new Love

Before the cross, he pours out his whole life

And gets overwhelmed by this newly-discerned Merciful Love

 

And he doesn’t know that his way to the Countenance of God

Was once beseeched for by someone in a long prayer on the knees

On the Way of the Cross of the Lord who was mutilated by men

He beseeched: oh, Lord, save the soul of a falling man.

 

 

Message from the cross

 

I was staring at Your cross, Jesus

I saw Your wounds and the pain of Your body

And the day has come, unusual, at the Holy Mass

As if the Holy Spirit enlightened my eyes

And I saw a cross, shining with the glare of golden fire

Like a key that God opens Heaven with

On the cross, there was God’s Love burning

It was so great in the outstretched arms of the Son

That no nails, no wounds

Could put out this flame with His tears

And the blood of Jesus and the streams of grace

Flowing from the pierced side of the Lord

Magnified the light coming from the cross …

 

I, the man, unable to receive such love

The man who wants to enslave this love with his arms

Suddenly I saw the Holy Love in the glare of golden brightness

And the face of Jesus and His injured body

Were teaching me Love

The Love that reaches Heaven

The cross was speaking to me with a delicate voice:

Stretch out your arms …

On your cross of life …

Bestow love even if others hurt you

I will heal your wounds with the light of My Love

And you will not be only the pain, laid on your cross

You will be a child of My Love.

Every man has been gifted with a unique gift since his birth, with a kind of out-breath of God. I would call it his own “native language” through which he will express his own thoughts, feelings about the surrounding world and also he will stress … his uniqueness in this world. If a child, while growing up, has a possibility for his “native language” of feelings and talents to come into effect – then he will enrich his surroundings. Children have such a “vivid” reaction for events, nature, other people.
But if a young child (as it happens at present) starts using his “native language”, he is also nourished with the language of standards of his society, he is taught from the very beginning what this society demands (knowledge, sports, languages). His “native language” of sensitivity fades away and he becomes a “machine” for recording other people’s ideas and values. As a youngster, he becomes an encyclopedia or a dictionary of a small or big format of scientific, cultural events or expertise. He starts to use this newly learned language and becomes a granary of knowledge and standard evaluations. He becomes a unit of a massive society in the massive production of ideas. Let us make it possible for the children to “breathe” a little against this standardization and enable them to enjoy their childhood and to develop their individual language of sensitivity. This current rush to absorb maximum knowledge is a common fact. If we want to make our children the “granary of knowledge and skills”, we shouldn’t be surprised that they will become specific auto-machines that “spit out” the content at the examinations. We are surprised that children and young people treat Internet like their god and their hiding place and they don’t want any social contacts. Something is dying out in them. Maybe this “something” it is this “native language” that they once wanted to use to communicate with us. But we disregarded it as useless in this world of facts. Once little Johnny used to speak so beautifully about nature, about stars. Today, the well-educated John builds smoke-issuing factories in a beautiful landscape … Once, little Johnny listened to his grandpa’s stories and loved him. Today John builds hospitals and nursing homes for grandparents because he “doesn’t hear” their voices anymore.

Empty heart

 

In the empty heart

The wind of strange thoughts and dreams runs wild

The empty heart is flung by storms

Of fashionable ideas, getting drowned in their rapid currents

The empty heart is like a nutshell

Cast out by the waves, on a sandy shore

And accidental tourists step over him

Burying him with their feet in the billions of sand particles

Like in a big human crowd

That carries him off to nowhere

The empty heart is a slave

Of high tides and low tides, storms and high winds

Of others’ ideas and thoughts

 

The empty heart is sometimes tired of his own vacuum

Cast away by those whom he served all his life

He starts feeling hungry to fill up his heart

He looks for the hand that will lift him up

Out of thousands of similar sand particles

And will hold him in a warm palm

Until a common particle changes into a diamond

Until the empty heart gets filled with feelings

About his destiny, unknown so far

And the empty heart starts to tremble, like a small bird

Before his first flight, the flight toward his own thoughts

Toward his own desires, toward a great love

And with this new courage to fly, he gets closer to the Lord.

 

 

The beauty of a picture

 

Happiness, despair, love, hope

Have colors taken from the palette of life

They are like a rainbow of colors, the artist’s brush paints with them

They are beautiful when they show on the canvas

The mystery of human longing of many generations

Sometimes many years pass, uneasy, not creative

And on the canvas … there are only dark shadows

 

The artist mixes the paints, proud of his talent

But his pictures reflect poor colors only

The silhouettes are dead-like, like the birds unwilling to fly

He puts a white fabric on his easels

Anxiety creeps into the painter’s heart

He asks: where are you, my mysterious longing?

Where is the source of the most noble colors?

 

Sometimes the One who holds the palette of beautiful colors in His hand

With the help of an angel’s voice from a picture of an old master

Leads the artist to the holy places

Maybe there, he will get to know the mystery of his longing?

He will dissolve in tears the cold of his heart and the pride of his talent

He will become the artist of life and not of painting only

As soon as he places the recovered longing on his pictures

           Then he will become the master of the pictures that live out their beauty.

 

 

Request to the Holy Spirit

 

You know me, Lord

You know the day of my birth and my life’s end

You know the darkness and light of my days

You give me a cross unexpectedly

And bestow a grace upon me, though I don’t deserve

You give me prayers, so beautiful that my heart rejoices

You surprise me with Your patient Love

When I don’t love myself

You walk in front of me, like a burning bush

And lead me to its fire, to the glow of Eternal Truth

Take off your sandals – You call like You did, to Moses

Because this ground is holy and the time is holy

When I want to talk with you …

But I am so afraid to hurt my feet

Against sharp stones and hot sand

I see the burning bush of Your Love

And feel too weak to reach it

Give me, my God, the gifts of Your Spirit

May they become Your hands that will lift me up

May Their power and Your blessing

Change my weakness into the courage of love

And if Your will is for me to conquer the hardship of this way

Hurting my feet against the stones of life

Grant me the courage of bravery, the will of victory

Then I will take off my sandals that protect me from wounds

And I will stand before You, I, the non-saint person

Trusting that the Holy Love of Your Son has saved me

Burning my weakness in the fire of His Passion.

 

Many people, even the practicing Catholics often protest against the “cross” that touches their lives. While thinking about it, I “saw in my heart” a Rosary … and its consecutive mysteries. But this is the life of Jesus! If Jesus didn’t leave us but still lives among us, it means that He “repeats” His life in our XXI century, He suffers, is born, transfigures on Tabor Mountain etc. He touches our lives with His life, each of us, separately. So we have the period of joy because of Jesus’ birth, His getting lost … just as it is in the Mysteries of the Rosary. There also comes the time in our lives, when Jesus appears in the Sorrowful Mysteries … He “visits” us in our lives, sometimes it happens when we are not prepared and a tragedy occurs and pain, just like with Jesus going along the Stations of the Cross. If we “accept” Jesus’ visit in the Joyous Mysteries, then why do we protest when Jesus wants our “company” also in His suffering? He offers us His trust that we will be together with Him then. From the human point of view, it is difficult because doubts arise, but when we declare to be believers of Jesus, we must also follow His life along the Stations of the Cross. We shouldn’t reject Jesus in our lives, when His face is sad, when He suffers, when He enters our houses with the cross.

 

Pride

 

Oh, pride of man, golden stone

Kept in the heart as an amulet

Seemingly giving power

How difficult it is to break you into dust

And send to nothingness

Neither suffering nor love

Are able to pull a stone of pride out of your heart

Oh, pride, you are walking with a proudly raised head

You are trampling over those who kneel

And close your eyes when passing by crosses and temples

Do you know the end of your way?

Something is waiting for you there

It is the pride that is stronger than yours

It is stronger by the power that destructs man

Its vicious singing is heard

The singing of a conqueror of soul

And you will stand lonely against this singing

Feeling scared with the powerlessness of your own pride

You will look for escape for your soul

The despaired slave of your pride

And then you turn your gaze at those

Whose pride you tramped yourself

You will repeat their prayers

Until the stone of pride that gave you power

Hurts your heart with pain that never ends

And you wish to cast it away

So that you don’t hear the song of the master of pride

The conqueror of your soul that rejoices

That he guided you along the way of deceit.

 

 

Heavenly command

 

You have given us, Lord, beautiful nature

Decorated like the Paradise garden

The fragrance of fields and forests, the sun shining in the sky

And the earth to give nourishment for the body

 

Naked and mortal, expelled from the Paradise

We are not abandoned by You, Lord

You have given us a task, a Heavenly command

To enrich this bestowed world with our own existence

 

On our way, You have given us, Lord, Moses’ tablets

Every commandment is like a powerful, life-giving tree

It is to protect us against the enemy of man

That follows us to turn off Your light

 

The world that You have given us, out of Your grace

Is invaded by human pride, out of Satan’s whispers

It destroys the roots of the commandments’ tree, given to us

It pulls them out and plants its own, infertile cane

 

And man is surprised, lost in an empty fallow

That evil gets spread, sowing wars and despair

In the world of pride, the voice of prayer gets silent

Death is triumphant, hope is dying

 

But You, Lord, Creator of eternal beauty

Send the hosts of saints with the blessing of Yours

They fight against pride, with a noble weapon of love

They proclaim a message about Your Heavenly command:

 

I have given you the beautiful earth and the Love of the Holy Trinity

And I have put a cross with My tormented Son in a fallow of hearts

He is the way for those who want to sanctify the earth with works of love

So that sanctity could be restored where darkness reigns

                Among the human beings that were sent to earth.

 

 

A dream on the sea

 

I kneel before You, Jesus, in Adoration

With the whole baggage of my worries

I tell You about my fears and sins

Flowing out of my body

I offer You my little devotions

And put before You, my weaknesses

And little victories

So that You could take them in Your hands

Because I only trust in You

I kneel before You, Jesus

Desiring the words of consolation

During the raging storm of my soul

On the Sea of Galilee of my life

And You answer me

With the silence of Your dream

Like the dream on the boat with the Apostles

I sink into the silence of Your dream

And my anxiety is calmed down

I look at God-Man with adoration

I look at His Holy silence

During all the storms of the world

The silence that prepares Him for His Passion

The Saving Passion on the cross

When His silence is fulfilled

With the Offering of blood, sweat and pain

For all the sins of the world.

 

During one of the Advent-Rorate Masses, after the Communion, I deeply felt a peculiar pain. It was flowing from a man who was a stranger and who was like a symbol of many souls who cannot receive Jesus in the communion. Two large and hot teardrops were flowing down my face, so hot that they were burning my face. And it occurred to me that those who can receive the Lord, they also receive many graces. Do they appreciate this grace? Or do they treat it as an ordinary ritual? The tears that I experienced were like the tears of the Holy Mother of Sorrow over those who experience pain because they can not receive the Lord, and also over those who receive Him but they don’t feel the miracle of the joy of consolation. Their hearts also need to be opened wider so that the suffering due to their darkness could evoke in them the holy desire of the presence of the Lord and the awareness of these great graces they experience whenever they receive Him in the Communion.

 

Suffering and consolation

 

Sometimes the soul is wrapped up with such a great pain

That you wish you could envelope yourself in a dream and slow your breath

And fall asleep with no hurting thoughts

But a peculiar suffering weighs like lead

And an invisible chain surrounds the heart

And you ask: why do I experience it?

You try to cry but it dies down with a mute echo

And its silence makes you ponder

You look for the sins that weren’t uttered

You seek contrition that is covered with egotistic pride

And a question is born, like a sharp arrow piercing the heart

Can I betray the Lord in suffering?

Or should I open the door of my heart widely?

You meditate over the darkness covering the church

Before each Advent-Rorate Mass

This darkness hides your suffering for a while

So that it could suddenly glitter with a comforting light

Or maybe it is Jesus going along the Way of the Cross

In our contemporary world when the night is dark

He knocks on your heart with the cross of Golgotha

Like a grace that is lit up from the Advent candle

He asks for hospitality to share His suffering

Trusting that you are the Simon of the XXI century

And the Veronica who will wipe His sweat off His face

And will console Him in His suffering. 

 

 

 The flame of prayer

 

There are days when prayer

Runs away from the words

And becomes a mute image in the heart

And you wonder

Why the heart burns first

When there are no words of prayer in you

You try to adorn this flame

With beautiful words

But your heart deafens every word

It beats so strongly with its feeling toward God

That you turn into a mute person

Like Zacharias who was doubting

While waiting for God to confirm the words

But you just listen to your heart

When it prays with a hot flame

It is the soul that gives you a sign of God’s Love

Without superfluous words

Like an arrow, straight into your heart

This moment is just like a brief flash

Of enchantment and amazement

And only the tears that flow down your face

Become a witness of a gift of prayer of your heart.  

 

 

Holy Night

 

I kneel down at Your manger, Jesus

It is colorful and clean

Like my Christmas from the past

The Christmas of presents, balls and lights

But the truth about Your Nativity is proclaimed

Only in the Holy Mass and the words of the Gospel

 

I kneel before You, Holy Infant

And slowly remove the glitter of this Christmas

I switch off the artificial lights and enliven the plaster figures

To penetrate more deeply into the might of Your Nativity

And the Holy Night, poor and contemplative

The Night of Mary, Joseph the Angels and shepherds

 

I see a cold and dirty stable

Like the heart of a sinful man

I smell an earth-like fragrance

And hear the angels’ singing that breaks the silence

Penetrating the holy silence that unites the earth and Heaven

With the light of Immaculate Innocence

 

Salvation has come to this world …

The Salvation that is not afraid of the pain of the cross

The Salvation that blossoms with Love and Hope through the Infant

The world hasn’t known such Love, yet

God has spread His arms over the people in this Silent, Holy Night

So that we could find in our hearts

                         This awesome Gift, the Gift of His Love.

 

During the Holy Mass, I saw in my heart a dark-brown cross and Jesus on it. At one moment, His silhouette was the same color as the cross. It was becoming a unity. Why? – I asked. And I heard in reply in my heart: I and the cross, we are the one. If you receive Me, you also receive the cross. We can’t receive Jesus separately, forgetting about His Passion.

During the next day’s Mass, after the Eucharist, I apologized to Jesus: I tell You, Jesus that I love You but my love is imperfect, I hurt You with my sins. Then I heard in my heart: There is not such a love that doesn’t hurt. Ponder it carefully … Strange thoughts began to appear in my head, as if someone tried to explain the essence of this sentence to me. Those who really love, they know the taste of love, they know how much bitterness one must swallow, how much pride and egotism to conquer … in pain. Those who “run after” love, they constantly change the object of their feelings, they rather “seek” adoration of their own pride. They are unable to make a sacrifice for another person. Unfortunately, our contemporary world thinks that love is to satisfy their own needs. The Love that Jesus speaks about is a creative love, changing the egotism of man into a position of a giver and not a receiver of love. Such love hurts: our pride, brings pain but it changes the man, improves his nature. Why did they kill Jesus? Indeed, He proclaimed such Love, the sanctified love. The Love that He proclaimed, disturbed the proud of this world., the scribes who made the throne of power of themselves. On this “throne” they felt like lords. Their self-love gave them a secure happiness. They loved themselves. They didn’t want anybody to destroy their pride and upset their conscience and take them off their “throne of power”. They couldn’t even accept the idea of love which bears wounds, which hurts because it can love in a disinteresting way and forgive. Such Love “disturbs” in self-adoration, it demands that man take off the colorful protective clothes, it demands listening to one’s heart. And finally, it demands that we live out the Jesus’ commandment of Love. 

 

 Between the world and the cross

 

I can’t promise You, Jesus, that I won’t go astray

For I don’t trust my weakness

I can’t promise You, Jesus

That I won’t fall down when surrounded by doubts

Looking at the world of immoral events

In this world, false lights irritate my eyes

And the words about love, illusive though beautiful

Deceiving the sensitive hearts

But I do promise You, Jesus

That in my every downfall

I won’t lie with my face turned to the dirty stones

But I will look up at the sky

Even if I feel the weakest

And if I am stepped over

With a mocking smile of triumph

Your face will always shine with hope for me

Along the Calvary road

And the cross, carried by You, with love

Will become a living tree, full of life-giving juices

And will lift me up with its branches

From my every human downfall. 

 

 

A night conversation with an angel

 

When your life completes a circle

And takes a seat to rest

Like a bird, tired of a long flight

Then contemplate the truth about yourself

For it doesn’t have time to wait

Look at the world with the gift of wisdom

The wisdom of your own experiences

 

Look at the young ones, who look like you did once

Careless in love

Fighting for mammon, elbowing their ways sharply

And you already see their way of disappointment

Rebellion and tears, fear about the future

Because you have known this way yourself

You have fallen down there, yourself …

 

And you keep wondering why man still makes the same mistakes

He doesn’t accept the experience of other generations

The background is only changing

As if somebody put a new wall-paper on an old one

Different music is playing now, rapid and loud

And the fashion is more stripped

Trying to lay the body bare with nakedness more than with ideas

 

Then beseech the Lord for a gift of wisdom

So that you didn’t become just an empty circle

That your life made of you

And when the young say: the world is different now

You know that there is no other world

The one that exist, is divided

And created by human pride

 

This is the world without God, without love …

Still, this very world is redeemed

With the Cross of Jesus and His Love

The world, fighting with evil

Fighting for the dignity of man

The world of God, blessing the human crosses of hardship

For the reward in eternity … 

 

 

Leaves of memories

 

How beautiful the autumn landscape is

Luring the eyes with the colors of leaves

The yellow beside the red are shimmering

A still-green leaf is sometimes between them

Forcefully dropped with a blow of wind

 

I am standing at the lake, full of these colors

It’s covered with them like a carpet of nature

So many memories are there, so many left-over leaves

Memories of spring or summer when awakened with sunshine

They blossomed on the branches, enlivened with the tree juice

 

And I think that this lake full of dried-up leaves

Will absorb their short histories

And will remind us that it’s like our life, full of old memories

That enslave us so much that we can’t see the depth

Which is separated by the dried-up leaves of memories

 

How hard it is for the human nature

To forget about beauty and pain of the memories of life

And forget about the lake that embraces our old history

And look in yourself for the pure deep of water

Where we will see, not the leaves but our face

                  Seeking new hope in the depth of this crystal lake.

 

From the Gospel of St. John, about the healing of a blind.: Jesus, passing by, saw a man who has been blind since his birth. Jesus’ disciples asked Him a question: Rabbi, who:

committed a sin that caused that he was born blind - he or his parents? Jesus answered

 neither he nor his    parents committed a sin but so it happened so that God’s intentions could come to pass.   

The past and the future

 

The past and the future met together

On a way, by chance

The past had a walking stick in the hand and a gray beard

And a sack full of old rules on the back

The future had a young face and empty hands

On her shoulders, there was a fashionable, colorful backpack

 

The past looked curiously at the future

But the future turned away the eyes with anger

As if she were afraid to be asked for alms

And that the frowns on her face

Could deprive her of hope and the charm of youth

 

They travelled on, each in a different direction

One was slow, as if time didn’t mean much

The other, like a marathon runner, was speeding up

Picking up the fruits of good looks and youth

And putting them into an empty, fashionable backpack

 

The past and the future are like the seasons

The future gets nourished with the power of spring and summer

The past, with the harvest of autumn and with cold wisdom of winter

And nobody will stop these laws of nature

And someday, the future will turn into the past …

 

The future runs along the paths of the “young futures”

Still full of vigor and unfulfilled longings

And she fears one thing only, not to run into the past

But those who boasted about their youth power, like she did, once

Now they put it into the cards of history

                       The past and the future met together

                       The hope of the youth with the truth of old wisdom. 

 

 

New heart

 

It’s great to praise You, Lord

When the heart beats like a happy bird

Soaring in the space of a loving enchantment

He is granted a grace to get higher and higher

And the body is penetrated with great trust and faith

 

But there are days when the bird of joy

Folds his wings, unwilling to fly

Wrapped up with a heavy robe of sadness and pain

With a fixed gaze on his own weakness

He forgets how great it is to soar in faith

 

And a reflection comes, touched with an angel’s wing

That a bird of joy needs a different nourishment

The nourishment of grace of faith, stronger than feelings

Which are passing, like a leaf that soars up with a blow of wind

They come and go …

 

May God grant us a new heart, we beseech

The heart, pierced with His Love, in the Feast of the Eucharist

The spring that flows eternally and never ceases

The spring, filled with the words of the Gospel

Gushing with a still, patient rhythm

 

Please create a pure heart in me, Lord

Fighting for faith like a warrior in a battlefield of temptations

Give my heart, oh Lord, a shield with a light of Your grace

With the cross of Jesus, adorned with His blood

May my battle for strong faith that I wage with myself

                          Be sanctified with Your Divine blessing. 

 

 

The time that doesn’t pass away

 

Time passes as if someone

Tore out the sheets of the calendar hastily

Dawn barely wipes our eyes

When the rising sun, with its glare

Calls us to work

And we keep running and running

The trace after our work becomes a leftover

Like the few houses that we built

Or the machines that we invented

Or the people that we cured …

And in the mirror we see a gray, tired man or woman

And a question: where is that running, young man?

In the faces of the children, grown-up now, we discover

The time that flew unnoticed

And we ponder whether there is the time

Which isn’t just a falling sheet of a calendar

But the time that is awaiting and stopped

Somewhere in the space between Heaven and Earth

Indeed, there is such a time, the time of prayer

When a moment becomes an hour

An hour becomes a day …

The time that doesn’t run but it lasts

In a peculiar state of rest

The time of prayer, of the Adoration of the Lord

Being sunk into eternity

The eternity without calendars, clocks and haste.

 

During meditation, a question appeared in my heart - how is Jesus going to judge us after death? How are we going to see ourselves through our sins, mistakes, downfalls, but also through good deeds that we do? It is a great mystery but … nonetheless, man should think it over. I had a vision of a big circle, in the middle - Lord Jesus. The circle was divided … into the Stations of the Cross. Will we be judged according to the Stations of the Cross? - I asked myself. Maybe Jesus’ Judgment of us will be like this. Indeed, it is said that Jesus carried the cross to Calvary for each of us. So we will stand in front of the Judge with our own crosses on our backs … What have we done with our crosses? How have we carried them throughout our lives? Was it the same way as Jesus did? Or was it like a rebel who casts away his cross because of his own philosophy of life.
Station I - unjust court sentence. How many unjust sentences have we passed? How have we risen from our downfalls? Have we appreciated the assistance of other people? What were we like in the context of other people (Veronica, Simon)? What importance Has The Holy Mother of Assistance had in our lives? Did we turn to Her for help? What have we said about the teachings of Jesus? - maybe it was critical (the Station of stripping off the robes). Did we try to defend Him? How many nails have we hammered into His hands? Did we cast away His help when He wanted to raise us from our falls? We can keep considering all these aspects as long as we have time. Until we reach the Station of … death. This is only my personal conclusion - an assessment of the way of life of man through the Stations of the Cross of Jesus. On The Judgment Day, there will be - He and I. There will not be any shouting of the crowd or excuses such as: but others did the same way. There will be - our eyes and His, and between - the painful Truth, the Righteous One, the Final One.

 

Death

 

The sun rises and sets

It rains, snows

The city noise doesn’t die down

The clock strikes minutes, hours

And Life passes away …

It passes like sunrise or sunset

The clock ticks in no hurry

As if it forgot to honour

This one holy minute

Death …

The empty bed, the wardrobe still opened

The flowers not watered

Abandoned glasses like orphans, the remote control

Man went out together with Death, hand in hand

For a walk, on a trip with no return

Lady Death doesn’t change the agenda of the day

She takes you away silently, with no packing suitcases

Maybe I will take a warm coat? – Life asks

What for? - it is warm where we go to

Maybe I will switch off television?

What for?

Those for whom the clock is still ticking

Will switch it off …

Life and Death wander along the way

That they don’t know

Life sees more and is surprised …

Funeral, tears, flowers, a priest

And I …

A little man dressed in black

Have I passed away yet? – Life asks

Death smiles

But You are talking with Me now …

I have only one request – Life asks

What?

I will wipe the tears of the weeping ones

They are so sad.

 

 

Cemetery

It seems to be a large garden
Covered with colorful flowers
A town of mysterious people, fast asleep
With little houses, without kitchens and living rooms
On every one, there is the owner’s name
Strange houses without doors and windows
The doors, once shut with concrete
Never open again
Their mute dwellers rest in peace
Only the trees play the same tunes
With humming leaves and boughs
The dwellers of other concrete houses
Pay visits to them
Those who can still open their doors and windows
They light up lamps, put flowers
Talk to them but don’t sing
How can you sing when your eyes are full of tears?
Water flows down from the cleaned tombs
It gets mixed up with human feelings, with prayer
A hand gesture on a marble slab, a sigh
Silence
The dwellers of this cemetery town
Protect their secret, even from the close ones
Eternal rest for them, our last look
And we leave the colorful town of those asleep
The town of our future.

 

Reflections on the Feast of the Dead

 

Death is asking …

 

Death asked Life what is precious that He sees in Himself?

Life covered His face with the hands with fear

So that He couldn’t see the countenance of Death

He decided to hide in the crowd

Of people who don’t want to hear Her questions

They carry a banner, like an advertisement of a product

With an inscription: life is a joy, comfort, fun and happiness

And so, going with them for some time

Life has forgotten about Death’s question

And all together they shouted their joyous slogans

Until He fell down on the ground

The crowd stepped over Him with a loud laughter

Nobody has bent down over Life

Nobody has given Him a helping hand

Life disturbed their march, with His unfortunate fall

 

There was a big oak tree on the roadside

It covered Life with shadow, against the heat

Its leaves stubbornly whispered:

What is so precious in You, Life?

And Death appeared again, in a duet with a rustle of the leaves:

Some day, I will hold You in My hands, Life

And will pull Your roots out of this earth

I will put You before the throne of the One who had breathed a spirit in You

You will stand all alone before Him, when He asks You:

What do You have for Me that is precious?

Life looked at His empty hands sadly

And wiped dust and dry, autumn leaves off His clothes

Then He set off along His own way, granted with the light

Today, He stands under the oak, as strong as the arms of the cross

He raises from the fall those whom others didn’t give a helping hand.

 

I am thinking about people’s talents, about this great gift that should be used to show good, noble purposes. Unfortunately, many talented people use their talents for the apotheosis of evil. It is also said that evil is very attractive, hence there are so many films, novels about evil nature of man, about crimes. What do we get from reading such books or seeing such films? Depressive mood, distrust, reluctance toward others. Writers, film-makers speak about … showing truth. What truth? Only the “black” one?
Evil that is intertwined in the works of art, should be shown as a fragment of human life when we take up our fight. The elegant writer’s style disappears somewhere, feelings are expressed with vulgar words. Similarly it is so with human behaviour. They say: we take off our masks, we show the essence … Through evil?
They often create works whose makers use alcohol, narcotics, psychedelic music. Young people are made believe that it is the “cry of truth” about the contemporary world.
Human heart wants the truth, it recognizes it in great, heroic actions which are often silent. Do the writers and film-makers want to “deafen” the truth which people’s hearts want so much?
Even if evil exists, it is not worth such apotheosis. Just by describing evil reality itself, even with great talent - does a lot of harm to others, especially to young minds. When young people are asked about authorities - they are doubtful. Why?
It’s great that after considering the matter more deeply, they mention John Paul II, who believed that first of all, man possesses good. Talented man should show good and fight for good. Evil also needs talent to be presented in an attractive way. Creators often allow evil to delude them. Let’s pay attention to the generation that was fighting for Poland’s independence. They believed in moral values, such as God, Honour and Fatherland. That generation didn’t make moral values relative. Maybe these who shout out loud about the power of evil over man, subconsciously look for nobility and good because they didn’t experience it in their own lives. Especially now, this shouting is very loud. But if the creators show evil and distortions to make the subject more attractive and to make more money - then it is a purposeful demoralization.

Journey through an unknown forest

 

The life of man is like a journey

Through an unknown forest, full of different paths

There is darkness there at night and the morning light

We hear voices around and callings

Of those who are lost and call for help

Those who are abandoned and scattered among the trees

Those who are deceived by their own ears and eyes

They were looking for a way without a compass, without rules

They didn’t appreciate the mystery of life of the forest

The mystery that has no regard for the vanity of man

 

Noisy groups are wandering through the forest of life

Their sight and hearing are focused on the guide

They follow him thoughtlessly along the paths

With an echo of drums and a song so loud

That they deafen the silence of the forest and its subtle mystery

They are like the trees that are rid of their colorful bark

They are all alike, dressed in gray uniforms

Blind and deaf for the beauty around

Until … they get to an abyss and stop there, scared

Their song gets silent and the guide disappears in the fog

 

Oh, human journey, through an unknown forest of life

There are so many holy signs there and crosses with the Vigilant Jesus

Over the dangerous roads for people

There are so many voices of the past and present saints

Pointing at the paths toward the bright light

Why can’t we raise our heads toward the eyes of Jesus

He will show us the way through the unknown forest of life     

He will sing us a hymn about a beautiful Love

And the echo of His voice will lead us

And no fear shall we experience, nor shall we stop at the abyss. 

 

 

The throne

 

My King was laid down in a poor manger

While the children of the kings of this world

Slept in golden cradles

My King was nailed to the cross

It was His throne made of plain wood

When the kings of the world sat on the rich thrones

My King was adorned with nakedness and blood

 

The thrones and cradles of this world got rotten long ago

But the throne of my King has endured in this world for ages

Though there were and there are those who want to destroy it

But it is reborn, still immortal

For it reached the Heavens with Love, not with a sword

The mortal hands made His throne, out of wood

And He gave them eternal life with His saving blood

 

The bare feet of my King were nailed to the throne

So that they would never reach the earth

When resurrected, they wandered among the people

Giving hope to those who believed in Him

He rose from the throne proclaiming the immortality of love

To those who believe only in earthly thrones and cradles

And to those who look for thrones-crosses in eternity. 

 

 

The time of hope

 

I don’t know Your thoughts, Holy Mary

When You waited for the Son of God

I know the joy that You experienced

When You felt the Infant moving in Your womb

 

The pain was not a stranger for Your heart

When You saw Joseph’s uncertainty and concern

And though You were chosen by Heaven

But Your feet, like with other women, touched the wounds of the earth

 

I see when You are lost in thoughts, Your sight is fixed on Heaven

When You bustled about Elizabeth’s homestead

You put the ferment of prayer into the bread that You baked

To be life-giving for John’s parents

 

When You uttered Your fiat to the Angel of Annunciation

Heaven was like a bud of a rose and opened up with angels’ singing

The earth was silent, entangled in daily life

Human eyes didn’t see any light around You …

 

Beautiful were You, wrapped up in the Fatherhood of the Holy Spirit

You stepped over the land, just like other women did

Joseph, the Spouse given You by God

Was carrying with You, alone, the mystery of Nativity

 

I don’t know Your thoughts, Virgin Mary

When You were waiting for the Son of God

But I know Your Love that has lasted for ages

And Your face from the pictures, deep in thoughts, in love with people

 

Today, hundreds of years later, we go to the Advent-Rorate Mass

To wait with You for the miracle of the Infant’s Nativity

To warm up our weary life with Your Love

And to light up the flame of our soul in the darkness

                   So that You, Holy Mother, could adorn it with Your hope.  

 

One day, during Adoration I started to feel in my heart some signals concerning the life of Mother Therese of Calcutta. Although I haven’t thought about Her for months but my thoughts began to turn into consequent sentence structures and at this moment of Adoration, she became so close to me. I had an impression that Jesus was speaking to Her, not to me.

Oh, Jesus, She has already died, I said silently. Then I heard: She hasn’t died but She asks for the “new” Mothers Thereses for the poor of this world. She asks for the saints who are ready to live like She did. Then I heard in my heart: I want you to understand the essence of Her difficult vocation, the core of Her precious cross, that is the cross that I shared with Her. She was carrying it in pain … to the very end, to Her sanctity.

 

Oh, Mother Therese of Calcutta

 

You desired to see Jesus so much

With Your own eyes

And to cuddle Him in His arms

But You persevered in the dark night

Full of suffering and pain

Without any consolation …

And though You knew that the Lord was speaking to You

Through the eyes of the dying

Through the eyes of the abandoned children

In human terms, Your vocation was so hard

When You experienced the vacuum of His Love

But He entrusted this Love to You …

He proceeded before You a few steps

With the cross of the harmed

Your angel carried a prayer on his wings

He was faster than Your steps

That were so busy over human unhappiness

You were the handmaid of the Lord

Washing the wounds with His hands

You were His smile of consolation

What did You want to say, Jesus

Through the life of this beautiful saint?

You wanted to say that You wait for the sanctity of man

For his will to fulfill Your Passion

You wait for love that is like Your Love

The Love that is despised by so many people

The Love without consolation …

But this Love is beautiful

For it is all-saving and eternal. 

 

 

Our Father

 

I wanted to express my love to You, Lord

With beautiful words

But silence spread within me

As if this silence was to announce a secret birth

I was like an empty cave, waiting for an echo of words

Or maybe for the beating of the heart?

A little bird outside the window

Was singing morning chirps

It was tiny but so much power was in this song … without words

 

I wanted to tell You, about my love to You, Lord

But I stumbled over ordinary thoughts

About troubles, past joys and hope

I was like this little bird

Only the singing of my heart was so poor

But something unusual happened in this silence

The forerunning silence of a mysterious birth

A prayer resounded unexpectedly within me

The prayer that I have repeated for years …

 

Our Father who art in Heaven …

It sounded with a power that I hadn’t experienced before

It was beating loudly with a heart-beat that was in love

The words were resounding with an echo in my cave:

Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come …

The words were like a sudden, outpouring love

Like a beautiful hymn of a child to his Father

I desired to tell You, Lord, about my love to You

But it was You, Lord, who bestowed

                            The power of Your Love upon me.

 

 

What are you like, my prayer?

 

Sometimes you sound loud, sublime and solemn

When raised with a chorus of voices

Sometimes, very silent and hardly heard

Like a little puff of wind, gentle and soothing

Sometimes you are a beautiful singing of voices

Like the elevation of gothic cathedrals

Sometimes your singing is sincere but incompetent

You dwell in the church, at home, on the street

Whispered in a daily hardship

You wake up on our lips in the morning

And go to bed together with the faithful

There are days when you wake up a sound sleeper

So that he could say at least: “Under Your Protection”

For the unknown people who are threatened with sin

 

You are, my prayer, a lonely voice somewhere on the mountain

Like a night dialogue of Jesus with His Father

You are the suffering on Olive Mountain

When the Son of God is drinking His Cup of bitterness

You are sorrowful on the Way of the Cross of Jesus and ours

You are joyful on the Day of His Resurrection

And even those who despised you once

Will grab you, whispering: “Hail Mary” like the last resort

When pain touches them or life disappoints

Beautiful words got lost in the memory of the past

But you, my prayer, are still alive

You rise up to God with a bright flame

You are the hope encoded into the heart of man

The hope, on our way of encounter with God. 

 

One day when I was saying the Chaplet for the Divine Mercy, it occurred to me that it is the most beautiful prayer that God offered us. We shouldn’t say the Chaplet fast, just uttering separate words. In this prayer, God waits for our beautiful, human gratitude for His Son’s Passion. God already offered people everything for their conversion. He offered His final gift - His Son. He doesn’t have any other gift for us. He speaks to us with His final gift - I gave you My Love - My Son, to suffer terribly … How great God’s Love for people is!
When we say: I offer You the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of Your Beloved Son, our Lord, Jesus Christ - then we speak to God, asking for Mercy for us, for our sins. How difficult it is for us, people, to be merciful for our oppressors. God gives us a great gift - the words of the Chaplet for the Divine Mercy. I think that it is a great beseeching prayer. Priests know its power when it is offered for a person who is just dying. So it is important to meditate deeply whenever we say it. Every word is God’s gift with great significance. When we say this Chaplet slowly, with love, we should think about Jesus’ Passion, about the miracle of God’s Mercy which forgives us when we offer His Son’s Passion to Him.
When we say the prayer of the Chaplet, we should feel union with God in our heart, like a child who beseeches Father to forgive trespasses and who strongly believes in His unconditional Love. The Chaplet is a great hymn of covenant of Merciful God with weak man, it is the adoration of the gift of Mercy.
The next day, I am having Adoration in front of The Most Holy Sacrament in my local church in Warsaw. It’s nearly 3 o’clock p.m. - the hour of saying the Chaplet for the Divine Mercy. There are a few people in the church. It occurs to me that there are so few people at this particular hour. And maybe very few people pray the Chaplet, too? Then I hear in my heart: at this hour, I Am ready to pour My Mercy over millions of you … but only hundreds wait for My Mercy. Time will come when millions will be waiting for My Mercy and only hundreds will receive It from Me. How important the Chaplet is - I thought. We excuse ourselves with lack of time but those who have time, also neglect this prayer … although they could pray for God’s Mercy for other people.

Saints

 

When our sins cause a painful wound in us

We turn to the saints for support

To feed us with the power of their faith

We try to know the secret of their life and faith

The faith that they even lost their lives for

And I see them climbing up toward the light of Heaven

Along the stairs of the world, full of thorns of temptation

Along the slippery rocks of doubt and illness

As if God by crucifying their will and body

Wanted to liken their souls to His Son

 

But the smile for the people never disappeared from their faces

Among these hardships and spiritual struggles

They hid the tears among the sad, dark nights

They turned them into the words of a beseeching prayer

Somewhere, at some time of their life

They saw Jesus on the way of the cross

His eyes were like the eyes of the poor, hungry, love-thirsty

Through His silence they recognized the will of God for them

And took up the struggle with their own weakness

For those who haven’t known the love of God, yet

 

And even if we wanted to know their sanctity with our mind

Studying many wise books

Our heart will not understand the mystery of sanctity

When it is closed for our fellow being

It will not understand the gift of hands and heart as an offering

For the salvation of souls, so precious for God

It will not understand the pain of the saints, their suffering

The crucifixion of body and will and the faithful trust

As Mother Therese of Calcutta says: For the saints

Suffering is a sign that you are close to Jesus on the cross

                              So close that He can even kiss you. 

 

 

Journey through a green valley

 

Faith is like a journey

Through a juicy, green valley

Holy words of God rise up over there

And the angels, the Heavenly birds of eternity

Offer them to the hearts of the pilgrims

 

The Holy Eucharist is leading this procession

Following the guide, the priest

He nourishes those who are getting weak on the way

He passes a cross to them for their support

And the hands of the companions help those who fall

 

Faith is a journey through a green valley

Following the light that shines even in the dark

The journey without the baggage of the world that weighs on the back

This is the journey of trust that we won’t fall out of hunger

Because the granary of God’s gifts is inexhaustible

 

The voices of the world are waiting on the elevations

For the travelers along the green valley

The voices of doubts, ridiculing and hurting

They fall on them like sharp stones

They try to disturb this journey through the green valley

 

Some voices quote wise books, logical reasoning

About senselessness of faith, about non-existence of the green valley

The hands are held out, full of tempting gifts of the world and victory

But the pilgrims of the green valley go on, toward the light

And the voices and hands of those tempting are absorbed by darkness

          And the night wind leaves the  prayer for them on the elevations.

 

 

Gift of the royal Eden

 

My eyes cannot see You, Lord

Nor my hearing can penetrate the Heavenly dome

But even an earthly blind man

Feels warmth on his face and turns to its source

Fascinated that he can run to it

And the one who cannot hear

Can praise You with his eyes

Although our senses don’t reach Heaven

But You, Lord, with Your Mercy, opened Heaven for us

With the cross of Your Son, with His Resurrection

So that those of poor vision and hearing

Could know You with their hearts and redeemed souls

Which are more precious than senses

 

So I sing to my soul patiently

Lift me up where Eden reigns

Where love plants trees and flowers

Where the smiling saints are like gardeners

There are no dark nights but the light of love

There are such days like a dreamy enchantment

When I hold out my hands toward this Eden

With my complaint about my blindness and deafness

Then somebody from behind this blue veil

Lays a shining crystal on my hand

Shimmering with the blood of my Lord

And the crystal, the gift of the royal Eden, flows down

Is changed into the white Host which opens the eyes and ears

                     Of those whose senses don’t reach Heaven.

 

Before the daily Mass, I was thinking why I felt so lazy, so weak that I wanted to leave out the Holy Mass on Monday … But I overcame myself. After the Holy Communion, I hear in my heart the answer to my doubts. The body is submitted to different weaknesses - old age, health limitations etc. but God’s Spirit in man is still young, free from these limitations, independent of age. At the young age, when our bodies are physically active, we are often led by the “spirit of physicality”, we do what is convenient for the body and what it expects us to do. So there is a lot of movement, fun. We succumb to the “laws” of the body. We devote too much attention to the body. We don’t listen to the inner voice of our spirit. There may occur a lack of balance between the development of body and spirit. The “limitation” of our physicality caused by illness, old age, disability, makes us reach deeper into our human nature - into this spirit inside us - still young, skilful and giving us beautiful thoughts and reflections over the sense of life. It is a beautiful gift from God, often neglected by too much favoring of the body. We are surprised to see the ill, disabled persons having so much inner strength and joyous spirit - they turned to the gifts of The Holy Spirit who is always young in us. So when we yield to the laziness of the body which excuses our unwillingness for good deeds, sublime thoughts - then we should refer to our beautiful, young spirit inside us and trust in his power. We should give away our “ailments” to him and he will lead us to these areas of our humanity which, through prayer, the Eucharist, will show the complete value, will bring peace to our unquiet, at certain stages of life, disabled body. Then we will receive the inner balance and our physicality will not dictate us what to do.

Gift of the Divine Grace

 

The Divine Grace is not a hidden treasure

It is a gift of forgiveness

The Divine Grace is like crumbs of a grain

Thrown near a nest of a bird

Engulfed in a sleep

He hasn’t shaken off his dream, yet

He hasn’t tuned up himself for the morning singing, yet

But the feed is already waiting for him

The gift of Merciful God for the weak …

 

The Divine Grace – it is Jesus going beside us

With a basket of bread, waiting for the hungry

The Lord with a sincere smile

For those who hold out their hands for His bread

The Lord who is sad seeing others who pass by Him indifferently

Their eyes are turned to the gifts of this world

The Lord suffering on the Way of the Cross out of His Love for people

The Lord – the Slave of Love, hidden in the Tabernacle

Jesus – the Grace for the sinful world

 

Give me, Lord, the trust of this little bird

He knows that the feed is waiting for him

Out of Your Divine Grace and Your disinterested Love

So that while I look for these gifts with my mind and my eyes

And ponder over their value and taste in this world

I do not overlook Your graces

That were offered to me on the branch of my life

Give me, Lord, the gratitude of this little bird

And give me his trustful song about Your Love.

 

 

The way of coming back

 

You have let me out of Your arms, Lord

So that I looked for the way of coming back to You

You have given me a safe house on this earth

Protected with a cross and  the pictures of the Holy Mother

And the sunny childhood, adorned with the wreaths of daisies

And the faith that here on earth, the sun shines everywhere

 

I have observed human life for years

My ways crossed the other ways

I have seen the pilgrims of this earth, seeking wider ways

They got around the crosses of hardship like obstacles

Looking only for joy in their pilgrimage

And finally, disappointed, they fell down …

 

I looked at the pilgrims of the hard trails

When they climbed the mountain-virtue crests

The storms and winds of life didn’t stop them

They were hiding in the grottos, their temples of prayer

I saw a miracle in their holy desires

To reach the cross on the hill of Golgotha

 

How very little our life is, oh Lord

It is just a drop, sunk in the elements of this world

In the storms of spiritual breakdowns and too long nights

In the fear of a stormy ocean to protect our faith

In the heat of a desert that blows with sand into our eyes

And loneliness that cannot be abandoned

 

How very little our life is, oh Lord

Bestowed with Your grace of free will

That must make the right choices among the spiritual elements

So that it can find the sunny way to You

To reach the mountain of Your Love

And to be like David who defeated the great Goliath of this world

                        With a stone of faith and trust. 

 

 

 Life-giving  love

 

You prayed, Jesus, on the desert mountain of temptation

Where the flowers of consolation don’t bloom

The cold wind at night

Wanted to blow away the words of Your prayer

In the day, the desert heat took away Your strength

And Satan tempted Your hunger with bread of stones

He wanted to offer You a kingdom

 

You hid Yourself in the desert, Lord

Like in the hearts that despise You

In the cold hearts, like the cold desert winds

Burning with the sin of the desert heat

And You, God-Man has called Love

To make it a shield for the hearts that are cold

To make it the bread of salvation for humanity

 

You wanted to show the power of suffering Love

That Satan’s temptation cannot overcome

For only where pride and egotism rule

And where love is despised

Evil is born like a weed in an infertile field

And kills human life with wars

Evil is free to act when there is no shield of love

 

You wanted to show people, merciful Lord

The value of Love in this world

The Love that is worth giving life for

For it is the only one that gives life …

But when man that has a weak nature

Leans against this love, this holy cross

Together with You, he will win over temptation

                                 In his own desert.

 

 I spent one week in the Holy Land just before the Feast of Divine Mercy. I had in mind my previous pilgrimages to Israel which were full of spiritual experiences and unusual energy that I absorbed from this place. This pilgrimage (described in a poem) became a painful contemplation for me, as if Jesus wanted to show me the “signs” that I hadn’t seen before , being sunken in  joyful pilgrimages. I tried to decipher these signs … merely just for my heart, to deepen the mystery of the Way of the Cross of Jesus which … is still going on. It is still going on because people have more tendency toward the material signs than toward the transformation of their hearts.  

 

Painful pilgrimage

 

It is a gift, Jesus, to fill the heart with the Holy Land

And let the sun of Israel penetrate us

And touch the mystery of this land with our hands

And the places of Your footsteps

Breathing the air which still carries Your words

Feeling like a gifted child …

I experienced these feelings in my previous pilgrimages

I was joyful with the joy of the Apostles from Mount Tabor

 

In my next pilgrimage You stopped me, Lord

On the Jerusalem’s Way of the Cross

As if You wished that I shared my pain with You more than my joy

Without sun, in the stormy wind and touched with a sickness

I carried a strange sadness within me, a complaint of my soul

The prayer got broken in my mouth

As if it wanted to take me away to the desert

Far from the noisy voices of the pilgrims

 

Being pushed by an uneasy crowd in the Basilica of the Tomb and Nativity

Among unknown faces and languages, very tired I reached

The holy places, the Rock of Golgotha and others

I felt like a lost pilgrim, seeking the Guide

The Guide who will show me the source, the very essence of my pilgrimage

I was seeking You, Jesus, Your presence …

During the Holy Mass when the wind was pushing aside the cloth on the Altar

Or when a cold wind penetrated my body on the Galilean sea

 

Being burdened with my own infirmity

I looked for an answer from You, Lord

And I saw a picture of Merciful Jesus on a Jerusalem street

There wasn’t any inscription, Jesus, I trust in You

A strange pain penetrated my heart

As if the diamond of Your Mercy got shattered into pieces

And the feet of the pilgrims ran forth, covering it with dust

They ran to Your footsteps, locked in the stones, not in the hearts

 

You have intended this pilgrimage to be painful for me, Lord

You taught me humility and patient mercy

And the contemplation of divisions of religions and hearts

And when in the Basilica of Nativity, an Orthodox priest

Asked me to move over … to the Catholic side

I saw You, Jesus falling down under the cross

The cross that is undividable and is the only cross of Love

How many centuries do we need to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land

                   So that the Love of Your Cross could join people together? 

 

 

The return to my Angel

 

A dream gave me a gift of a picture

I saw a child walking over green grass

The grass was extremely juicy

It was filled with green, liquid dew

The child was walking alone but not lonely …

A silhouette of an angel was following him

They were talking, united with a twin-like bind

I reached deeply into my memory, turning over the past years

I shoved away the stones of hurting memories

And the dried leaves of worries

And the still smoldering sparks of hope and joy

I was looking for … the memory of the heart

The memory of my childhood with my angel …

He had wings like the arms of a swan made of white down

I heard his warnings, consolations …

 

He was as real as a man, but dressed more beautifully

I thought that I could leave him or abandon

And go ahead and he will be waiting …

And I went through the door of my childhood … into my maturity

The maturity that is the thickest string of the instrument of life

I was tense, resistant to being delicate

Requiring strength and firmness

Listening to its sounds

I didn’t hear the voice of the “twin” from my childhood

But he saw me and heard me

Embracing me with his arms made of swan’s down

He kept enduring where I abandoned him …

In my heart …

And waited patiently until I come back to him

Until I remember about His Love … 

 

 

When little becomes great

 

Like a ripe fruit, filled with juice

Ready to complete the flight

From the protective wings of a tree

A thought came to me, looking for maturity in the heart

With a question: what is my love to God like?

 

It is like a small leaf in the thicket of a huge tree

Listening to the whispers of other leaves

Or a blade of grass on a carpet of a colorful meadow

A bowing blow of wind that trembles before the storm

A little drop that is sunk in a rapid river

And disappearing as if it were a little fly, captured by the waves

A little ray of light, shy among the shadows

Looking for hope full of glare

A flower with small petals of forget-me-not

Filled with the dignified beauty of the field lilies

Such is my love toward You, my God

Little, human, defenseless

Often lost in great spaces

 

But it is You, Lord, who are its Father

You make my love great with Your Love when …

You hug the hurting heart of man like a withered leaf

You save the blade that is drying out of a peculiar longing

You catch a drop from the river and change it into a pearl

And decorate Mary’s dress with a modest flower

You blow up a hardly lit ray to make it burn

And Your hands, Lord, make a leaf a huge tree

Washed in Your Love and a blade -  a fragrant meadow

A drop has the power of an ocean, a silent prayer soars up like a hymn

For Your Love, Lord sees what is little

It hears pain even in human silence

And a falling tear is for You, Lord, like an echo of a volcano

                           Even if it quietly flows down the face.

 

During Adoration in front of The Most Holy Sacrament, I pray with my own words: You are the miracle, Jesus, before Whom I kneel, I - the miserable dust … Then I hear a witty answer to my a little exalted prayer … The miracle shouldn’t be for another miracle. The miracle is just for somebody like you … the miserable dust.

 

Last slice of bread

 

New life opens up like a scroll of Tora

Being unrolled by the hand of God

In every scroll there is a mystery

Still not recognized, in words and signs

The mystery of human fate …

 

God’s gift of life is laid down at the foot of earthly time

And time flows sometimes like a rapid stream

It speeds up the dramatics of life, it teaches

And sometimes it flows slowly

As if it waited when life learns God’s signs

 

Merciful God and His time …

How forgiving He is for the analphabets of life

Will they understand the beauty of the writing of God’s laws?

Or being blinded by free will

Will they choose the earthly, human codes of law?

 

And the scroll of life gets unrolled implacably

The unread signs and warnings, written by a loving hand

Get faded in the hearts of many people

Although they don’t disappear

The singing of God’s words gets silent …

 

And when the scroll is slowly getting closed

Joining the time of birth and the time of death

Those who drew joy from a whim or free will

Look with bitterness at the dark pages

For there aren’t any … signs of Love on them

 

And then as if in the last enchantment

Of God’s Mercy and His Time

They grab the closing scroll with their old hands

And read the fading words, even the faint syllables

And look for God’s Love like for the last slice of bread. 

 

 

I had a dream

 

My dream hasn’t flown away, yet

And my prayer still waited to come to pass

As I sank into a peculiar world

The streets were similar to mine

The people were engulfed in their noisy rhythm

The faces, unknown, young and mature

I am walking along in my dream

With my desire of smile and friendship …

And I hold out my hand to the next passers-by

They say: “I don’t know you, man”

As if they didn’t know any other words

 

My angel interrupts this sad journey

Whispering: you dropped into Purgatory in this dream

Look for the way out

Somewhere in a distance I see a strange intersection

As if a large cross was spread over the asphalt

Its wide arms were empty

Free from people’s footsteps

A lonely intersection of the streets, a lonely cross

Waiting to be discovered

By the passers-by in Purgatory from my dream

Waiting for the words: “I don’t know you, man” to get silent

 

I stand in its very center

Lonely, though the crowd is surging by

Swollen in the narrow streets

A strange world of indifferent faces

“Don’t be afraid” – I hear the voice of my angel

“Call to those who are getting lost

Pray for them, in your painful solitude

You are the one who can still touch the cross

Purgatory is waiting for your calls and prayers

For those who can say … I know and love you, man”. 

 

 

There was the morning

 

After Holy Mass I am wrapping myself up with a robe of prayer

To save the silence of my heart

From the bustle and disharmony of the street sounds

I summon the image of Jesus from the Way of the Cross

And my thoughts are focused on the Jerusalem’s paths …

At one moment as if being dazzled

My world of honking horns and howling ambulances, disappears

Suddenly I am standing in the hot sunshine

Hearing a foreign language around

I see people dressed in loose garments

And suddenly …

A groan of pain of a man being wounded

Is deeply piercing my heart

I see Jesus with a thorny crown on

A man is pressing it hard to His temples

And it is not just a physical groan of pain

Though the blood is falling down on His face

This groan comes from the pain of the world

It is all-embracing me and this Jerusalem street

It doesn’t accuse but it suffers …

It doesn’t pierce like a sword that hurts the body

It flows out with a cascade of a painful feeling

Like an ingenious orchestra

It plays a hymn about a great suffering          

Of God’s Son and humanity

There was such a morning when I came close to Jesus’ pain

And I felt the evil of sin in the groan of His suffering.

 

After the evening prayer, I am thinking about man, about the sense of his life. How important and essential our common life is for Jesus. He died for us. Suddenly in front of my eyes, I saw a silhouette of a man (like an anatomic model). The silhouette split into two halves, like a fruit. In the middle, I saw a crystal, shining with bright light. It seemed to be a human soul, given us by God. The crystal was shining with strange and transparent light. I thought that God really gave us  a beautiful soul which accounts for our connection with God and His “part” in every man. The soul is covered with our earthly body. Here, on earth, we must have our physicality because our surrounding and the world we live in, are physical. But … there is the Divine element in us, this beautiful, shining crystal that doesn’t come from this physical world. Besides this world, we also belong to the spiritual world of God.
It’s good to keep remembering about that and remember that some day this “crystal” will come back … to The Creator. What have we reflected in this crystal? Good or evil? Indifference or trust in God?

The wedding days

 

There are wedding days like a touch of a gentle wind

When the soul experiences joy

And is filled with the presence of the Spouse, Jesus

She is surprised with the gift of this poured-in grace

So sudden that the heart stops beating

And there are no words but just a sigh of gratitude

For the beauty of these wedding moments

 

There are days of an unexpected sadness

Overwhelming the heart with a strange fear of loss

As if we drank water from a poisoned spring of the world

And the more prayers flow out of the mouth

The more severe our pain gets, the more hurting

And we look for the Spouse, Jesus from Galilean Cana

And He stands before Pilate

 

Oh, Jesus, why can’t the wedding days last longer?

Why do joy and sorrow in our life

Look like light and dark threads that weave our life’s fabric?

And I hear the answer: I, the Spouse, always stand beside you

It is you who forget about Me

And lock the Wedding Parlor with a key of deceptive worldly feelings

I, the Spouse provide only the wedding days for your life

                    In return, I desire your faith and love, but not your sadness. 

 

 

Healing

 

The drop of Your blood, Jesus

Flowing down to the Chalice at the Holy Mass

Is able to break a lump of ice of the heart

Carving a corridor inside

With a sign of the Holy Cross

And it penetrates the heart to the bottom

With the fire of Love, unknown in the world

And if you desire the healing

For the man whose heart gets hurt with a lump of ice

Surround him with a beseeching prayer

And take him to the Mass, before the Altar

And sacrifice your white Host in his intention

So that the precious drops of blood of the Lord

Could also flow down on him …

And though you won’t see the miracle of a sudden conversion

But that day or maybe after many years

The eyes of the Lord will remember his face and yours

And the Heavenly clock will determine the time of healing

And the moment will come

When Love, out of the offering of the blood of the Lord

Will burst like a geyser in the ice-chained heart

And the man, hurt with lack of faith

Will kneel down himself before the Altar

And will beseech the Lord:

Pour into me, Lord, the drops of Your Holy Blood.

 

 

Morning, noon and evening

 

We are like billions of scattered out lights

Wandering across the earth, being turned on and off

Within the time unknown for us

We have been given one morning of youth, one noon and one dusk of the evening

Dawn wakes us up to life like a sunrise

With the light from the hand of the Creator, with the gift of the “blessing prayer”

The precious prayer, for it is written only for us …

 

And when the morning of infancy changes into the maturity of noon

We feel strong, in full bloom of strength and beauty

But we look for timely and temporary joys

And the noon of life is rolling on, either with a prayer of the Creator in the hand

Like a lamp of grace that protects in the darkness

Or we light up common candles around us

But they go out so fast …

 

The spark of life has also her evening twilight

When lit up, she goes out in the chill of the evening

And she has time to think about her dawn and noon that passed away

Then she reads the hidden-in-the-heart prayer of the Creator more carefully

She already knows that time will not blow up the flash of her spark of life

And is astonished that this prayer has so much beauty, so much love

And the words of God are heard more clearly than the clatter of voices

 

And the life wants to shout at those who persevere in the “noon of life”

That they shouldn’t lose the prayer, written for them

For the vocation, if accepted, will become their wedding feast

And evil that tries to threaten with a black shadow, gets scared of the light

And the spark of life, so precious, but goes out so fast on earth

But the man who does good around him with a great passion

Creates a prayer … out of his life.

 

One night in June I woke up after a very strange dream. This dream seemed so real that I wasn’t sure myself whether my soul received some “message” or not. In June I participated in a highly spiritual pilgrimage in Lithuania, along the footsteps of St. Faustina. We also visited the church in Vilnius where the image of Merciful Jesus is exposed. A few days after the pilgrimage, in my dream, I was kneeling before the image of Merciful Jesus and the church was empty. I had an impression that I was lost in prayer and my companions already left. The image of Merciful Jesus was getting bigger and bigger and it seemed to fill up the interior of the church. It was so close that I recognized the painting texture. The image was getting closer and I bowed my head lower and lower. I only saw Jesus’ feet. I felt happy seeing His bare feet. They were so close and so alive. I was aware of the shapes and colors in this church, I even felt the smell. The dream was mixed up with reality. And suddenly I heard a beautiful voice, a little severe: I didn’t come to this world to put up new crosses but I came to fill the crosses that you put up – with Love and Mercy.

 

How much?

 

How much pleasure should we give life

So that it didn’t change into boredom and not a creative joy?

And man didn’t become a butterfly

Which is like Icarus, so greedy for sun that he got burned …

 

How many wounds and sufferings must we experience

So that we didn’t choke from tears?

And try to endure the hurricane of sorrows

And firmly seek the green border of hope

 

How much love should we embrace and how much to lose

So that we recognized the one that enlivens, is bountiful, disinterested?

Like a baker offering the hungry

Warm, fresh bread

 

How many swords should we whittle out of a tree of bravery

So that we had them enough to kill the thorns of hate in us?

The thorns that grow when seeing harm and misfortune

Of egotism, wars and evil

 

What words to know, how many languages to learn

So that we could talk cordially with people?

And not stir up anger or severe silence

With the commends spoken with hostility

 

Out of which treasury should we choose the crystals of wisdom?

Out of the treasury of the heart, so that they multiplied like the fruits in the tree?

Or seek the treasury of wisdom and knowledge

Where the crystals of wisdom often change into the golden coins?

 

Where to look for a pure spring of water or a small stream

Where I will find the answer to my anxious heart?

Or maybe I should stand by a great ocean of knowledge

In its depth, many generations lost the question about the essence of life

 

I am standing by a spring, the pure source of the Eucharist

I recognize the delicate blow of the Holy Spirit

His silent voice touches with the awesome words:

If you know how to love, if others love you …

                               Then you know the answer.

 

 

The encounter on earth

 

There was time when I was looking for You, Jesus

High above the land of my feet

Giving the power of imagination to my eyes

I was sliding aside the clouds with my sight

The sky was like a blue veil

Painted with colors during the day and with stars at night

I was looking for the door to Heaven behind this veil

I was looking for Your chamber, Jesus

 

There was the time of my youth, the time of looking for God in the clouds

Outside the earth where the white and the black angels fight

As if I wanted You, Jesus, to be protected with off-pain Paradise

Surrounded by the saints and engulfed in the essence of beauty

One day I didn’t raise my head toward Heaven

Maybe I lost the childlike naiveté?

Maybe maturity of my experiences stuck me to the ground

And ordered me to fight with the angels of darkness?

 

When life shuts the gates of illusive imagination

And forces us to touch it with courage and hope

The knees bend humbly and in front of our eyes

We see the merciful eyes of Jesus – the grace of meeting Him on earth

Jesus is wrapped in the earthly robe of human pain, hope and tears

He has the beseeching eyes of our fellow men …

People who are blind and outside their hearts, are looking for You, far in the clouds

Does the gaze into Your eyes fill them with fear, Jesus

                                                                Here on earth? 

 

 

Diamond

 

I discovered within myself a desert-like space

Born out of ripe fruits of my life

It appeared in me all of a sudden

Like unexpected gifts or holy moments

To understand oneself, to understand Divine Love

This space emerged when the “sea waves”

The waves of this world – flowed away …

Leaving me in the desert space:

Of my thoughts, prayer and silent music

On the map of my life, still wet after the low tide of the waves

 

The journey across this desert where only God’s wind blows

Is like a pilgrimage, like a fight for truth, for conscience

And there is no escape from the high tide of the waves of the world

I saw the mountains that I didn’t want to conquer

And they should be conquered to see the light of the morning of hope

Glittering in the chapels behind the mountains

I saw the crosses made from the desert sand

Along the common, daily paths

Like question marks, waiting for answers

Shall I kneel down before them or pass by them?

 

There were small grottos in my desert

For my thoughts to rest, to call my longing

For the love that is absolute and merciful

I listened to the songs, probably the angels playing the harps

Sometimes they played only a few strings of sorrow

Like a requiem for the conscience, touched with sin

I hasten to get to know my desert

To know the signs of God, carved there and … my own ones

I hasten to know it until the high tide of the waves of this world

Doesn’t flow over it, and I hide its image in my heart like a diamond

                   Like a treasure that was granted in this one, holy moment.

 

After the Holy Mass, the priest takes The Most Holy Sacrament to the side chapel. When people knelt for Adoration, I said to Jesus, ‘there are so many people who adore You.’ Then I heard a severe voice in my heart, ‘but how many people offend Me at the same time. There are more of these than those who praise Me.

 

Hunger for love

 

There are such moments in life

When the breath of the Holy Spirit

Puts aside the wing of the heavenly window and shows the world of Love

It allows to feel enchantment, dazzling, meditation

That the joyful hope is being born

 

I adore Jesus, still feeling the taste of the Host

The taste of wonderful freshness of bread

I write my prayer into the silence of the church and stop my scattered thoughts

I give Jesus my heart which is better to understand love than my mind …

It comes back to me with the words: you will not feel hungry when fed with My Body

 

I get sunk in these words like in the waters of the Jordan

I settle accounts of my desires that are still stuck in me

I gather the fragments of the “hunger” of this world that still lure me

I feel that I can cast them out though they glitter and promise …

This hunger for You, Jesus, is vigilant in me, night and day

 

I see a meadow that is like an ocean of waving flowers

Or can it be a symbol of our rushing world?

This awesome silence is going on, it teaches, it speaks …

Your hearts are broken and God’s Mercy is flowing through them

How much Mercy must I pour out so that man wanted to renounce sin?

 

I am hungry for this silence that speaks the language of love

The silence that sings the beautiful hymn of Saint Paul:

Pure love doesn’t want any profit … it is an offering

And I think that in man there is a great hunger for You, Lord

And in You, Lord, there is also a hungry love to people

                              May Your Mercy join my hunger and Yours, Jesus.

 

 

The new day

 

Every morning I pierce with my hand

The wall, invisible for my eyes

The wall that separates the consecutive days of life

Sometimes with fear, reluctance, sometimes with hope

I fold my hands in the praying gesture

And beg Heaven for a holy patron of this day

To help me …

 

And I, clinging to his garment

Will enter into this day safely

And will skip the ways that lure with a pretext of beauty

I will not allow to be cheated with words and pictures

Which make us hungry for sin

And make man a beggar

That is thirsty for the goods of this world

 

I also beseech my own Angel for protection

When I see darkness at the border of night and day

And the thoughts like dark ravens croak in a strange language

I beseech Jesus and His eyes and hands for the light for me

So that I didn’t yield to terror

And didn’t become a blind person

Escaping from His suffering … and mine

 

I am praying before the Altar: it’s not easy, Jesus

To open the eyes in the morning and not to be deaf

To the questions that the day carries on

And go, staring at the horizon of God’s Love

And seek the places in yourself where Heaven touches the Earth

And offer your fellow men the sea of Genezaret, full of the gift of fish

And kneel on Tabor and not to be afraid of the stormy sea

 

When I pierce through an invisible wall

To see the secret … of the next day

I am on a pilgrimage through my life, carrying Time with me

The Time, given to me by God, known only by Him

Not even one morning more, one night less

How many of His words will I hear during this time?

How many prayers of love will I transfer to God?  

 

 

Prayer of joyful longing

 

I have a desire

To pray to You, Lord

With the words that get imprinted in my heart

With a hot seal

And are not like birds, freed from a cage

Flying out to the space of freedom

So that they wouldn’t return to the cage of the heart

And get dissolved in oblivion …

 

I desire the words of prayer, fruit- bearing

Even if the gardener of suffering planted them

I beseech for a prayer, full of longing

When the very sounds of words play music in the heart

The music of angelic violinists, inspired by love

The music of Christmas joy of a child

And also the notes of a sad requiem, like a cry to Heaven

And a dying weep of Jesus, on His Calvary way

 

I open my heart for such a prayer

Not for the words, like lilies that are fragrant just a while

And then they become dead, lifeless

But for the prayer when the heart kneels, awakened

From the stress of daily life and wants … to sing

And cry, and be silent and wait … for the voice of the Lord 

For the voice … of the Father, the Living God

Whom the heart of the loving child desires so much.

 

Before the Holy Mass, during a prayer, I saw a strange, ploughed-over field, and I felt the smell of soil. There was fog all around. I wanted to find a way out of this field but there was fog hanging everywhere. I started to pray and suddenly, in front of me, I saw a deep ditch which was difficult to cross. On the other side of this ditch, I saw a silhouette of Jesus dressed in white robes, and some people were with Him. I wanted to be with them. But how can I get there? Then I heard in my heart: “build a bridge out of your prayer and if your prayer is sincere, trustworthy – then you will cross this ditch without fear” …

I understood then how precious our prayer of trust is. A prayer-bridge which is built with poor spans does not give us enough courage to cross this “ditch”. We must try to form such a prayer, with which we are ready to cross this “precipice” that separates us from Jesus. It is a difficult prayer, the prayer of complete trust in Him, when we do not yield to our fears and uncertainties. Jesus said: “I Desire” … Just one word.  May this word “I desire” of our prayer give us His Power …

 

The gift of beautiful prayer

 

I am sinking in the Adoration of the Lord

Before the miracle of the Most Holy Sacrament

I hear the words in my heart, the beginning of the song

From an unknown song-book

Whose song is this? As if it were lost by an angel

Its words are so beautiful:

“I want to be the prayer for You, Lord”

 

I see people with paper slips in their hands

On each slip, there are the words of a mysterious prayer

They aren’t repeated

They are taken out of the rich Dictionary of God’s Love

That He gives the human children when conceived

The words of grace from the Loving Father

The Father who is waiting for His words to be deciphered

 

I see the prayers, hidden in the heart, tenderly cared for

I see others, put off for years, like an incomprehensible text

There are also the ones that are cramped, rugged, cast away, lost

The Holy Mother watches over the lost prayers

She dews the obliterated words with hot tears

Maybe they will bloom from Her tears? Or will sing songs?

And “the child of prayer” will kneel down, looking for the loss?

 

“I want to be the prayer for You, Lord”

And I want to read Your words of love for me

And protect them like a mysterious parchment in my heart

For there is … Our Encounter written down there

Give me, Father, the light for the words of my prayer, still not deciphered

When I can’t understand the words, send me the Holy Mother as a teacher

For “I want to be the prayer for You, Lord”.

 

 

Joy and suffering

 

The candles went out, the organ got silent

Tranquility penetrated the temple

Composing its own concert of adoration

Out of songs and prayers of the faithful

Bowing down in adoration, I was looking for the words

Daily and simple, for the conversation with Jesus

I moved into the world of feelings in my heart

Sliding off the curtain of reality of things and sounds

I saw a crowd of people dancing in a religious ecstasy

But I didn’t feel their joy

A thorn of suffering was hurting my heart

As if a stranger’s pain wanted to cry in me

Joy and suffering, suffering and joy …

Two arms of a human soul – I thought

 

In my image of experiences, I saw a man

He was crying silently in a dark corner of the temple

Lonely, far from the joyful crowd

I saw Jesus near him

Bent down, He was listening, consoling

Although it wasn’t a picture of a joyful, noisy crowd

My heart was filled with enormous joy

This joy was singing within me, bringing hope

It shook off my pain and torment

It was my fascination over the Truth that I experienced

Jesus, You are where crowds adore You

You listen to a loud singing of adoration

But You are also at the same time

Where a lonely man is crying …

 

 

When love matures

 

Human love to You, Jesus

Wants to be mature, beautiful

But often is …

Like a clumsy bird

That fell out of the nest, in a tall tree

Its wings are weak, they won’t rise high

Above the earthly tastes, smells, feelings

Above the dried leaves …

Life is moving beside the clumsy bird

It carries love, indifference, hatred

Someone will pick up the little greenhorn

And will hold it in his hand with compassion …

But time is short

He will not wait for the self-reliant flight of the bird …

Someone will look with hatred

And will try to kill this hardly born life

With a bad word or gesture

And the weak, clumsy love

Is waiting for a Samaritan with good hands and eyes

Is waiting for a man with a cross

For You, Jesus

So that You could pick up this weak, clumsy love

And wait …

Wait until its wings get stronger

So that it could fly up, beautiful and mature

Soaring high toward Heaven

Toward the natal nest

In the tall tree of Divine Love.

 

During the Holy Mass I thought about a little “spark” that is inoculated in every man at the Holy Baptism. It may become a flame … or may slowly go out. The spark “asks” for the Sacraments, for the words of God. When we use them to stir us up, we receive the power of the Divine Spirit, strength and courage. The spark of the man who is indifferent to God, to the Sacraments, to His words, hardly burns because the man who runs after earthly pleasures, is nourished with non-life-giving medicine without spiritual value and is often being poisoned with a bad word or picture and he gets weaker when surrounded with icy chill of his own egotism.

 

Holiness

 

She walks, dressed in a frock, in a civil garment

Sometimes she wears a working apron for a job

Quite often she lies bed-ridden

She has no age but the heart is burning with love

For God and people

 

Holiness doesn’t look at the world with human eyes

She reaches at the Altar, for the light of the Eucharist

She touches Jesus’ robes with prayer

With trust that His power cures ill thoughts and weakness

And indifference that kills love of man toward man

 

Holiness is a longing for goodness and beauty of Heaven

For clinging to God

This longing painfully penetrates holiness so much

That she isn’t afraid of being cast away by the world

Now she moves along the way of suffering with a cross on its back

 

Shifting the beads of the Rosary of its life

Holiness gets to know the Love of Jesus with her body and soul

She experiences Love of the Heart of Jesus, weeping with bloody tears

She gets to know Love that wanders hand in hand with Suffering

Holiness receives a gift … the gift of a touch of the essence of Love

 

By touching, she bestows the life companions with this love

She nurses them with her own hands, heart and words

She carries the cast-away, the suffering as if they were Jesus Himself

God also sees the time when holiness suffers and cries

And begs on her knees for courage

           Then God sends down the Son who is like Simeon for holiness. 

 

 

Bread of love

 

God sends His Love down to earth

In the huge bread, smelling with herbs

The angels crush these God’s loaves with their wings

That they fall down with tiny crumbs

Similar to the Heavenly manna

Those who see love around them

Catch the falling manna in their hands

And share this holy food with their fellow men

Giving out generously, through the pearls of prayer

The distrustful, whom the world has begrudged love

Store the God’s food in the granary of the heart

As the reserve … for later times

Those who got blinded by the tinsels of the world

Are stamping over the Heavenly manna

And the Merciful God is weariless

Sending the Bread of Love down to earth

Sometimes its crumbs fall like snow-flakes in the winter

In the summer they ring against the window with rain-drops

In the spring they enchant with the flower buds

In the autumn they hide in the carpets of the leaves

Huge loaves of bread of Love grow ripe in Heaven

Blessed with the Hand of God over the Fire of Love

The imploring breath of the saints sustains the flames

Jesus marks them with the cross of salvation

Just like the village mothers would do it in the past

And the Divine nourishment is flowing down to earth

And the human children will not experience this hunger for love.

 

 

When the grain of prayer gets ripe

 

I gather the prayers like grains

And make a colorful bouquet out of them

Some grains are green, hardly germs yet

Like inattentive prayers, a little impatient

Which reflect the learned-by-heart words

And are not ready for love, yet

And still wait for the enlivening juice of trustful faith

 

There are prayers like ripening grains

Surprised by the birth and growth

Happy about the dew of God’s grace

Fructifying with the beauty of prayer

They still look for the fire that warms up the prayer

Sometimes they lose the grains

When they mistake the fire of love for the fire of the world

 

I have in my bouquet the quiet prayers

Flowing rapidly like a river current

Sometimes so calm that they make love fall asleep

When a stone of tragedy strikes a quiet river of life

The prayer is crashed out like a crystal glass

Man becomes despair that engulfs the cross with tears

Should he carry this cross with words or trustful heart?

 

I saw the prayers that were scattered

Like the beads from a broken Rosary

Sometimes they were cast out so long that the words were gone

I saw those people on the knees, doing penance

They looked for the lost prayers to have a new Rosary of life

They formed the words out of the painful, cheated heart

By prayers … to the gods of this world

 

How much must a just born grain of prayer experience?

How many life-giving sunrays, raindrops?

How many blizzards, disasters, disappointments?

So that he could create his own prayer of the heart, of love

As ripe as a golden wheat grain

Ready to become the bread …

The bread like intercession prayer to You, Lord, for our fellow men.

 

 

Advent, Rorate masses prompted me to have many considerations. I am in a nostalgic mood more involved than in this artificial happiness, “stirred up” by mass media. I come to church about 20 minutes before the Mass (25^th of Dec.). I am saying the Rosary and looking at the Holy Family in the manger. I feel embraced with a strange sadness, tears begin to flow out of my eyes, my heart is engulfed in pain. Jesus, why? This day should be a joyous one! Then I see the scales in my heart, with two large scales. It looks like a very old one. On one scale, there are many tiny figures of children. On the other scale, there is an inscription: Mercy. Then I hear in my heart: I can’t make it .. to collect the children that you kill in abortion and in war! Suddenly I see those infants in little cradles, all lying on one scale and blood is flowing down and I hear: look, the scale of your sins is going down and the scale of Mercy doesn’t balance it … But You, Jesus are still born anew, I say, and despite our sins, You are with us. I see in my heart a cradle with little Jesus in the middle of the scales. This cradle balances the two scales. Little Jesus tries to “beseech” His Father through His birth:  oh, Father, give more time … for Justice. I have an impression that through His childlike defenselessness, He delays the days of punishment. In this newly born Infant, there is also “the pain of the offering”. In this Infant in the middle of the scales I just see the joy for the people because of the birth of the Lord. It is not the joy of the glare of Christmas (food, presents,, carols), but the painful joy of hope … that despite the sins of the world, God is still born again, God who delays punishment, who forgives the sinners.

 

Resurrection

During the Easter Octave, in the time of joy

I had a painful experience

During Adoration I got embraced by pain

The pain was more spiritual than physical

It strongly hurt, took away my breath, pressed out tears

It penetrated me, wishing to be accepted

So that it didn’t get lost in oblivion

This pain “gave birth” to images and was a director of a mute film

The mute film and the mute images …

Painful during the time of joy?

I saw Jesus walking among the ruins of the city

The burnt stumps of the walls made a tragic scenery

Jesus bowed down and picked up … dead children

He kissed and hugged each one

His robes were covered with their blood, dust and dirt of the burnt city

I also saw Jesus in a rich city

He was walking down a well-lit street

He knocked at the doors of the clubs filled with music

People looked at Him and His dirty clothes with contempt

And He walked away …

For a moment our eyes met together

Then I heard: just look what I resurrected to …

I embraced this spiritual pain and the words of Jesus tightly

He didn’t accuse but showed to my heart

That I and you and others have a long way yet

The long way for the Resurrection of the heart, mind, ears, eyes and body

For the Resurrection … for the love of your neighbor

For the Resurrection … for peace

Just look what I resurrected to – says Jesus

I think, Jesus, that Your Resurrection, despite our downfalls

Is still the merciful Hope for mankind.

Strength … and POWER

 

Does your heart feel the fear?

When it sees the forces of this world

Over the authorities, pride, egotism, unworthy law

When it sees strong, mighty men

Humiliating the weak

Doesn’t it shrink out of pain?

Until it becomes a particle of sand

And a defenseless heart

Engulfed in fear, seeking escape

From violence

From the shattering fist of this world

Straining the muscles to fight for the prime of evil

                     Whom does your heart call to, then?

                     Does it call for the forces that bring revenge?

                     Does it want to win the war by the war?

 

The forces of this world threaten with weapon

With a cunning, wretched and hateful face

But there is a stronger POWER over them

The invisible POWER with no weapon, no fist

The POWER of Love and Justice, invincible

The POWER, always victorious, the POWER of God over the world

You get to know It when you wipe the tears off the harmed

When you share the bread and love

When you kneel before the Tabernacle, in despair

When courage is born in your heart

To defend the weak and innocent

There is the POWER over the forces of this world, invincible   

                    The POWER of God        

                    The POWER of the Cross of Christ

                    The POWER of the blood of the martyrs

                    And the POWER of prayer of all the saints.

 

 

You Are Love, oh Lord …

 

You Are Love, oh Lord

When You touch people, blinded with light

Reflected from the delight of the world

The people that are dipped in this artificial light

And are having illusion of taking a bath in the ocean of freedom

Being blinded, they swim unprotected, to the middle of the ocean

And scared, in pain, they call for help

Having discovered the deception of the value of the artificial light

And suddenly they see a boat with an angel … the gift of Your Fatherly Love

 

You Are Love, oh Lord

When You become a delicate, little fire

Leading through a forest of human fears

You light like a ray with Your eternal light

And You leave a trace on the face, overflowed with tears

Which is a red, little light, of Your Son’s drop of blood

You wait patiently when we follow this light

Bravely dispersing the darkness of the night

So that we could discover … the longing for the truth of Your Love

 

You Are Love, oh Lord

When the indifferent crowd jostles us painfully

And they don’t see our held-out arms, asking for help

They are running in a maddening, ritual dance

Knocking off the crosses and statues of the saints on their way

While rushing to the luring mammon

And we, in this bustle, sink in despair …

But when we raise our eyes high over despair

Then we will see the hand of God when He lovingly gives us His Son in the Host

 

You Are Love, oh Lord

When You sow hope where despair blooms like weeds

You pour in longing so that it was leading the heart toward the light of faith

You raise up the old crosses, collapsed by history, thus sanctifying human crosses

You hold out Your hand though You know that the blind eyes won’t see It

You stand like the gate that defends the access to evil

And Your Love doesn’t avoid the darkness of human weaknesses

It is the hurricane that transforms the soul …

For those who have discerned it.

1-st of May. Feast of St. Joseph the Craftsman. This day I particularly want to honor St. Joseph and I also ask Him for graces flowing out of the Eucharist. I ask Him to be able to cling to the Eucharistic Jesus so much that while receiving Him into my soul I could experience a great feast … I saw in my heart an oval figure with the rays that were similar to the rays surrounding the Holy Mother of Guadelupe. Then I heard: this is your soul that Jesus is coming to. Inside this figure, filled with whiteness, in its very center there were protruding very hard, sharp, black thorns. They were of different size and length. These were our sins, old and new ones, negligence, unfriendly thoughts, even tiny maliciousness. The biggest sharp thorn was with the people who thought they were sinless … Every bad thought, every sin grows like a thorn in the soul. Standing before the Eucharistic Jesus, we receive the Communion … I, you and Jesus … In order to reach our heart, Jesus hurts Himself with the thorns of the soul that is contaminated with sin. Sometimes He reaches us … but bleeds in pain. Jesus, I thought, how priceless and essential is the beseeching prayer before receiving You in the Communion. How important and valuable is frequent confession so that we could discern even tiny thorns, so that we didn’t get used to a conviction that we are sinless. And while receiving Jesus into our heart we should be aware of His painful penetration through us. We shouldn’t receive Jesus during the Communion thoughtlessly but we must always beseech Him for forgiveness for the thorns through which He reaches our hearts.

Oh, Holy Mother of Gidle

You Are little

So little that a human hand can embrace You

And though You Are stony, You don’t weigh like a stone

You Are more like a kiss, delicate and blowy

When an earthly mother kisses her child’s hand

You Were carved in large stones

And Your images were painted on the canvas

You Are not a monument in the Gidle’s little statue

You are like a key in the hand of man

Given to people so that they could open the heart of Jesus with prayer

Five hundred years ago when the ground was being ploughed

The statue of Mary miraculously “flowed” into a farmer’s hands

The light got brightened up, even the oxen knelt down

The washed-over statue began to do miracles

It’s been famous for graces until now, converting souls, healing bodies

Once You asked Your Son, Mary, in Galilean Cana

To turn water into wine at the newlywed’s wedding

Today, Your sons, the Dominicans

Dip in wine Your holy little statue

And the drops of this wine bring hope to the thirsty

                   So that they could become the newlywed of contemporary Cana

                   The Cana of Love, Hope and Faith.

The depth of faith

During the adoration of the Most Holy Sacrament

When I nourished my soul with silence

That is free from thoughts and words, buzzing with worries

I saw a picture as if borrowed from the Heavenly Gallery

The picture of human figures boldly entering

Into the waters of the ocean

They were dressed in long robes lifted up by the waves

And keeping them up on the surface for a while

Dusk has embraced the ocean with its arms

And it would overpower this picture completely … if

There weren’t a lively, sparkling light that accompanied those people

The light whose source I didn’t see

I thought … the saints?

Yes, the saints who are not afraid of the depth of the ocean

The saints, the blessed who don’t feel any fear

They know the source of the Light – the Holy Spirit

That endures with them, accompanies them

Turning the depth of the ocean … into the depth of faith

Will they drown? – I asked with awe in my heart

They will … but they will not withdraw and look for a safe beach

They will sink in the dark night of the soul, they will cry …

They will seek the cross-ship in the whirlpool of the ocean of faith

It will lift them to the surface of trust

The saints and blessed, the servants of God, who are so in love with God

                  That the depth of the ocean of faith will not scare them.

During the Holy Mass (Solemnity of Trinity), a beautiful vision appeared in front of my eyes (or rather in front of “the eyes of my soul”). During the Eucharistic Prayer, when the priest raises the Holy Host and the Chalice, I saw a white Dove over the priest’s head. While the Host and the Chalice were being raised, the Dove moved down and embraced the silhouette of the priest so that his hands became Her wings. The priest looked as if he “sank” in Her hug. He was completely wrapped up in Her. I felt an enormous warmth of Love in this act, too difficult to describe with words. It was penetrating and bringing joy. It reminded of the miracle that occurs on the Altar at every Mass.

The Feast

Do you know that there is such a Feast

That is rich, abundant and has unknown flavors

Strewing with gifts

The Feast like for the royal children

Love fills the golden chalices there

And enlivening wine and fragrant bread are poured out

The tables are decorated with the whiteness of a tablecloth

That are embroidered with beautiful patterns

As if the angels themselves invented these embroideries

The Feast where you hear a laughter of your soul

But also a groan of pain

Joy and crying

This Feast is … Holy Mass

When you receive the Communion from the hands of the priest

It is like a gate, opening your closed heart

Like a delicate dove, wise and tender

And it looks for unhealed wounds in you

That we and life have afflicted

The Communion cures these wounds, lights up the darkness of the soul

It sprinkles them abundantly from the chalice of wine of love

It covers up old scars that are often forgotten

So that the painful memories didn’t come back

It is not a Feast where only one song sounds

This is the Feast of Great Silence, of such calm

That you can hear the song that is sung only for you

The song of your love for God, that is being born in you.

The icon written by life

I was gazing upon You, Jesus

On pictures and sculptures

I was whispering prayers and was often silent

I wanted to enliven Your every image

And believed like a naïve child

That someday You would move …

There was such a day, the Feast of Sister Faustina

When I was engulfed in an adoring silence

And I heard a friendly voice:

Paint the Lord with your life

Carve His face with a chisel

Dipped in the treasury of His words

And remember that the beauty of Jesus’ picture is not in the artist’s talent

But in the power of love and trust of the creator

So I make an icon out of a desire of a longing heart

On the fabric, woven out of the sparks of inspiration

I feed a sleepless night with a rosary prayer

And meditate over the Lord’s Passion and put His pain into my icon

I ask Veronica for a holy veil, maybe She will lend me?

I paint Jesus’ garments with the colors of beauty of the seasons

And wipe His degraded face with my penance and contrition

For my icon I seek Truth and Love in the Eucharist

In my prayer I ask my Guardian Angel for advice

He whispers shortly: paint your life with a brush of Holiness

I want so much to write Your icon, Jesus

For my heart that thirsts to enliven You

So that I could hear You while looking at Your mouth

And while looking at Your eyes I could discern Your will

                      And through Your smile, tears and pain

                      I could discern Your blessings and requests.

Teacher of Love

You are a Teacher of Love, Jesus

A Professor in the academy without rooms, pens and books

Your Cathedral is a wooden cross

Your pen is the nails that Your hands were pierced with

The ink is Your blood gushing from Your wounds and the side

You are a wandering Preacher, seeking pupils

You are a frequent Pilgrim in hostile places

You are not afraid of bitter words and roads covered with sins

You go with courage where others escaped

You are a Missionary of the Way of the Cross of Love

Quietly You stand by the sick, the lonely, the rejected

They feel tenderness, though they don’t see the person

Their hearts feel a strange power and hope

When the Teacher poured the drops of His Love into them

Making their tear-flooded hearts like rainbow-shinning crystals

You don’t distribute diplomas about Love, Jesus

A man that is touched with a grace of Your Love

Wants himself to become a teacher of love for his fellow men

And courageously wanders to the places and hearts where others escaped

He wants to be a faithful missionary and a trustful helper of the Lord

                   Teaching the Truth about the Cross of Love.

Before my daily Mass, I have 15 minutes for my adoration of Jesus and a decade of the Rosary. I love this time of my morning “encounter”. Suddenly, in my heart somebody asks me a question: do you know why the Rosary is so important and why the Holy Mother in Her every apparition in the world says … pray the Rosary. I start to think it over … and help comes … I see an image of the Holy Mother who is following Jesus in His Way of the Cross. I see Her bending down … and picking up His blood into a white cloth, She doesn’t leave any drop. The cloth is still white … though there is the blood of the Lord inside. Then I hear in my heart: these are the drops of blood from which the pearls of the Rosary were formed. The Holy Mother threaded them on the string of Her love and gave them to people. This image was a great experience for me. I have been praying the Rosary for years, more or less “cordially” but now when I touch the beads of the Rosary, I “feel” that the Rosary is alive, living with the blood of Christ, and every “Hail Mary” nourishes the praying person with power. That’s why we hear this call of Mary … pray the Rosary!

Spliced Rosaries

I surround myself with the Joyful Mystery of Rosary

Like with a wreath of roses

Hail Mary becomes a conversation

Of a child with Mother

Gentle words of Mother lead to meditation

I lay my requests on the Rosary of Her life

These two Rosaries of life of Mother and a child

Get spliced in the loving prayer

There is Annunciation on the Rosary of life of Mary

And Her trustful, beautiful fiat

There are ten beads, colorful and gray on my Rosary

They are the signs of time of hesitations, departures, returns

There are also colorless beads, indifferent

How many years passed, how many people touched my heart

So that I could feel the bead of love under my fingers

So hot from the glance of Mother, calling for my fiat

The Rosary of Mary’s life is flowing on in the Mystery of Visitation

The enlivening stream of the Holy Spirit leads Her

To Elisabeth and Zacharias

The Rosaries of life of Mary and Elisabeth get spliced

Jesus and John become a great gift of God for the world

How many signs of God’s presence are there on my Rosary of life?

How many love-burning beads for God?

How many encounters with fellow men in the prayer of gratitude?

The Mystery of Nativity, a poor grotto, no decorations

Only the intense stare of Mary, Joseph, angels, shepherds

The stare over the silent miracle

The miracle that only a loving heart can recognize

But not the eyes that like the glare and blinding light

And not the ears that wait for a clatter and fanfares

I touched the Rosary of my life with this silent miracle, this Mary’s lullaby

So that it would become a prayer of the heart

The Mystery of Offering, the mystery of the eyes of Ann and Simeon

They are the only who see Jesus – God in the hands of a poor family

The eyes of others in the temple don’t recognize the miracle

The miracle that appeared in their life

Simeon proclaims suffering to Mary

I am holding my Rosary of life and there I seek

The beads that I offered in suffering and pain

I seek the beads of offering my life to God

The Mystery of Losing and Finding Jesus

Mary and Joseph are looking for the Son but He is teaching in the temple

I touch the Rosary of my life and meditate over this mystery

Am I overestimating my faith?

Am I overestimating my love for Jesus?

Don’t I get lost in too many prayers?

Then I hear Jesus whispering … come back to Me, my child

And find Me in the temple of your heart, I am waiting there for you.

The Sorrowful Rosary

The Olive Garden. A strange garden, spurting with enlivening greenery in the day

At night, the garden is filled with Jesus” suffering

And His beseeching words: keep vigil with Me …

The Apostles’ dream is so deep that the words of the Lord get sunk in it

Judas is about to appear … he isn’t asleep

How many times have I sunk Your words, Jesus, in my indifference?

How often have I been afraid to stand beside You, who suffered?

Scourging. The whips grooved bleeding wounds on Your body, Jesus

Our sins are in Your wounds like wasps in a nest

And they touch Your body

You are like a honey-comb absorbing the evil of the world

Your suffering body is saving people

How many stings of sin have I pierced into Your wound, Lord

When I consciously closed my eyes when You suffered?

Crowning with thorns. The hangmen think: we injured the body

But He isn’t pleading, He is praying …

We will drive thorns into His head, maybe He will stop praying …

Maybe the power of prayer will disappear?

And He will ask for mercy?

Forgive me, Jesus, for my thorns of doubt about You

Sorry about my abandoned prayers

The cross on Jesus’ arms. Your world, Jesus, punished You with the cross of shame

It punished You physically with abasement and pain

And You, Jesus, dressed the cross with the robe of victorious Love

This robe of Love, invisible for the hangmen

Was woven out of obedience to the will of the Father, the deeds like white lilies

Which covered the cross of shame and defeated the cruelty of sin

Who wants to follow Me, You said … should take his cross …

Death of Jesus on the cross. The cross with Jesus was driven into Golgotha

The earth trembled, pierced with the cross

Pierced with … Divine Love … injured with the pain of this Love

A soldier is piercing Jesus’ side and His heart

As if he wanted to kill this Love, deprive It of life

But now the spring of graces is flowing out of this wound

And it fills the vessels of life of many generations with living water …

                      For the salvation of sinners.

The Glorious Mysteries

The Resurrection. The morning awakens sounds, light, fragrances

It awakens chastity that radiates with … hope

The hope for a beautiful song, a hymn of victory of good

The stone of the tomb is removed, Magdalene does not recognize the Lord

Her eyes, like ours, don’t recognize the miracle of Resurrection at once

This wonderful gift of God, the gift of the holy morning

That gives birth to the souls for eternity

The Ascention. I am going to prepare home for you, says the Lord

The heads of the Apostles are lifted toward Heaven, the hearts are uneasy, fear of loneliness

The world of unbelievers in the Resurrection still exists

Those who don’t believe in the Saviour

They look for earthly gods as if they were afraid of eternity

Let’s pray for those who make their body a god

And don’t ask Jesus for a home for their soul

The Descent of the Holy Spirit. I will not leave you orphans, I will send The Holy Consoler

It is said by The One who was nailed to the cross by people

So speaks Love that does not get angry

And does not remember bad things, does not seek what is His …

The Love that never leaves you

But this Love also begs at the altars of the world:

Don’t leave Me, let Me not become an orphan!

The Assumption. The angels opened the windows of Heaven, St. Peter is kneeling at the gate

Mary, with soul and body is lifted up to Heaven

We don’t know how joyful it was

Sometimes the echo of this joy sounds like a song in our ears

When we, on our knees worship the Mother of Beautiful Love

When we kiss Her statues, pictures and send our prayers

When we beseech and ask … and She, The Mother makes miracles in our life

Mary, The Queen of Heaven and Earth. Adored by the angels, The Immaculate

But Your sight, Mary, is still turned to Earth

You have apparitions, You plead, You warn

You even cry, like an earthly mother, when hurt with pain

Of lack of gratitude and sinfulness of Your children

Out of Your tears and drops of blood of Jesus, You make the holy gift – The Rosary

You bind Heaven and Earth and Your heart with the hearts of earthly children with it

                      So that our hearts and Yours, Mary

                      Got together in the joy of Heaven.

At the Mass, there was a reading from the Book of Isaiah: But those who trusted the Lord, regain strength and get the wings like eagles and run without fatigue and go without weariness. When these words were over, I saw a man (a symbol of saints) with huge wings, spreading in the flight. He was soaring toward Heaven. But he wasn’t by himself. There were many people hooked to his wings. The holy man – the eagle lifted them up to God. Thank be to God for these saints – eagles, who by their prayer and holiness lead us to Heaven. A few days later when priests come out to distribute communion, I want to come up to a bishop (our parish’s guest). Maybe it’s a little immature and then I receive a teaching. Maybe it’s my Guardian Angel or Jesus Himself? The teaching sounds like a radio recording: It is not important from Whom you receive the communion. It is important what is The Jesus like that you offer when you meet Him face to face. Did your life hurt Him? Will His Countenance be like His body from the Way of the Cross, hurt and beaten? Will Jesus see Himself in you, in clean robes and joyful eyes? It’s important what is Jesus like when He is born in you! What is Jesus like when He lives in you – joyful or sorrowful?

Holy poverty of Bethlehem

I would get lost in the holiday merry-go-round

Of people’s voices and running

Among sauerkraut, cabbage pies and Christmas tree

If there weren’t the Rorate Masses

Dark mornings, smell of candles, songs

And this blessed loneliness of silence

That sanctifies the thoughts

O Good Jesus, the poorest Infant

Your manger without colorful lights

The table of the Holy Family without bountiful dishes

The love of Mary and Joseph enlightens Your manger with brilliance

The brilliance that changes with colors of a rainbow

You try to catch these colors, they are like flying off butterflies

Your Mother’s lullaby puts You to sleep, the shepherds songs wake up Your joy

O blessed birth of Jesus, O holy poverty of Bethlehem

Through this picture, God calls to us: come, you poor and hungry

Don’t be afraid, God doesn’t appall with richness …

Mary will nourish with the bread of love …

Don’t be afraid to come up, you won’t stumble over a full table, lots of presents

Seek the Infant in your hearts, often lonely, suffering

Seek … so that in this pre-holiday rush,

You wouldn’t become … just another colored ball on a tree.

The look

Adoring worship

Is decorated with … silence

And though the humming of the outside world

Penetrates our ears

Our heart, like a bride

Kneels down before Jesus on the Altar

And submits itself to this awesome mystery of encounter

It yields to this holy moment

The moment when Jesus is looking at us

Engulfed in this adoring worship

We ask the Lord questions and pray for graces

Sometimes we say about painful wounds

And sometimes we just submit ourselves to silence

It cradles our soul

It lifts us to the golden monstrance with angelic songs

This encounter of man and God

During the act of adoring worship

Does not need any words …

This delicate blow of the Holy Spirit

Unites us with the Lord on the wave of love

And though doubts may pierce through your heart

That we don’t see and hear Jesus

But He, Invisible, is speaking … to your invisible soul

The Invisible is talking … with the invisible

In the holy silence, created out of the sparks of God’s love

The sparks that light up in our soul the waning flames of hope

The gaze of Merciful Jesus is waiting

             For our words: Jesus, I trust in You.

During my recent years of pilgrimages (in Poland and abroad) I dedicate every pilgrimage to the intentions of the Holy Mother. I also dedicate Holy Masses to Her intentions believing that Her power of wisdom and Her Mercy penetrate the life of each of us. Sometimes, during the Mass I “see” in my heart the silhouette of the Holy Mother with a decorative basket which she takes to the Altar. The basket is decorated with colorful flowers. Sometimes somebody (maybe some saint) “helps” Her to carry strange, silver packages. When I was on a pilgrimage in Dukla (sanctuary of St. John of Dukla) I also asked that the Mass would be dedicated in Her intentions. Indeed Jesus always listens to Her. I asked “in my heart” that St. John of Dukla would help Mary to carry the baskets with Her intentions. As usual, the Holy Mother put down a “basket with intentions” and a man dressed in a Franciscan habit came out of the Altar. He was pulling a large, village-like sack. What is he doing? I asked in my heart. And I heard the answer: in this sack, there are also the intentions of the sinners who are still committing the same sins. They want to change it but they are too weak. The very “scene” that was being played in my heart was a little funny for me because the saint are also the people with a sense of humor.

A wanderer … or a pilgrim?

When an extreme light touches us

It becomes an unexpected gift

And life gets a holiday brilliance

In the very middle of our gray days

We seek to get to know the source of this light

Full of love we seek Jesus in the Eucharist

And read the words of the Holy Scripture

And start journeying to the holy places …

We visit cathedrals, sanctuaries

And admire human genius that created this beauty

In one day we absorb the miracles of human work

That were created through ages, in hardship, in a mystical meditation

We are becoming like watchers, full of impressions

And the saints in these places, hidden in the reliquaries

Are looking out of the bars, surrounded by the noise of human voices

Our prayer to them is quick, it flies out like a butterfly …

The days of wandering across the holy places are passing

The cameras are getting swollen from taking pictures

The heart and soul are hungry for a longer prayer

We had so many requests to You, St. Rita and to You, St. Catherine

We wanted to talk to You, St. Francis and Clare …

And we didn’t have time to thank You, Holy Mother …

There was so much beauty around that nourished our eyes …

Maybe when we come back here again?

I call my Guardian Angel and ask:

Why don’t I hear any song coming from my soul?

The Angel spread out His wings like a fan

There was an inscription on one of them: a wanderer, and a pilgrim, on the other

He put a lump of white marble in front of me

As if I were Michael Angel … a sculptor of beauty

He said: a wanderer admires its shape, its whiteness and walks around the stone

A pilgrim crushes the stone with the chisel of the prayer of his soul and seeks the way to God

                 To be a pilgrim means the hardship of the heart and soul

                 To be a wanderer means the hardship of the body and senses

                 And whom are you? – asked the Angel.

I don’t seek …

Whenever I want to speak to You, Jesus

About my love for You

The silence gets nestled in my body

It becomes a gentle wave, a light breeze

That absorbs the coming words

This silence is like a humming bird

Drinking the nectar from the flower cup

Like an ingenious, godly artist

Archangel?

It gives my heart a joyful ecstasy when I experience beauty

The heart loves this creative Silence

And understands it

The heart desires it more than words

I don’t seek beautiful words anymore

In the archives of books about human love

I adore the Lord and follow the light

Along the blue-red route of blood and water

Toward the pierced Heart of Merciful Jesus

I seek a prayer, offered by silence

The prayer that is carved in my heart

The prayer of love that no wave will wash out

No wind will blow away

The prayer that the heart will never forget

Even if the mouth forgets it

The beautiful prayer of silence, in which You, Jesus, speak

And teach me … the words of Love

             So that I could talk with You.

Tears, smile and singing

When I was embraced with a strange sadness

I asked my Guardian Angel

To ask the Holy Mother for one tear

May this tear dissolve this sadness

And the Guardian Angel covered His face with the wings

And was silent

I asked the Guardian Angel

To ask Mary for a smile for me

To fill me with joy

That She listens to my prayers

The Guardian Angel put aside one wing and looked

And was silent

I asked the Guardian Angel

That I could hear Mary’s singing

When She and the Archangels are singing psalms to God

I wanted to fill my heart with the sounds of Heaven

The Guardian Angel straightened His wings

And stopped His silence, saying:

You have already received many tears from the Mother

Some of them flowed down you, unnoticed

Mary didn’t spare you Her smiles

Especially when you were humbly saying the Rosary

Mary’s songs often made you fall asleep

When worries like wasps, stopped your sleep

Mary consoled you, wept over you and sang

Now you:

Send your tear to Mary when She suffers from many sins

Send Her your smile to adorn Her

Like with a beautiful dress

Sing a song …

About your love to Her

So that the wounds on Her face … would not bleed

One day I was meditating over the essence of prayer, especially for other people. I closed my eyes, seeking inner peace. In my heart I saw a little funny picture, but quite deep in its meaning after some thinking. There was a small window through which they give meals in bars and there was an out-stretched hand … And I heard in my heart: Prayer is like food given to those for whom you pray … Remember that prayer nourishes physically and spiritually. Your prayer and everybody else’s who pray in some intention – is a nourishment. So be such a eating-house of prayer for the poor. Be an eating-house and not a restaurant. Be the eating-house because over there you get the food … for free.

Love, hope and faith

Submerged in a deep dream

I heard my angel’s question:

Can you paint love, faith and hope

On people’s faces?

I remembered a woman that I met once

She was carrying a handicapped child in her arms

I still see in my eyes her loving glance

And I still hear her warm words and his mumbling babble

It was the moment … of love being born

A fleeting while … but having a concrete shape

How to paint it with colors, when …

The heart sees it, not the eyes?

And the heart sees the colors so different from the earthly ones …

Did people see love in Jesus’ deformed face?

Veronica saw this love with her heart, not with her eyes

How to paint the face of hope?

Is it like a flower, a pure lily or a transparent water-spring?

My angel, a little sleepy

Wanted to hasten my considerations

And said that hope may have my face as well

When I seek and offer kindness with mercy

When I don’t yield to the darkness of evil that lures

When I rise up fast from another downfall

When I see the face of Jesus beside mine

When I believe in prayer that it works wonders

Though the world scoffs and shouts: it’s just an illusion!

I didn’t wake up my angel

So that we didn’t talk about the human aspect of faith

Which I saw in the face of a beggaress near the church

In different times, in winter, in rain, in the heat, holding a box for money

She repeated to everyone with humility, with hope:

May God bless you and give health

Then I whispered to my angel that faith is like her …

Humble and resistant …

Resistant to the cold of the world that can kill this love

To the wind that sweeps prayer out of the heart

To the frost that is like a dagger that hurts with its indifference

It brings joy out of little graces and it is also suffering

But it never turns to weakness …

When we fight for “bread”, for the nourishment for our hungry soul

The bread that nourishes with Love and Hope.

The library of souls

Maybe it was just a sleepy while

Or maybe I just found myself

Between Earth and Heaven

In the waiting room of purgatory souls?

I wanted to forget this moment

But it was strongly stuck in my memory

Giving birth anew to the memory of that picture

You are in the library of souls – a warm voice told me

All around me was living with the colors of lights

The light was pulsating, penetrating, touching me

The shelves with lighting out books were moving

When I reached for such a strange “work”

My hand pierced it …

I heard laughing, crying, sometimes a groan of pain

It is not a dead paper, I heard, it is life

The life that hasn’t finished the end of its ”book”

The life that only took laughter, love, joy from the world

Until the thread of this life got broken

The time to get to know the wisdom of the cross has passed

In this library of souls, a nice voice told me, life is waiting

It’s waiting for your prayer, for writing the conclusion

For a grace of offering your own cross

For your love which will join the broken thread of that life

With the Divine Mercy.

Pearls and weeds

Rich is the man

Who doesn’t water the weeds of the land

With the bitter tears of his life

So that they couldn’t grow abundantly in anxiety

He gathers the tears of bitterness in his heart

And changes them into the pearls of a Rosary prayer

And lays them down at Mary’s feet as a noble gift

So that Her graces could bloom like roses

With a smile of a victory of love

Poor is he who lives abundantly

His heart is made of clay that breaks easily

His bitterness leaks through the cracks

Onto the hearts that live around him

The weeds of anxiety, nourished with his egotism

Grow up richly, polluting the area

Until his joy gets lost

Among the weeds of bitterness

And love passes away

Strange is the heart of man

Who reaches for the gifts of this world

One can even change bitter tears into the pearls of victory

The other is hurt with the gift of wealth

Some multiply the hard gifts

The others watch over their riches like slaves

Getting lost in the field of weeds

Oh, Holy Mother, take one pearl of a poor man

And bestow it on the rich man

               May it turn into a blooming rose among the weeds

               And may it transform his heart.

On the name-day of Holy Mary (12.09) during the meditation after the Mass, I received a message concerning the human life. I heard as if somebody explained to me what is the essence and what we should appreciate in life and what we often forget: “you should feel enjoyed when your life flows in a gentle daily stream, when you are healthy, not hungry and have a quiet sleep. It is a grace, great grace. You should thank for that and not complain about boredom and have strange dreams and desire “fireworks” and intensive experiences. There are people who do have such “fireworks” – actors, famous people. And how difficult their life turns out to be in the end … drugs, alcohol, fighting for young appearance. There was no boredom in their life … but there wasn’t humility, either. The people who were touched by pain, suffering, illness – they beg God … to live in peace, to have joy of daily life. Just simple, usual days. Maybe it is worth considering and appreciating the value of daily life which is blessed by God with peace and the joy of the moment. And may humility reign in our life and not the illusory dreams.

Holy signs

You Are in the Holy Communion, Jesus

Like the light of countless suns

But for those who receive You

You Are just a little sunny ray

So that they wouldn’t get blind from Your glory

You Are the Power, Lord, flowing from eternity

The Power of the Creator, unimaginable

But for those who receive You in the Communion

You Are a little Infant

So that they could take You in their longing arms

You Are the Fire, Jesus, burning and powerful

The Fire that can heat the whole universe

But for those who receive You in the Communion

You Are just a little flame of a candle, lit in the dark

For a soul that thirsts for the light of truth

You received Your Passion on the cross, Jesus

The Passion that was burning Your whole body

So that those who receive You in the Communion

Could draw the hope of salvation from Your cross

And were protected with the rays of water and blood of Your heart

You Are the omnipotent Love, Jesus

Like a waterfall, pouring out endless waters

But You just softly touch with Your hand

A man who stands before You, in the Communion

Nourishing him with a white Host

How holy is the Might of Your Love, Jesus

When It comes close, in little, humble signs

To human hearts, to human life

In the delicate touch of the Host, in the little Infant

In the flame that doesn’t blind us

               In the cross that saves us.

Holy Maternity of Gietrzwald and other sanctuaries

When I was kneeling before You, Holy Mother

I received peace as a gift

As if the door of a family house were opened

A strange house, without walls and furniture

The house, knitted out of colors of good and love

Out of prayer and longing

For the Holy Maternity of Mary

In Her Maternity I dipped

Sadness that the world infected me with

I opened my heart to Her gaze full of sweetness

To Her gift of healing pain and anxiety

An elderly woman beside me was fervently praying

A man was shamefully wiping his tears

And people thirsting for … Holy Maternity

Engulfed in meditation I beg the silence

To show me the secret of Mary’s Maternity

And I see Her, sorrowful, under Her Son’s cross

Like a mother weeping by the bed of her sick child

I see Her, holding Jesus on Her knees

Like a mother, grieving over her dead child

I see Her tears when She asks …

Wipe My tears, don’t hurt My child

You are parents, mothers like Me

You have come to My picture for the gifts

I don’t spare you Heavenly gifts

Give Me the gifts of goodness and love

For I am not a prisoner in the golden frames of the picture

I am a living mother, present in your life

I reveal the secret of My Maternity

Before every mother and father

I know your pains and I touch them and heal

With My love and prayer

And I desire so much

To sanctify … your maternity, my dear children

With My … Immaculate Maternity.

Great and little holiness

Great saints are for me, Jesus

Like beautiful, gothic cathedrals

Martyrs awake worship in me

But also anxiety … that while gazing into their eyes

I will not see my own misery

I see my soul as a little chapel

Hidden in the forest of life where the fragrance of trees is like incense

Singing of birds is like church music

And prayer is a joyful or painful calling

There is my beloved picture of Holy Mary in this chapel

And a statue of Joseph with the Infant, thrown out on the road by someone

The face of the Infant is covered with cracks

On Joseph’s garment, the old paint is scaling off

My little chapel is not a gothic beauty

There aren’t any rich pictures nor statues of value

But I love this picture of Holy Mary and the statue of Joseph that I found

I talk with them and ask how to be a saint

When I am plunged in my soul-chapel

I call to You, Jesus, in my lonely littleness

And I hear a voice, full of love

So close, so fatherly:

Holiness … can be a gothic beauty

Or a passion of the cross, or a painful virtue

And sometimes it can be a little flower, hidden from people

Or a mysterious bud, waiting for the rays of My Mercy

             To blossom with the flower of holiness.

I am in the church just before the Holy Mass. I feel sorry that media and people are fascinated by a film: The clergy. I have an impression that people are glad that sanctity can get dirty, that the church people are sinners, that the secret of the sacristy has been revealed. In this fascination of evil, people forget about the holy priests. I ponder it before Lord Jesus and I seek support in Him and I say that many people will depart from the church. Then in my heart, I suddenly hear some sentences, simple but very deep to consider: If a stone of evil falls into the ocean (where faith, hope, love are strong) it will get sunk and will be absorbed by the depth (faith, hope, love). But if faith, hope, love are just a puddle, then the stone of evil will splash out the water (faith, hope, love) and will dwell in this puddle, sowing evil in the mind, heart and soul. So have the ocean in yourself, not the puddle!

A man on the cross

I met a dirty man, a beggar

And when I was giving him a coin, out of pity

My heart strangely trembled

And the words came out of my mouth by themselves:

May the cross of Jesus bless you …

The day was sunny, I was occupied with my problems

When suddenly the beggar raised his head high

And he howled rather than used words:

I don’t need your blessing

And I don’t need His cross …

Suddenly I saw a crooked cross

As if it was made of deformed wood

And the beggar was hanging there, wreathing like an injured serpent

He himself was driving in the nails and hurting himself

And it wasn’t the cross of Christ

I heard a voice in my heart, extremely sad and suffering

It was saying:

This crazy man has cast away My cross

He himself whittled his own cross

The deformed cross of hatred

Oh, Jesus from the Way of the Cross

How many people build new crosses on earth

Empty, without You, without Your blood and hope

And on these empty crosses, they hang their lives

They wreathe on them in pain, accusing You

I sent a prayer to Mary for the poor beggar

For this fallen child of Hers

Please, Holy Mother, help him to get off this cross of hatred

And bring him to the cross of Love

To the cross of Your Son.

The cry of life

The cry of the birth of new life

Tears up the curtains of the air

Which are rocking lazily

In the rhythm of the passing time

It tears it up with the sounds

That call upon love

That it still doesn’t know much about

The cry, this childlike speech, still endures

But the time of life leaves its lazy rhythm, and speeds up

The child learns his parents’ speech, the words of understanding

As if the cry were an awesome mystery …

As if the emotions brought over a hidden fear

And the new life receives new words, many words

But the cry, although asleep, still endures …

The cry is like a mystical bird, it endures and doesn’t fly off

It isn’t enchanted by the charm of poetry

It remembers the pain of birth, it seeks the truth

The truth that will nourish the “mystical bird”

It will transform the cry and will tame it with … love

Holy prayer will be given for this pain

Flowing down with the beads of the Rosary like drops of medicine

                  For any pain, fear, misunderstanding

                  For this human cry of the heart.

I am going to You, Holy Mother

Dusk is still covering the sleeping streets

Only few birds are trying their voices

Darkness doesn’t want to go away, it tempts with the sin of laziness

But the faithful are going to churches already

To have a vigil with Mary at this time of Jesus’ birthday

In this beautiful, winter time of Advent

Mary is waiting in a dark church

The Longing Mary without the Infant in Her arms

The Meditating Mary who will love Her Infant

The Sorrowful Mary, weeping

For there are people in Her eyes who will kill Her Son

She sits near the faithful and lights the light of faith

In the souls that thirst for hope and love

She provides the life courage to young mothers

To the elder ones who got to know the burden of maternity

She sends the blessing of Her prayer for their rescue

Mary, You became a Co-Redeemer for people

You lit the light when Archangel Gabriel gave Your fiat to Heaven

And though You are given many titles

You are always the Mother of Perpetual Help

For when I call to You: Hail Mary, - You are with me

And You deliver me despair when I call: Under Your protection …

I was thinking why Jesus was treated by people with such hatred? Why was there so much cruelty? They knew Your miracles of healing, Your words of love. I know that it was God’s will that You would die on the cross. But I tried to look for the essence of this hatred toward You. I had an impression that somebody prompted me the answer: The eyes of Jesus are like large mirrors in which sinfulness is reflected and the truth about human brutality, hidden malice. A man sees himself in Jesus’ eyes like in real truth. His fellow-countrymen and Pharisees saw themselves in this way. So they thought that by killing Him, they shatter His eyes – the mirrors of Truth about themselves. They didn’t see His Love in His eyes. The pride of their sin prompted them … to kill the Lord.

Wound and Love

Show me, my Guardian Angel and You, All the Saints

The Love that is not afraid of Christ’s wounds

That it does not escape fearfully from suffering

That it isn’t emotion, a word, a passing feeling

But the Love that is plunged in the blood of Jesus

Is born .. holy

I see a picture of the wound of Jesus’ Heart

The blood in the wound is living, hot, pulsating

Like an exploding volcano

Like a burning bush

There are people before the Heart of Jesus

Gazing intensely, enchanted with this wonder

They get nourished by the very sight and go away

They satisfied their vision but their hearts are still hungry

But there are others, Your Saints, Lord

Who are blind to a danger of burning

They enter into the fire of Love of the wound of Jesus’ Heart

When touched with this Love, they just smile …

As if they discovered a mystery

Here is what Love looks like – I hear my Angel’s voice

This Love has a human face and body

Of contemporary Simon and living nearby Veronica

It has the helping hands and legs, going to the sick

The ears that hear painful complaints of the fellow men

This Love has a human face but the Countenance of Jesus

You have shown me, my Angel and You, All the Saints

That when the Love that is plunged in the Lord’s Passion and in His Heart

Is born … as holy.

The blessed silence

I kneel before You, Jesus and I adore You

I put down my hands, they seem to be like wings

Of a bird that is tired of the flight

I bend my knees

So that the feet were not interested in new ways

I close my mouth for the words, the eyes for the pictures

For the humming of the world

I seek, beseeching You, Jesus

For the holy gift of silence

In the space of Your Holy Host

It is like a pulsating water spring

And is flowing out in a warm stream

Through the heart, mind and soul

It cures the wounds of the body that they wouldn’t get infected

With indifference, weakness, hatred

In this stream of silence

I look for the white pearls of the words of God

The words of Truth, Love

I look for Your Countenance, Lord

I see Veronica’s veil, Your Countenance of Manoppello there

There are moments behind the curtain when I see You in the Olive Garden

I imagine that I move out the curtain

And sit beside You, You are so lonely, when in pain

Abandoned by the sleeping apostles

Those … and the present ones

And I hear Your voice:

Aren’t you afraid of My tears, My bloody sweat?

Silence … absorbs my answer

I don’t hear it myself

Only the hot tears are flowing down my face.

The Miracle of the Way of the Cross

There are such moments on the way of life

When a scared loneliness

Like an injured, tired bird at night

Gets to the Olive Garden

Where suffering Jesus

Leans against the rock, lonely

Although His companions are asleep beside Him

I stood before You, Jesus

Dressed only in my own defenseless loneliness

In great Silence we looked at each other

I wanted to be close to You

I was looking for the moment of Your loneliness

When You were alone, without cheering people

Without crowds demanding Your death

Loneliness hidden in my soul

Desired to meet You and look into Your eyes

This loneliness brought me to the Way of the Cross

And to the Olive Garden at night that was dark

Your Loneliness and fear asked: don’t fall asleep like the Apostles

So I’ve been walking with You for years – on the Way of the Cross

And our only listener is dark night and the cross

I kneel down beside You when You fall

When the cruelty of Your Passion still terrifies me

I ask Simon for help and Veronica for a shroud

And I go forth … because it is only beside You, Jesus

Where my loneliness doesn’t hurt and the fear of the world

That kills all goodness doesn’t lose hope

I see Your hand when it comes off the cross

                It blesses and disperses the darkness of the Olive Garden

                It makes the miracle of the Resurrection of Love.

I am falling asleep and I think about a book about Holy Mary that I’m just reading. I am at the border of reality and dream. During one wonderful moment that is like a flashlight, I see the face of Jesus – smiling. This smile is not a common smile on the face … it is a sweet goodness and it penetrates with joy. I wish I could remember this smile for ever. The next day, during the Mass I thank Jesus for this experience and I hear in my heart: I always with this smile give you the communion although you may not see it. And even if the priest is sad or gloomy I always give you My smile in the communion.

Do you love Me?

On a gray, cold, rainy day

Which bears sadness and pain

I heard in my heart a question of the Lord:

Do you love Me?

This voice was like an ingenious singer

Who can transform a sad soul with his singing

And enliven with a joyful song of hope …

How can I not love You, Jesus?

Without loving You, I would be like a bird without wings

Like a house without doors and windows, a prisoner of the body

Like an orphan, abandoned in the desert

Like an illiterate of Your words of love

Blind and deaf would be my heart, indifferent

To Your and human love

I love You, Jesus, for You gave me the wings of faith

I am like a bird, sitting down on Your hands

I am not an orphan, I have You, Jesus

I am not a prisoner of the body

My eyes see further, my ears hear Your words

I rejoice when I hear Your voice, Your question:

Do you love Me?

                  For my soul feels

                  That even this crumb of my love – toward You

                  It is Your gift – Your presence in me.

Why do you love Me?

When I said: Jesus, I love You

I heard a question ... why?

And the words: don’t quote the words of holy people

Form your own prayer

About your loving heart

I know, Lord that You want me to reach the bottom of my heart

To find the kingdom of beauty there

The pearl hiding the secret of God’s love

The gift for human life

And I shouldn’t be afraid to know and accept it

I take the pearl in my hands and see my childhood there

My parents gazing on the cross and the picture of the Beautiful Lady

This is God, my daddy says, and this is the Holy Mother

They are also your Father and Mother … the child is surprised

The living parents here and Those silent ones, nailed to the wall

I love You Jesus, for You have given me a gift

That I could love and enliven those “silent parents”

So that They wouldn’t be just signs on the wall

I have received Them into my heart

And I meet Them at Holy Mass

I love You Jesus for when fear and despair

Tried to push me to a downfall

I felt a cross that was growing up like a living tree near me

It was becoming an apple tree, nourishing with the fruit of hope

This cross was lifting me up, this cross of Yours

I love You Jesus for this question … why?

And I register it together with my prayer of love

And I put it deep into my heart

Let my heart be like the Jerusalem Weeping Wall

Out of which, You Lord will be taking out my prayers to You

             From my loving heart, every day, as long as I live.

The Way of the Truth

Entangled in a spider web of life

Our heart looks for the ways to the Truth

Sometimes we run to the artificial lights

But these lights fade away, they are just a flame of a candle

They hurt the hands with the hot wax of illusion

We like the ways where there is laughter and fun

The fireworks of dreams give birth to new temptations

A hardly flickering light touches us

And the human faces are like the carnival masks

Paper-like, deceiving, scoffing

And though the giggle still sounds in our ears

From those ways which disappointed our heart

The soul hears singing, some gentle music

Like a ripple of a brook which reveals a mystery

With the words that lead toward the Way of the Truth:

“Lucky is the man who doesn’t enter the way of the sinners

He is like a tree that was planted over the flowing water

And bears fruit in the right time

And its leaves don’t wither (…)

Because the Lord acknowledges the way of the just

And the way of the vicious will get lost” (Psalm 1)

And though the darkness is still around a man

He follows these words, being surrounded with tender care

He waits for the light of the morning, gazing at the sky

And going on, he stumbles, falls down, gets up, laughs and weeps

And beside him, there is a silent pilgrim from the human ways

The Merciful Jesus who is leading us toward the Way of the Truth.

After the Holy Mass I stayed in church for the Adoration and at one moment I saw a very large, white pearl. I didn’t know how to explain it and suddenly I heard a voice saying: everybody who goes away from a sin is like a precious pearl for Me, more beautiful than other people, even those sinless ones.

The alley of a golden bondage

I am seeking paths within myself

The ways of happiness, sadness, joy, love

Memories, hope and doubt

They circulate in me, get crossed or tangled …

That’s human life

There is an alley, bizarre, full of warm light

Straight, not tangled

It leads from Heaven to Earth

The words of Jesus are like flowers on it

I enter into it for warmth, for safety

This alley is like a holy gift, dipped in a rain of Baptism

But it happens that man doesn’t discern it …

He looks for happiness in the tangled paths of life

He accepts a deception of the world as a gift of truth

The alley of a golden bondage is getting thin

Defenseless, forgotten …

Although it was to be the source of power!

And there appears a stone of unbelief at the gate

Sharp and hurting

And the path of the golden bondage becomes the way of Calvary

Jesus is getting on it

Together with the words that are often offensive and distrustful

And He is hurt with the nails of human pride

The God of Merciful Love stands against …

The free will of man

He fights for the alley of a golden bondage for His loving child

And it is not a battle for a laurel of victory of fanfares or ecstasy

It is the battle for the salvation of the soul for eternity

What will the man choose:

Whether to be a Sacrifice of Love or a victim of the world?

The key of love

I want to get closer to You, Jesus

But …

I see a transparent and crystal curtain

As if it were made out of clear water

Or maybe tears?

The drops are shaking with colored lights, they live

The crystal curtain attracts with its warmth and beauty

Behind the crystal curtain, there is the world of Good, Perfection

I put my hands on it and send the prayer of Faith

The curtain is shaking, shimmering and doesn’t disappear

I send the prayer of Hope

The curtain is humming friendly with a delicate tune

Being despaired with the “quiet” of the curtain, I kneel down …

An angel reveals to me the mystery of the “opening” of the curtain

As an earthy crystal, it has a weak point

It scatters into tiny bits

So this curtain has … its own, holy point

That opens up for the man

With its three secret locks of the Heart of Jesus

You opened the curtain with Faith and Hope

But where is … Love?

Remember these three … your Faith, Hope and Love endure

But the greatest is Love

The Love for God, this mysterious point

It crushes all the curtains: these earthly ones and those heavenly ones

The angel flew away but I seek in my heart

The Love that will not disappoint the Lord

                 The Love that doesn’t cast away His pain, His humiliation

                 The Love that will go along beside Him.

I have been praying at the Rorate Masses for a few days and after the Communion, I ask Lord Jesus to “repair” my heart so that I could love my Lord more and more. And suddenly I hear: But… do you know that for the repairing of your heart, nails and a hammer will be needed…?

Medicine from God’s pharmacy

Man will not go through his life without wounds

As long as hatred stings and poisons

Like a vicious insect in our world

And love learned how to put on

A dress of treason

The world hurts physically but also spiritually

With visible wounds that doctors cure

But also there are invisible, resistant to the medicine from a pharmacy

So painful that man cries

With aggression, sadness, wailing and a bad word

The owners of the invisible wounds often treat them

With alcohol, narcotics, aggression, lousy love

But these wounds don’t want to get silent

The man is lonely with his injury

He gets poisoned and destroys his own humanity

There is a Heavenly Physician in this world

Invisible in his physical structure, like our wounds

He is standing near us, but we pass by him

We get round the injured Jesus, with a cross full of our wounds

And He is extending His hand to us, with a medicine

The medicine that an earthly doctor will never make

The medicine that is redeemed from the world by the Passion of the Cross

With Pure Love, Disinterested and so Humble

That it doesn’t turn away from those who

Don’t thrust away His hand with this miraculous medicine

And so He keeps staying near our human wounds

Like a companion in our difficult journey in this world

Waiting …

For these moments when an injured man believes

In the healing power of God’s Love.

Martyrs

They are like unpolished diamonds

Dropped from Heaven

So that life could make them pure diamonds

Of the Divine Word and Holy Gospel

They don’t know the end of their way, yet

Being engulfed in their youthful doubts

Whether to be like sinful Paul … or an apostle?

Heaven has its own time, own secrets

But it doesn’t lose the diamonds

And none of us, devoted to Jesus

Will understand the secret of the heart

Although he read hundreds of wise books

And this holy moment

When man becomes a martyr

Even if he is humiliated, tortured, beaten

He will not betray

The Love, instilled by God

The Love that was taken with power from Jesus’ cross

The executioners look at the dying for faith in God

With anger, sometimes with blasphemies in their mouths

But their hearts, full of aggression, are embraced by strange fear

And the question … where do they take their power from?

Is it from a small wooden cross, a habit, a mission robe?

And even if the cross was broken, the habit was torn, the robe was trampled

The love of the martyrs lives on, their blood yields a harvest of love

It sprinkles the earth with the Divine Word, for generations

It is the gift of the holy love of man to God

                For the Holy Love of God to man.

While seeing “the equality parade” and hearing blasphemies’ against church and a parody of the Holy Mass and offences against the Holy Mother … I felt anger. But bad emotions are only emotions, I thought. Where is the source of evil? How come there is so much hatred and an intention to offend the Church and Catholics? Actually they have their “fun” area, free from the 10 Commandments. Why doesn’t it please them? They just look for somebody to hold in contempt with blasphemies. As if they wanted to kill the faith of other people, their values and even themselves with hatred. Why those from the 10 Commandments are such an obstacle for them? Are they afraid of their conscience? Where is their tolerance? What hurts them so much that they must hate? In fact they have their own conscience (do whatever you want). Why aren’t they happy and free from hatred? Why can’t they find peace in them? I think that deeply-rooted “moral law” that protects man from self-destruction “speaks” to them and irritates them. Is this because their conscience that is free from “the 10 Commandments” does not make them happy and only blasphemies and other evil satisfy them?

I thought over the picture that I saw, being engulfed in the Adoration of the Most High Sacrament.

Vigil

I am sitting on a stony block

At an empty road

Few olive trees

Are made asleep with darkness

They bend down toward the road

As if they wanted to hear

The last news of the day

I am not sleepy, rather vigilant, waiting

For a conversation, encounter?

With my heart, I touch the time that has no hours

It flows like still water

It’s the time of the pictures, sunk in the current of the water

Like in a holy, clean mirror

I see Nazareth, a little Jesus with Mary

They are laughing and going to Joseph

I see a crowd of the Jews in Jerusalem

The men wear long robes and touch their long beards

They are discussing or maybe quarreling?

And then …

I see a crowd pushing Jesus with the Cross

Jesus is looking at me

Be vigilant until the end … I hear

Don’t wake up, don’t run away from Me

When I suffer, when they beat Me and crucify Me

Be vigilant …

On a stony block, at an empty road

Sometimes as lonely as I …

Sometimes joyful, at an empty tomb

Be vigilant and wait for Me

I will be passing beside you …

The Vessel of the Word of God

When your heart wants to turn the world into a desert

And the ravens, with a shriek

Peck out the last seeds of hope

Then don’t shout at Jesus, don’t give up faith

Like a hostile crowd before the court of Pilate

Kneel down before Saint Joseph

And in the silence of the morning or evening

Let Him get into the field of your heart and sow …

White lilies of innocence, trust and obedience

Let the gaze of His eyes silence your tormented voice

And let Him cure your body, hurt with fear, with a gesture of love

Without words … in silence and hush

May Saint Joseph teach you humility

Which leads you to God along a narrow path

He Himself learned it when He heard the words of an Angel

And He accepted Mary as His wife

He thought over the doubts like a common man

But He didn’t clamor down God with His own words

He became a vessel for the words of God Creator

A crystal chalice, filled with Heaven

Tradition speaks of Him very little, only that He was a Saint of Silence

None of us will learn how many tears sprinkled His face

How many smiles He sent to His Beautiful Family

How much He tried to protect them from the enemy

How great His love was when He looked at the growing Child

How great His tenderness was when He served the Mother

He was the executor of God’s plans

And His mission was the deeds, not the words

He entrusted the Most High with the mystery of His heart

And being the Caretaker of the Holy Family

He cares for us, too, serving like the most tender father

When the world wants to turn your heart into a desert

And it doesn’t let the seeds of hope and faith grow

Call Saint Joseph who will silence the storm of your life

With just a gaze and a gesture of the blessing hands

Then He offers you a gift of … silence, turning your shout into a silence

                 So that you could hear God in your prayer.

I am at the adoration. In my church, we have now a new, golden Monstrance, which is very big. I say to Lord Jesus: Now You have a beautiful house and You are well seen for everyone. Suddenly I hear: I will tell you something in secret…You are also a Monstrance for Me when you adore Me…I am in you. My Monstrance and yours penetrate each other. They look into each other”. I thought that I see You, Jesus, in this beautiful Monstrance. But what kind of Monstrance do You see in me?

My heaven

I don’t know Your Heaven, Jesus

The Home of Love and Beauty

That is a secret for me

A garden of my imagination

That makes pictures out of pieces of earthly beauty

That I store in my heart

Like in a child’s treasure-box with mysteries

There are pearls of memories

From the holy places, joyful meetings

Prayers that awesomely kindle

They are the gifts … from Your Heaven, Lord

Though I don’t know Your Heaven, Jesus

I find it … on earth

Every day I open a common, wooden door to it

To … the Church

I sit in the pew, waiting for You to come

From Your Heaven to my earthly heaven

Our human heaven is not perfect

Sometimes I “see” when You extend Your hand to greet

But the man passes by, deep in thoughts

I see people-guests, indifferent, as if they were “forced”

By the custom of baptism, confirmation, wedding, funeral

We adorn our earthly heaven with the beauty …

Of the pictures, sculptures, bouquets

They are like a compulsory loan for human imperfections, sins

And You, Jesus, are sad that love in earthly heaven

Sometimes withers faster than the bouquets on the altar

But I don’t know another heaven but the one to which

I open the wooden door every day and I feel its smell

I see a golden tabernacle like a brilliant sun

And I know, Jesus, that Your Love in my heaven-Church will never fade

You will always stand with Your extended hand and the Eucharistic food

That’s why I love my earthly heaven – the Holy Church.

I am looking for Your Countenance, Jesus

Staring at Your face, Jesus

Adorned with painters’ artistic visions on the canvas

I learn their thoughts and feelings

Contained in the lines of their drawings

How could they have painted You but with their own vision

If they hadn’t seen Your Living Countenance?

They painted You with their love and talent

It took years to create icons with prayer

They were above human imperfection

Looking for the beauty of Your Divine Countenance

Today I stare at Your face, Jesus

And look for Your Countenance in other human faces

I look for love in them, for faith and hope

For knowing the mystery of human life

And I try to find You in facial features of fellow men

I pass by sad faces, deep in thoughts

And I respect the sadness of their eyes

I pass by the crippled people, sick

And I respect the pain of their daily existence

I pass by the lonely old age and I bow with respect

I recognize Your sorrowful Countenance in other people

Your hope - in children’s faces

Your smile - in joyous, wise priests

Your meditation - in people fighting for goodness

You are like a walking stick in merciful hands

I see Your sadness when we don’t call You

I see Your Countenance in the mystery of human hearts

You know it, though it’s deeply hidden from the eyes

Please Lord, make my heart in its mercy

Be filled with enchantment of Your presence in every man.

Love Provider

You tell me - I don’t have the grace of faith

I am like a tree, planted in the field

Waiting for wind, a sign of God’s power

It will bend me down and pull my roots out of shallow faith

Will you get filled with faith when the roots are dry?

A tree blooms, when raised toward the sun

Although it doesn’t reach the clouds and the sun

Nature nourishes it with rain and warmth

Man’s conceit wants to touch the sun

You tell me - I give love to my close ones

I don’t see your love with my eyes but I believe you

The sign of your love is devotion

Isn’t the Offering of Jesus’ Passion a devotion?

The priceless Gift of God’s Merciful Love?

There are people who climb the tops of the mountains

Looking for the experience of a mystery

What does a man feel when he kneels at the foot of the mountain

In a humble weakness and admires its beauty?

And though he didn’t reach its top

He feels joy and fascination over the work of the Creator

He sees His signs, the heart feels the taste of Love

When you feel hungry, do you dream about the whole loaf of bread?

Won’t a small slice fill your hunger?

You keep in memory your mother’s hand, passing it to you

And still feel its taste of this loving gesture, with years gone by

God also wants to feed you with His loving touch

Don’t look for God on top of your mind

In the world that pays homage to lazy satiety

Look for Him in the beauty of His signs of the surrounding nature

In the works of even the greatest artist

Who isn’t able to reflect it with a word or picture

Look for Him in human generosity

In the Offering of the Eucharist, in prayer that provides the grace of faith

If your heart can share love

How could we not believe in the Love Provider?

Human time

Like sand in the hourglass, the ancient clock of the ancestors

Days of our life are sifting through

The Watch-maker of Time turns them over patiently

They flow on in a slow rhythm

The tiny bits of sand, the moments of our life

Sometimes this monotonous rhythm

Is disturbed by a strange delay

In the hourglass, the motion stops, anxiety wakes up

In the narrow opening … we see a little pebble

And time is stopped …

Being hungry for the monotony of the days already known

And being familiar with sadness, hoping for joy

We look at this stone, and shake up the hourglass

What does it mean?

We ask the Watch-maker of Time

Rocks were formed, beautiful monuments

Out of these bits of sand, through centuries

Out of our tiny moments – a little pebble was formed

As small as the few years of human life

But beauty is contained there, too

In the rocks and in our pebble alike

Time has stopped to learn the sense of it

It is like a holy gift that does not pass away

And is dedicated to the glory of the Lord

It turns into a diamond, like a prayer, locked in a crystal

For Immortality …

Glares of the world

Plenty of lights shine before people’s eyes

They lure like little fires and say: follow me

When we stare at the flowing water in the evening

In the waves, we can only see the reflected lights that stray

You think they are like signs

But when its source goes out, or a tree casts a shadow

They just become an illusion, a moment’s reflection

And you get engulfed by darkness again

Such seem to be the lights of this world

Careers in the flash-lights, illusion of the glare of wealth

Conceit, adorned with colorful lamps

These are the lights of this world’s theater and will go out some day

So easily does man mistake the lights reflected

For the source of light of Truth which never goes out

He confuses illusion, the lie of the lights reflected

With God, the Creator of the Eternal Light

May You, Lord grant that all people

Feel the Glare of Your ever-lasting Love

And let no will-o-the-wisp of this world

Lure people and lead them into darkness.

Heaven

Some believe in It, others are skeptics

These who believe, put trust in Jesus’ words

One day, a thought came to me unexpectedly

If God created Heaven, also for us, people

Then, in His design, He allows us to recognize

The beauty of His Heaven, also here on earth

What is Heaven, if not the love

That we share, saying: I love you

Isn’t It the hope in our solitude?

A helping hand, a smile, a friendly word

A strange beating of the heart, merciful tenderness

Even for all human weaknesses?

There is so much Heaven on this earth of ours

But we only need to enter It bravely

And look for beauty in nature, learn good words

Provide help for a sufferer, even a stranger

Experience joy out of love of giving away

Discard the misery of the heart that wants to overpower love

While musing over the thoughts of Heaven on earth

I thought, God, if I am ever worthy of Your Heaven

I will long for the goodness on earth

For daily Mass, for candles’ aroma and for the words of priests

For beloved people and ordinary, daily life

And I will ask God there for the grace for people to find Heaven on earth.

Colors of life

We weave our life like a rug on a loom

And choose colors out of the thread that time brought over

Our eyes enjoy the pattern and color on it

The gray that is intertwined there evokes reflection

We put the black of a sad mourning into the rug of our life

Out of a reel of black wool that fate lost somewhere

And when we look at the design, the image of past events

We enjoy the memory of color, joyous fun

But we wipe off tears, when touching the black softly

There is a place in the rug of life, solicitously woven

The place that you can’t forget about

It is woven out of signs that make life holy

They shine with the beauty of eternal life

These signs are the cross and Jesus’ manger

The Lights of Hope, lit up with the hand of God

Without them - our rug is like plain cloth

And even if it were woven out of precious thread

We will not see its colors when darkness of the night comes.

I had a dream

My dream hasn’t flown away, yet

And my prayer still waited to come to pass

As I sank into a peculiar world

The streets were similar to mine

The people were engulfed in their noisy rhythm

The faces, unknown, young and mature

I am walking along in my dream

With my desire of smile and friendship …

And I hold out my hand to the next passers-by

They say: “I don’t know you, man”

As if they didn’t know any other words

My angel interrupts this sad journey

Whispering: you dropped into Purgatory in this dream

Look for the way out

Somewhere in a distance I see a strange intersection

As if a large cross was spread over the asphalt

Its wide arms were empty

Free from people’s footsteps

A lonely intersection of the streets, a lonely cross

Waiting to be discovered

By the passers-by in Purgatory from my dream

Waiting for the words: “I don’t know you, man” to get silent

I stand in its very center

Lonely, though the crowd is surging by

Swollen in the narrow streets

A strange world of indifferent faces

“Don’t be afraid” – I hear the voice of my angel

“Call to those who are getting lost

Pray for them, in your painful solitude

You are the one who can still touch the cross

Purgatory is waiting for your calls and prayers

For those who can say … I know and love you, man”.

The trace that does not disappear

A man is going along his ways

That are built by the potentates of mammon and power

He looks for happiness, abandoned by those

Who possess earthly wealth

He bows low to the ground

Digging out left-over fractions for himself

Of others’ happiness, others’ joys

A man is going along the ways, pointed to him

Stupefied by colorful commercials about happy life

Made up by the potentates of mammon and power

And he trusts that they have a recipe for life

And when he buys in the worldly apothecary

A wonderful medicine for happiness, that is money

He changes it for things, forgetting the values, once so important

He fills his life with things

As if it were a storeroom of joys

But a strange sadness doesn’t disappear

And the man looks for new ways, new trees

Where he could bury this harassing sadness

He bought love, but it betrayed him, friendship left him

A credit remained, unpaid …

He looks at the walls of his house

They answer back with a deadly silence

There is only one place on the wall, a left-over trace

It is marked out with a white spot, the sun and dust didn’t remove it

It is the trace of the cross that he cast away long ago

This is the only trace that isn’t silent

This trace endured for many years, waiting lovingly for the man.

Gifts and presents

We adorn our life with mutual offerings

Of unexpected gifts and anniversary presents

Flowers and decorative boxes come from hand to hand

Sometimes a present seems too expensive, sometimes poor

A humble man appreciates every little sign of memory

A conceited one feels disappointed when a present is cheap

And so it usually happens with human gratitude

Little heart wants a lot, for a big one, a human, friendly gesture is enough

There are gifts invisible for man’s eyes

They are packed somewhere in Heavenly space

God Himself sends them down to His ungrateful children

He expects them to recognize from WHOM they come

Isn’t good health or happy home a gift from God?

And the faith that we experience, grace of the Eucharist

No war and hunger in the country where you live

Prayer for you, when you carry your cross?

Use your heart when you read your book of life

Look for the pages where God put His seal

And though your eyes don’t see it, your conscience reminds you

Did your hands receive this gift with gratitude

Or maybe it looked to you like a poor present?

Consider in your heart the wasted gifts and those multiplied

And beseech God that you could, in your life

Recognize His holy gifts from common earthly presents.

Speak, my heart

I kneel before the Most Holy Sacrament

The merciful confessor of a soul

I can’t find proper words, oh, just a few sighs, sometimes

I listen for the voice of my heart, let it speak to the Lord

Let the deeply hidden sighs

Make the words out of the heart’s desire

Silence comes upon me, the tunes of the world die down

The heart, staring at the Lord, speaks with its own words

Father, I desire a prayer, so trustful as if it were the last one

Let a beseeching tear be a full-stop of each sentence

I ask for such love that it will never stop flowing

To people whom I can’t understand

And that I will not make accusations against them

I want to stare into Your eyes, Lord, so much

That I could spot Your smile and sorrow in them

And enjoy Your happiness, and pay back Your sadness

I want to look at Your picture, hanging in church or in my home

Like at the living person, and not a painted image

I want to talk to You, Lord, with a childlike enchantment

And I want to hear Your words, when You ask me for something

I know that human life is like a kaleidoscope of darkness and light

The time of soul’s sleep and the time when she wakes up

When You touch me, Lord, with the night of darkness

And I look for Your Son’s cross with my blind eyes

Then, Father, please send Angels to Your child

So that they could be my eye-sight

And could sing me a song about Your Mercy.

A dream

I had a dream but strangely real

I was hovering over a rich city

It smelled with artificial aroma

It surprised with the silence of empty streets

As if someone forbade the birds to sing

And made people speechless

I knew this city, I thought, in the past

Did I cross the time barrier?

I was looking for the churches, statues that I used to know

A strange force was leading me

To the place where a big storehouse was standing

There were stony angels lying there in piles

They were dead, with helplessly spread wings

They didn’t fit into this city

Did the angels disturb the silence?

I wanted to raise one statue, enliven it

And straighten the dead wings with my prayer

The face of the angel was mute, and looking at me

Teardrops were flowing down his face or maybe raindrops?

There was some commotion among the statues

A tiny angel gave a sign of life with quiet breathing

Like a baby, born out of a dying mother

I embraced this little, stony statue

And raised it high over the city

And put my little angel down

On an empty base, covered with grass

As the hope for life, for prayer in this silent city

There was a metal, rusty cross lying near the base

I put it into the angel’s hands

And he … was growing and becoming a great angel.

Broken rosary

During a Saturday morning Mass

In my heart, I saw the world wrapped up in a rosary

Mary, with tears on Her face

Was standing under the cross that reached the sky

The rosary was made from brown balls

And the balls were as if from rough matter

Each one had a differently carved drawing

The rosary was surrounding the earth like a ribbon

And got broken over some fragments

I saw wars there, death and human tears

There was a broken rosary and prayer was broken

Crosses were knocked down and temples were empty

Only human pride, in a mad rushing, like a hurricane

Was steering the tanks that shot at the sky maliciously

Suddenly I saw another rosary

It was plaited out of white Hosts, like a necklace

From the Hosts, blood was pouring down profusely

A reminder of our Lord’s Passion

Oh, broken rosary of Mary, abandoned in the world of pride

If people reject you and the saving blood of the Son of God

Then who will come to rescue us?

Intercession prayer

You know, Lord that the way to Your Countenance

For the human beings, entangled in the world

Is not a wide gate, beautifully flowered

Where an angelic choir calls to enter this holy road

The way to Your Countenance, Lord

Is broken sometimes at the abyss of sin

It goes through a quagmire of pride where evil lurks

And it gets lifted along the slippery stairs of suffering

There are years of darkness, like a pall wrapping up the dead

When a man looks for light for himself

And he yields to the will-o-the-wisps of the world

He stumbles over a stone of deceit and falls down

Being hurt, with his last efforts of will for survival

He beseeches for the Truth, for the Countenance of the Lord

And then, a little flame that was once lit up in the child’s heart

Leads him … to the fire of the Tabernacle

Dazzled by the light that touches him suddenly

He wants to devote himself to this new Love

Before the cross, he pours out his whole life

And gets overwhelmed by this newly-discerned Merciful Love

And he doesn’t know that his way to the Countenance of God

Was once beseeched for by someone in a long prayer on the knees

On the Way of the Cross of the Lord who was mutilated by men

He beseeched: oh, Lord, save the soul of a falling man.

A mirror

I saw a blind man

With the face twisted from deformity

As if the sculptor of human features

Forged a petrified pain there

With sharp cuttings of a chisel

It is a grace, Lord, I thought

That this man doesn’t see himself in the mirror

Suddenly I clearly heard a severe voice:

What is the ugliness of the face, reflected in the mirror

Against the ugliness of sins, invisible there?

Thank You Lord, for this teaching, given for my eyes

They look at man through a lifeless mirror

There is pride reflected there and the blindness of the heart

It doesn’t know the truth about the soul of man

And about the essence of his destiny

Suddenly I saw the face of Jesus

Spat over, injured, bleeding

It would be reflected with ugliness in a human mirror

But on Veronica’s veil, on her tender heart

It shone with beauty, with the Holy Offering

You have carried the ugliness of our sins, Jesus

As far as Golgotha, to redeem us with Your Passion

You who didn’t know the sin, became a sin Yourself

So that man looking into the mirror of Your Offering

Could break up the false mirrors which hide the sin

And could recognize his sin in the wounds of Your Body

Beseeching: grant me Lord, the grace of forgiveness …

What did You want to tell me, Lord?

When my soul sank into a silent Adoration

I saw pictures, as if from a children's fairy tale

There was a small insect, climbing upward

Over a hill full of spring greenery

Toward a bright spot of hot sunrays

Raindrops started to fall down heavily

And the little insect slid down the hill

And dried up the little wings when the rain was over

And again resumed the climb toward the sunrays

But still there was a new hardship

This time the snow covered him with white flakes

Yet the insect survived in this snowy fluff

Stubbornly heading toward the sunrays.

What did You want to tell me, Lord, with this children's fairy tale

About our human way toward You, about our struggle for faith?

About our fight with "snow and rain" of our sins

In the world covered with the rubbish of evil, like the insect under the snow?

How many efforts we need ourselves to fight with ourselves

So that we could follow Your light, and not the lantern's reflection

And did not dip our feet in the grass of joy

But look for the traces of blood of our Lord

Leading to Golgotha where our Salvation is waiting

How to survive under the raindrops of doubts

And draw power out of the words of Hope of the Lord, out of the Eucharist?

When you know the hardship of this road - I heard in my heart -

Then the power will bloom in you, and evil will never defeat it

And no rain or snow of the world will pull out My Love for you.

Peculiar bread of love

I have seen a picture over the Altar

Jesus was in the middle, the saints and the blessed - along the sides

The Angels were leading them

Brother Albert was holding bread in his hand

He didn’t let go of it in his pilgrimage to Heaven

As if the bread that he nourished the poor on earth

Was the symbol of the Living Bread

The sign showing that in the Heavenly Kingdom

He will fight for the souls’ eternal salvation

And a thought occurred to me, along with a bird’s singing outside

That our life is worth

As much as how many slices of bread of love we pass to others

Jesus feeds us with the bread of the Holy Eucharist

He pours the ferment of the holy bread into the soul

With faith that out of His Love

We will bake our own loafs eagerly

And will share our love with others

Like He did once, multiplying bread in the desert

You can’t divide a pearl, it will lose its value

Gold will not satisfy your hunger

Money will not appease your suffering

You can only crumble the bread of love, it won’t lose its taste

God has given man the heart that is hungry for love

The world’s riches will never satisfy such a heart

And even if a man has a stony face

And his hands are full of worldly goods

His heart is still waiting … for a crumb of love of his fellow man.

A Queue of Life

I stood in a Queue of Life.

It was winding like a colorful rope

Made up of human beings

Cast among the days and years of our existence

The murmur of human voices announced great gifts

The first in the queue will get them

Peculiar was this queue

Made up of patient people, with the Rosary, Bible, prayer

And those unquiet, running out, seeking their own ways

Bored with waiting

Days and years were passing

Full of movements in the Queue of Life

The Rosary and Bible fell out of the hands of those waiting

Hope got weaker in the Queue of Life

Some departed, being tired of carrying the cross

That fell down from the clouds unexpectedly

They felt disappointed with such a burden

Others held the cross tight and embraced it.

I was rising and falling in my hope

Taking turns while entering the light or the darkness

The darkness shouted: there will be no gifts left for the last ones

The light increased my faith.

My Angel was standing by, like a mighty Guardian

Stand, He shouted, when my legs got weaker

And I keep standing in this strange Queue of Life

Like the biblical workers who came last for their pay

Believing that God, in His Treasury of Mercy

Has a golden coin of Love, too - for the last ones.

The desert spring

There is time of penance when we fight for faith

Being cast into a barren desert

In distress, we look for the eyes of God

When tried with the darkness of the night

The words of prayer, once life-giving

Change into the alphabet of a foreign language

In this deadly silence of the desert's retreat

We fight for faith, for God

In the desert heat, Satan tempts the body

With an illusion of an oasis that quenches the thirst

In this desert is also a spring of pure water

It flows from under the rock, out of longing for man

God cast His glance into the brilliance of this spring

Waiting patiently for the man wrapped in darkness

The humming of this spring carries the echo of the words of Love

This water current leads you toward the light

Straight into the arms of God.

Waves of graces

I would like just to thank You, Lord

In a simple prayer, on a gray day

For the graces, bestowed from You

But You granted the enchantment of the heart on me

As if Somebody broke a dam on a heavenly river

Showing the abundance of graces flowing on

I was standing in surprise over the current of this river

Over the power of the Divine Mercy …

Step into this river, I heard, let its waters carry you

That was the Offering of Jesus that broke this dam!

I plunge my feet, not being without fear

And I hold on to my baggage of life, it’s my last resort

I swim along this river’s current fearfully

Merciful waves get my baggage of life drowned

Only I … and the waves of graces, benevolent, purifying

In the middle of the river, I feel the hardship of swimming

The waves of graces are beautiful, but require much effort

They whisper about pure love, about trust in God

About faith, forgiveness to those hurting you, about suffering

The river that I swim along … becomes an endless ocean

I fear my weakness, I fear being cast out on the shore

With a painful cry, I call for the white Host

A sign of power, flowing over the waves

Be with me, I shout, I trust in You, Lord!

Dates

Our life consists of days

It’s a banal truth

But the dates in our life aren’t that banal

There is a day when happiness comes

Filling the body with sweetness

And another one that hurts unexpectedly

Leaving an unhealed scar on us forever

We keep these dates in memory

As if other days were gone with a passing time

And we have no cure

Especially for the painful ones

And though days and years still bloom with new flowers

We don’t feel any flavor …

Give us, oh Lord, many dates of happiness

And for those whose scars can’t be healed

Make, please, such a holiday

Out of the dates when they got injured

So that the new date could be an encounter with You

May Your merciful hands collect their tears

So that they were not in vain, absorbed into the ground.

The Infant in the snow

On a certain Advent morning

I found a strange gift

On a bench, full of snowy fluff

Somebody left the little Infant in the cradle

He was lying lonely in the white

As tiny as a child’s finger

Did You slip out of the angel’s pocket?

Or were You a problem for somebody at the Christmas table?

Your solitude in this poor cradle

Was so painful but also holy

It reached my heart with a maternal warmth

You became an awesome gift for me

Though someone abandoned You, like a plaster puppet

You were the gift, whispering silently

About the sense of Your Nativity …

You whispered to me that nothing frightens You

Neither the street noise, nor frost, nor rejection

Left alone in the cradle, without Mother or angels

Painfully but patiently, You wait for our love

And maybe for my prayer, too?

For those who cast You away from their hearts

And they are stuck in the icy cave of their life

You have been waiting patiently for ages

In the wooden cradle and on the holy cross

With the message of God’s Love, so great that incomprehensible.

A sign of immortality

Mortal is my body, like withering flowers

And transitory is the world that I live in

Original sin is my feature

And You, Lord, are unknown eternity for me

I came out of darkness of the human womb

And my spirit is dressed in poor garment

My joys are just dying-away flashes

And You, Lord, are the Eternal Light

Despite the darkness that touches me

And poverty of spirit, overweighed with senses

Despite fears of my human nature

I look for the kingdom of light, Your Kingdom, Lord

I keep strange memory inside, adorned with hope

Of a mysterious, loving kiss of the Father

Who, saying good-bye to a child that sets off on a hard way

Doesn’t abandon him, with oblivion of the heart

Feeling unable to cross the border of eternity

And entangled in earthly matters strongly

I lift up my mortal prayer to You, Lord

With faith that our love will meet under the cross

You joined my mortality and Your eternity, Lord

With the Cross, the sign of Your Son

My world built the Cross out of dry wood

And You put the promise of eternity on it

The Love, poured out of eternity, pierced with the human cross

Flowed over the earth as the food of the Eucharist, the redeeming manna

It answered with Mercy against the cruel violence

Pointing to the way that joins mortality with eternity.

A doubt

When we stand by the bank in doubt

Staring into the river current with fear

We look for a boat that will take us

To the other bank where hope awaits

We can’t avoid such banks

Only empty hearts aren’t afraid to drown

Our nature is woven with earthly values

So we often choose the wrong boat

And though we want to reach the bank of hope

We flow down the current of doubts

The boat that we trusted so much

Turned out to be a paper boat

There is one boat that sails toward the light of hope

To the bank where doubts are gone

And it is not a vessel in full splendor

But just a boat with Jesus, asleep

When you entrust your life then

You won’t avoid threatening storms, or rapid waves

And not once, you will cry, like the Lord’s disciples:

Jesus, wake up, the boat is sinking!

And even if you had Peter’s courage for a moment

Running over the water toward Jesus, in trust

You will choke with fear, like he did

But Jesus’ hand will pull you out of depth

Fear and doubt are frequent guests of human nature

But the real grace is faith and trust in God

So when in doubt, just cry: Jesus, I am drowning!

And wait, for He will run over to you with love.

Pilgrim’s prayer

Prayer sometimes has a color of juicy greenery

When it is born in the mountains, with the pilgrims

It soars over the tops with the elevation of the heart

And sinks in the clouds, under the blue sky

It falls down to the rapid streams from the peaks and hills

So that it could flow along the living brook of Mary’s songs

The pilgrim’s prayer rests in meditation

In old Orthodox churches, with the eyes stuck in the pictures

It entrusts its tears, joys and sorrows to the saints

It gets more beautiful, meditating the saints’ communion

In Litmanowa, the prayer kneels down with respect

Before the miracle of Mary’s Apparitions that lasted quite long

Gifted with hope of Her perpetual protection

It is heading toward Mount Mary, to Her statue with the Rosary

It whispers: “Under Your Protection”, enchanted by the beauty of the temple

It sets the pearls of the Rosary, like flowers, at the foot of Her statue

Like the noble diamonds of the soul

For the glory of Her Son, for the miracle of Holy Mass …

In the Sanctuary of the Divine Mercy in Cracow

The prayer started its pilgrimage

Being blessed with the hands of Jesus, it became delicate, sensitive

For the beauty of temples, the testimony of faith of man

For the beauty of mountainous landscapes, like the reflection of Heaven

Prayer sometimes has a color of juicy greenery

Of a spring renewal of love toward God.

Pilgrim’s baggage

We are born being naked and we die, naked

We hear these words during the days of penance

And even if we were dressed beautifully, on our last way

We will stand before God, but not in this robe

We will stand before God with peculiar baggage

With a sack and a pilgrim’s stick from our human way

And there will be nothing that earthy scales can weigh

Precious stones, medals, diplomas

There may a coin shine at the bottom of this baggage

The coin that we, being poor, may have given to a hungry

Or a bunch of smiles, or words of gratitude for help

Daily hardship, painstaking – just to live with dignity

Faith that evil didn’t deprive us of

Hope that hangs on the cross of Jesus

Love that we served with humility, though it was hard

And prayer, like a pilgrim’s stick that we got supported with

We received this peculiar baggage with the Baptism

Filled with the grace of God’s Holy Breath

Given for our pilgrim’s way, to enrich the world with love

And not to gather stones of egotism and conceit

Help us, Lord, for the sake of remembrance of Your Holy Breath

So that we could gather treasures that You have sown

The treasures of the hearts, which weigh nothing in the hands

Only Your scales will measure them justly someday.

Forgive them

I would never carry my sinfulness

When falling down like a bird, with an injured wing by evil

If it weren’t for the merciful hand of God

That gave me the Salvation Cross

And then I don’t fall, hurting myself deadly

Nor do I blossom like weeds that don’t yield any crop

I just catch the cross – my last chance

And among the shouts of executioners and clatter of hammers

I hear the voice of the Lord: forgive them because they don’t know what they do

You will not hear such words from another man

In the world that loved sin so much and tempts even more

There are so many men-birds around us, hurt with a spear of evil

And evil walks triumphantly over them, like over the mine-field

These are the people who didn’t hold out their hands toward Mercy

Trusting that freedom of a bird of space will last forever

We should pray and hope for those who neglected God’s Mercy

That a drop of blood from the Cross of Christ will shake their conscience.

A night conversation with an angel

When your life completes a circle

And takes a seat to rest

Like a bird, tired of a long flight

Then contemplate the truth about yourself

For it doesn’t have time to wait

Look at the world with the gift of wisdom

The wisdom of your own experiences

Look at the young ones, who look like you did once

Careless in love

Fighting for mammon, elbowing their ways sharply

And you already see their way of disappointment

Rebellion and tears, fear about the future

Because you have known this way yourself

You have fallen down there, yourself …

And you keep wondering why man still makes the same mistakes

He doesn’t accept the experience of other generations

The background is only changing

As if somebody put a new wall-paper on an old one

Different music is playing now, rapid and loud

And the fashion is more stripped

Trying to lay the body bare from nakedness more than with ideas

Then beseech the Lord for a gift of wisdom

So that you didn’t become just an empty circle

That your life made of you

And when the young say: the world is different now

You know that there is no other world

The one that exist, is divided

And created by human pride

This is the world without God, without love …

Still, this very world is redeemed

With the Cross of Jesus and His Love

The world, fighting with evil

Fighting for the dignity of man

The world of God, blessing the human crosses of hardship

For the reward in eternity …

Leaves of memories

How beautiful the autumn landscape is

Luring the eyes with the colors of leaves

The yellow beside the red are shimmering

A still-green leaf is sometimes between them

Forcefully dropped with a blow of wind

I am standing at the lake, full of these colors

It’s covered with them like a carpet of nature

So many memories are there, so many left-over leaves

Memories of spring or summer when awakened with sunshine

They blossomed on the branches, enlivened with the tree juice

And I think that this lake full of dried-up leaves

Will absorb their short histories

And will remind us that it’s like our life, full of old memories

That enslave us so much that we can’t see the depth

Which is separated by the dried-up leaves of memories

How hard it is for the human nature

To forget about beauty and pain of the memories of life

And forget about the lake that embraces our old history

And look in yourself for the pure deep of water

Where we will see, not the leaves but our face

Seeking new hope in the depth of this crystal lake.

The past and the future

The past and the future met together

On a way, by chance

The past had a walking stick in the hand and a gray beard

And a sack full of old rules on the back

The future had a young face and empty hands

On her shoulders, there was a fashionable, colorful backpack

The past looked curiously at the future

But the future turned away the eyes with anger

As if she were afraid to be asked for alms

And that the frowns on her face

Could deprive her of hope and the charm of youth

They travelled on, each in a different direction

One was slow, as if time didn’t mean much

The other, like a marathon runner, was speeding up

Picking up the fruits of good looks and youth

And putting them into an empty, fashionable backpack

The past and the future are like the seasons

The future gets nourished with the power of spring and summer

The past, with the harvest of autumn and with cold wisdom of winter

And nobody will stop these laws of nature

And someday, the future will turn into the past …

The future runs along the paths of the “young futures”

Still full of vigor and unfulfilled longings

And she fears one thing only, not to run into the past

But those who boasted about their youth power, like she did, once

Now they put it into the cards of history

The past and the future met together

The hope of the youth with the truth of old wisdom.

New heart

It’s great to praise You, Lord

When the heart beats like a happy bird

Soaring in the space of a loving enchantment

He is granted a grace to get higher and higher

And the body is penetrated with great trust and faith

But there are days when the bird of joy

Folds his wings, unwilling to fly

Wrapped up with a heavy robe of sadness and pain

With a fixed gaze on his own weakness

He forgets how great it is to soar in faith

And a reflection comes, touched with an angel’s wing

That a bird of joy needs a different nourishment

The nourishment of grace of faith, stronger than feelings

Which are passing, like a leaf that soars up with a blow of wind

They come and go …

May God grant us a new heart, we beseech

The heart, pierced with His Love, in the Feast of the Eucharist

The spring that flows eternally and never ceases

The spring, filled with the words of the Gospel

Gushing with a still, patient rhythm

Please create a pure heart in me, Lord

Fighting for faith like a warrior in a battlefield of temptations

Give my heart, oh Lord, a shield with a light of Your grace

With the cross of Jesus, adorned with His blood

May my battle for strong faith that I wage with myself

Be sanctified with Your Divine blessing.

The time that doesn’t pass away

Time passes as if someone

Tore out the sheets of the calendar hastily

Dawn barely wipes our eyes

When the rising sun, with its glare

Calls us to work

And we keep running and running

The trace after our work becomes a leftover

Like the few houses that we built

Or the machines that we invented

Or the people that we cured …

And in the mirror we see a gray, tired man or woman

And a question: where is that running, young man?

In the faces of the children, grown-up now, we discover

The time that flew unnoticed

And we ponder whether there is the time

Which isn’t just a falling sheet of a calendar

But the time that is awaiting and stopped

Somewhere in the space between Heaven and Earth

Indeed, there is such a time, the time of prayer

When a moment becomes an hour

An hour becomes a day …

The time that doesn’t run but it lasts

In a peculiar state of rest

The time of prayer, of the Adoration of the Lord

Being sunk into eternity

The eternity without calendars, clocks and haste.

The return of the child

I close my eyes in a humble permission

To mix the past time of life with the present one

To seek the pictures that the merciless clock

Hasn’t drowned in the lake of non-remembrance yet

I see a little girl in a Cracow dress

She sits during Mass at the foot of the Altar with children

A priest says the homily, the child doesn’t understand it

And absorbs the scent of sweet lilies and the mood of the church

The child’s innocence is still protected with the angel’s robe

The child is still hugged by Heaven

Looking at the surrounding world with trust

With this childlike trust, abundantly granted through Baptism

Time flowed like a rapid river, that child is already gone

The sharp elbows of life push aside daily life, just to survive

The glance of an adult is mistrustful, she remembers the wounds of life

She often hears: save yourself, you are grown-up …

I withdraw the film of life and reach into the granary of memories

And kneel before the Altar, recalling in my heart, that child

And I ask: lead me along the way of your childlike trust, toward God

Resurrect in me, with the gift of Divine Infancy

So that I could return where trust

Opens up the eyes and ears to the joy of Heaven

Where angels sweep away fear with their wings

Where the power of trust within me

Nourishes the fellow men with this joy.

The throne

My King was laid down in a poor manger

While the children of the kings of this world

Slept in golden cradles

My King was nailed to the cross

It was His throne made of plain wood

When the kings of the world sat on the rich thrones

My King was adorned with nakedness and blood

The thrones and cradles of this world got rotten long ago

But the throne of my King has endured in this world for ages

Though there were and there are those who want to destroy it

But it is reborn, still immortal

For it reached the Heavens with Love, not with a sword

The mortal hands made His throne, out of wood

And He gave them eternal life with His saving blood

The bare feet of my King were nailed to the throne

So that they would never reach the earth

When resurrected, they wandered among the people

Giving hope to those who believed in Him

He rose from the throne proclaiming the immortality of love

To those who believe only in earthly thrones and cradles

And to those who look for thrones-crosses in eternity.

The beauty of a picture

Happiness, despair, love, hope

Have colors taken from the palette of life

They are like a rainbow of colors, the artist’s brush paints with them

They are beautiful when they show on the canvas

The mystery of human longing of many generations

Sometimes many years pass, uneasy, not creative

And on the canvas … there are only dark shadows

The artist mixes the paints, proud of his talent

But his pictures reflect poor colors only

The silhouettes are dead-like, like the birds unwilling to fly

He puts a white fabric on his easels

Anxiety creeps into the painter’s heart

He asks: where are you, my mysterious longing?

Where is the source of the most noble colors?

Sometimes the One who holds the palette of beautiful colors in His hand

With the help of an angel’s voice from a picture of an old master

Leads the artist to the holy places

Maybe there, he will get to know the mystery of his longing?

He will dissolve in tears the cold of his heart and the pride of his talent

He will become the artist of life and not of painting only

As soon as he places the recovered longing on his pictures

Then he will become the master of the pictures that live out their beauty.

Painful pilgrimage

It is a gift, Jesus, to fill the heart with the Holy Land

And let the sun of Israel penetrate us

And touch the mystery of this land with our hands

And the places of Your footsteps

Breathing the air which still carries Your words

Feeling like a gifted child …

I experienced these feelings in my previous pilgrimages

I was joyful with the joy of the Apostles from Mount Tabor

In my next pilgrimage You stopped me, Lord

On the Jerusalem’s Way of the Cross

As if You wished that I shared my pain with You more than my joy

Without sun, in the stormy wind and touched with a sickness

I carried a strange sadness within me, a complaint of my soul

The prayer got broken in my mouth

As if it wanted to take me away to the desert

Far from the noisy voices of the pilgrims

Being pushed by an uneasy crowd in the Basilica of the Tomb and Nativity

Among unknown faces and languages, very tired I reached

The holy places, the Rock of Golgotha and others

I felt like a lost pilgrim, seeking the Guide

The Guide who will show me the source, the very essence of my pilgrimage

I was seeking You, Jesus, Your presence …

During the Holy Mass when the wind was pushing aside the cloth on the Altar

Or when a cold wind penetrated my body on the Galilean sea

Being burdened with my own infirmity

I looked for an answer from You, Lord

And I saw a picture of Merciful Jesus on a Jerusalem street

There wasn’t any inscription, Jesus, I trust in You

A strange pain penetrated my heart

As if the diamond of Your Mercy got shattered into pieces

And the feet of the pilgrims ran forth, covering it with dust

They ran to Your footsteps, locked in the stones, not in the hearts

You have intended this pilgrimage to be painful for me, Lord

You taught me humility and patient mercy

And the contemplation of divisions of religions and hearts

And when in the Basilica of Nativity, an Orthodox priest

Asked me to move over … to the Catholic side

I saw You, Jesus falling down under the cross

The cross that is undividable and is the only cross of Love

How many centuries do we need to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land

So that the Love of Your Cross could join people together?

Saints

When our sins cause a painful wound in us

We turn to the saints for support

To feed us with the power of their faith

We try to know the secret of their life and faith

The faith that they even lost their lives for

And I see them climbing up toward the light of Heaven

Along the stairs of the world, full of thorns of temptation

Along the slippery rocks of doubt and illness

As if God by crucifying their will and body

Wanted to liken their souls to His Son

But the smile for the people never disappeared from their faces

Among these hardships and spiritual struggles

They hid the tears among the sad, dark nights

They turned them into the words of a beseeching prayer

Somewhere, at some time of their life

They saw Jesus on the way of the cross

His eyes were like the eyes of the poor, hungry, love-thirsty

Through His silence they recognized the will of God for them

And took up the struggle with their own weakness

For those who haven’t known the love of God, yet

And even if we wanted to know their sanctity with our mind

Studying many wise books

Our heart will not understand the mystery of sanctity

When it is closed for our fellow being

It will not understand the gift of hands and heart as an offering

For the salvation of souls, so precious for God

It will not understand the pain of the saints, their suffering

The crucifixion of body and will and the faithful trust

As Mother Therese of Calcutta says: For the saints

Suffering is a sign that you are close to Jesus on the cross

So close that He can even kiss you.

Ocean of faith

Sometimes we see images in our dreams

As if a late painter still created his works

With no canvas, paint and easel, but only with his imagination

And sent them to the gallery of human dreams

I saw such an image – a stormy ocean

Birds were flying out of the whiteness of the foaming waves

Lord Jesus alive was emerging out of the ocean

Holding out His hands toward the people standing on the shore

The mysterious ocean looked like a symbol of faith

Where Jesus Himself was inviting us

True faith is not on the shore, secure

It must, with trust, engulf itself, in Truth

And touch like a swimmer, submitted to the waves

And drink, or even get choked with this living faith water

And fight evil even in pain, for good survival

And thank for gracefulness of the helping hands of God

Sometimes fear pulls us into a whirlpool of confusion

And the waves of glances of indifferent onlookers engulf us

But our strength is not in our muscles

But in God, His Promise, of Eternal Salvation.

The open window of Heaven

I believe that in man is a registered

Idea of goodness, love and beauty

The Creator has put her into the heart of man

And the heart will not rest until man reaches her

I believe that we carry a longing for her

Hidden somewhere deeply

It’s like a pearl, hidden in a shell

The longing for goodness, for love

Free from sin, ready for offering

But here on earth, being dressed in our carnality

Too often we serve the shell … not the pearl

But this pearl, hidden in hard crust

Desires purity of our spirit

But sometimes, being cleansed with sincere prayer

We experience a grace of a peculiar state

And a saint in Heaven opens a window ajar

And for a moment … we hold a pearl in our hands

With no talent for singing, for music and painting

Suddenly, a beautiful hymn is coming out of our mouth

Our hands are painting fabulous pictures

And we become ingenious musicians

At this wonderful moment, our heart is filled with amazement

Though our return to earth is so painful

Still, we experienced a miracle … of touching Heaven

Then a desire comes how to retain this pearl in the heart

And not lose the memory of goodness, love and beauty.

Courage

How to get on the road that You went along, Jesus

And not to stop and seek rest halfway?

Whom to become to help You carry Your cross

And not to leave You alone?

How not to just stand at the waters of the Jordan

And watch Your Baptism from the safe bank?

How, being nourished and satiated with bread and fish

Not to return to another sin?

How to adore Your Mother

And make my hands bake bread for others with Her?

How to be by Your side, flooded with blood and tears

And not to run away from Gethsemane in terror?

How to recognize the Grotto, this passage from Earth to Heaven?

How to avoid fear when Herod tries to kill the Child?

How to keep going with the Three Kings, along their pilgrims’ way

And not to go astray on the desert of doubt?

I have so many questions to You, Lord

While kneeling at the manger in Bethlehem

And You order me the silence, putting the finger on Your lips

And pointing with Your eyes, to the beating heart of the Infant

Then the questions that are infected by weak nature, get silent

And I want to hold the Infant in my arms

May He teach me the courage of love …

May He teach man the courage and trust in Love

The Love that always gives a helping hand when you fall

And It stops and waits along the way of your life …

Until we shake off the dust of our weak nature.

Without answer

When something ends and something new begins

Thoughts come about grain that was sowed

In the field of life and didn’t grow

But some wheat has bloomed as daily bread

I started thinking over the life of people

Those who passed away long ago and these who just died

I look over their cards of fate carefully

For me, they are written with mysterious style

Why did some of them leave us halfway

With the card of life that had empty spaces?

Why do others who have the card filled with hardship

Carry their life like a camel with heavy humps?

And even if I tried to think hard day and night

No answer would I find, only God knows it

When I study the cards of life of those departed already

I can see their dreams fading away like a flame of a grave-lamp

And a strange thought comes to me that maybe we are

Flowers in the garden of our Lord, Creator?

Though some flowers are just buds but they spread fragrance

For the fragrance of others we must wait until their flakes are open

And none of us here on earth knows the code of life

God, the Lord of Life and Death, covered it with mystery

But He revealed one mystery to us

That the value of life is measured on the scale of love

And the length of life is not important by the years

Nor the number of built houses, bridges, written books

Important is love that we share with God and other people

The memory of this love adorns the cards of life of those

Who haven’t passed away yet.

God’s Hope

Oh, God, You Are the sunshine of the day

And the moon, dispersing the dusk of the night

But we, people often see darkness around

Where Your light is shining …

We yield to our weak nature

Blinded … in the light

What is filled with the spirit of holiness

Seems dead to our eyes

Just a color in a golden frame

We honor body pains, or autumn-like moods

Forgetting about the Creator …

There are such cold moments in our faith

Our soul loses her joyous breath

Shouting out of pain …

A gentle touch of Fatherly Love suddenly flows down

Unexpected, like a rescue of grace

Out of darkness, the cross appears

We lay our weakness there

It’s our repentance offering, for the blindness of the heart

For the autumn clouds of our mood of doubt

For our faith which yields to the night of darkness

For the heart that is cold, without prayer

And the soul wakes up, warmed with the ray of the Holy Spirit

His voice sounds like a bell within us

I, the Lord, have bestowed the grace of faith upon you

Trusting that you will not fail Me, my children

And will recognize My Love in the Holy Host

For this Fatherly Hope, I have created you …

Reflections on the Feast of the Dead

Death is asking …

Death asked Life what is precious that He sees in Himself?

Life covered His face with the hands with fear

So that He couldn’t see the countenance of Death

He decided to hide in the crowd

Of people who don’t want to hear Her questions

They carry a banner, like an advertisement of a product

With an inscription: life is a joy, comfort, fun and happiness

And so, going with them for some time

Life has forgotten about Death’s question

And all together they shouted their joyous slogans

Until He fell down on the ground

The crowd stepped over Him with a loud laughter

Nobody has bent down over Life

Nobody has given Him a helping hand

Life disturbed their march, with His unfortunate fall

There was a big oak tree on the roadside

It covered Life with shadow, against the heat

Its leaves stubbornly whispered:

What is so precious in You, Life?

And Death appeared again, in a duet with a rustle of the leaves:

Some day, I will hold You in My hands, Life

And will pull Your roots out of this earth

I will put You before the throne of the One who had breathed a spirit in You

You will stand all alone before Him, when He asks You:

What do You have for Me that is precious?

Life looked at His empty hands sadly

And wiped dust and dry, autumn leaves off His clothes

Then He set off along His own way, granted with the light

Today, He stands under the oak, as strong as the arms of the cross

He raises from the fall those whom others didn’t give a helping hand.

Our Gethsemane

I have experienced a deep heart transformation

Meditating over Your pain, Jesus, in Gethsemane

You asked the Apostles to stay with You

But they, so tired, fell asleep

A dead rock was Your companion

A cup of bitterness, lightening in the darkness

Your sister was solitude, at this moment of distress

Nobody wiped the bloody sweat off Your body

Your destiny was to save man

What does man understand out of Gethsemane

This pilgrim who follows the traces of Jesus’ Passion

When he touches the time of Your Gethsemane with his heart

And recognizes, in his life, his own Gethsemane

These lonely nights, full of tormenting hesitation

Whether to yield to the Will of God, or cast away, out of fear?

Or drink the bitterness of life, or change it into penance?

Or offer God our own suffering?

Or go through life in accord with our own will?

There are also such holy moments, granted upon man

When he stands face-to-face before God

God asks a question and waits silently …

And you, in your Gethsemane, must make a decision

Whether you follow His Love or the world’s comfort?

In this struggle of conscience, what can be our consolation

In our human, contemporary Gethsemane?

There is no dead rock and lonely night any more

Resurrected Jesus stands there, to surround us with courage of Love.

Our homes

I see life as a constant running

In searching for safe homes

These which provide spiritual peace

And others, made of wood, cement and bricks

There was a house from my childhood, full of voices

I can still hear those fairy tales

The aroma of those dreams hasn’t evaporated yet

But the wind of maturity closed the door behind

We begin to build our own homes

They are often like unfinished constructions

Incapable, we make mistakes, building them

They lack a table with nourishment of love

And a place where prayer reigns

Goodness comes out of the leaky windows

Vanity opens the door widely

The apartment turns into a prison for a weeping soul

But there comes the day, granted with grace from Heaven

When we hear of the house, built on a rock

We turn our glance to the cross nailed to the wall

It wandered with us through many homes

The patient Lord, with His head against His arm

And we hear a whisper: My Heart is your home …

Kneeling before Him, tired of our running

We build out last, new home, out of His Abundant Love.

The rescue

If you don’t hear the birds, singing outside the window

The sunrise and sunset don’t fascinate you any more

If the passersby’ faces look strange to you

Flowers don’t enchant you with their colors and appeal

If you wear anger like an old, worn-out sweater

Love seems to be too expensive

And life resembles a hard rock to step over roughly

Then you look as if you went dead in your essence, man

And what is beautiful in you, fell asleep soundly

Be aware that nobody can squeeze a tear out of a rock

There isn’t any life-giving blood in it, either

The smile is covered with conceit and will not light up your face

And anger frightens everyone away, even the very kind one

The sun over your head will be just an illusion of light

Flowers and people will turn into an obstacle

You will become a stone, hurting and deaf

And your heart will get mute for the world and people

But there is a rescue for you, the man of steel

Someone on the cross was once stuck into a rock, like yours

The merciful prayer was poured out over the world

For the hearts that got petrified in sin

It was Jesus, rid of clothes, naked, dressed only in the garment of loving pain

He, the sculptor of Love, wanted to carve in you

The sign of Divine Love, with the cross and not with a hurting chisel

The sign that opens the heart to the beauty of life in Heaven and on Earth.

Repentance song of a soul

I didn’t ask You, Lord, for graces

I took them from the world in bunches

I didn’t ask You, Lord, for graces

Though You sent them for me

With my head raised up proudly

I strode on, stepping over them

And picked fruits from high branches

Those on the ground were not good enough

I didn’t take love from Your hands

But demanded it from people

Until the day came over, like a black bird of penance

And pierced my pride with a sharp beak

I stood in front of an iron gate

Behind the bars, I heard groans and crying

Of people just like me

They beseeched for prayers and for graces that they stepped over

They ordered me to kneel down, with my eyes turned down to earth

And look for the lost graces and sing a repentance song

I turned my face to Humility, the unknown lady for me so far

And I looked for the signs of Your graces, Lord, in the past

Since then, I’ve been looking at the world, on my knees

This pose brings me closer to Your graces, Lord

I gather even tiny gifts like precious pearls

So that I could generously share them with my fellow men.

Gift of love

If you received the grace of filling your heart

With love that surpasses all other senses

And doesn’t want reciprocity, paying back, devotion

Then you got a gift from the Holy Spirit, the most expensive one

The freedom of bestowing love …

Being freed from the chains of the body

You experience hovering over human faults, sins

You don’t judge, but leave the judgment to God

Your love, plunged in freedom

Doesn’t feel touched or thirsty

It is like life-giving, clear air

Ready to share breath and give away pearls

Out of the inexhaustible source of this Love

You are like a bird, bestowed with space

Released from the prison of the cage of the body

Constraining you and waiting for gratitude

Oh, beautiful gift of Love of the Holy Spirit

Given to the soul like a singing prayer

If you hear its sounds once

It will last inside you with a never-ending flame.

Give me, Lord, the words …

What strange power human words have

You can utter them but don’t believe in them

You can proclaim them with faith to people

But very few will accept them

Like little clouds in the sky, beautiful words are flowing

The wind is pushing them, nobody knows where to

Emptiness is spreading, even the sounds get lost somewhere

There are other words which take over the heart with their power

They become a rock, a milestone

They put up a wall in the heart, turning it into a stronghold

Sometimes they may hurt with the weight of their Truth

But this is the rock that we can build our house on

The foundation of trust and faith

Because the Words of Truth are like the Countenance of the Almighty

Give me, Lord, the words like the stones everlasting

May they become deaf against those which lure with deceit

May I utter them, even when in pain

Like a mute who, by miracle, regained speech

Give me, Lord, Your words, the words of Love

So that I could build a spacious chapel out of them, in my heart

And in there, I will adore You with my humble prayer.

Precious gift

You are God of the universe, Lord

We, people, are just an earthly flame that is going out

You, Lord, know the mystery of eternity

We, don’t even know our future

The sunrise of our hope often turns into the sunset

We are like a child’s money-box

Where you may find a copper coin or a golden one

The hungry wants some bread, the satiated looks for diamonds

There are others who step over the rose petals

Still others get hurt with thorns piercing their feet

But You gave us, Good Lord, free will, in Your Justice

The gift of Your royal generosity

And although chances are unequal on this earth

It is we who choose whether to serve evil or love

And even if we just have a copper coin in our money-box of life

We may give it to other people

God has given us the hands, heart, to fill them with His graces

Each out of billions of beings carries this grace of His

And when we do believe in His Eternal Love

Our life then, will become a precious gift

Behold, we were created with the breath of the Eternal Father

And for the eternity we have been called

Evil keeps whispering: you are nobody, man

But the Spirit of the Son of God cries with power from the cross:

You are, like I Am, the Sons of Almighty God

It is He Who has given you, with hope, the richness of the world

It is He Who entrusted you with life to make a miracle out of it

And waits patiently for you, who believed in His Love.

Faces and words

You have given us, Lord, faces and words

And we read from them like from an open book

About emotions, feelings that are hidden in man

About beauty or ugliness of his interior

There are words and faces so beautiful

And I don’t think about physical good-looks

When we look at them and listen to their words

Then we feel the power of the Holy Spirit flowing down on us

These are the artists of God’s words and eternal truths

We read from their faces about the strength of their faith

And they don’t have to express them loudly and pathetically

They testify the truth of their words with their lives

They seem to be messengers not from this world

We want to call them saints but they feel like sinners

Loneliness isn’t uncommon for them, among hostile faces

And their body suffers when touched with pain

Where do they take power from, to win the fight

With people with faces full of conceit and words of contempt?

Are their hearts and bodies built out of better stuff?

Or maybe they discovered an open window in Heaven?

Let their life be a mystery of God’s grace

They proclaim that the time of evil has a deadly dimension

Their words lead to an encounter with the Good of eternity

And their life, full of love, is the proof of revealed truths.

On the trails of faith

There are trails of faith in people’s lives

Adorned with the smell and color of flowers warned with the sun of God’s grace

Safe, like the arms of a beloved man

Like a child’s cradle, filled with the down of trust

These trails are painstaking, up the mountain whose top can’t be seen

The sun is unkind and doesn’t warm, the cold wind makes you freeze

We hold on to the stones, our last resorts

And the cross of life, hanging on the back, falls off .. with lack of faith

There are the roads of faith, over the valley, which lure with the lights of the world

Singing is heard and voices calling for a care-free rest

We turn our eyes toward the valley, blinded by its glare

And the mountain of faith that we wanted to reach, seems far away

There are also trails of faith over the abyss

Where chuckling Satan points to our old sins, gathered in a pile

And although merciful God holds out His hands with love

Satan lures us with the memory of sin, taking away our hope

The journey along the way of faith is not a march of the satiated and relaxed pilgrims

It’s the journey of the barefooted and hungry, for whom the sun’s warmth is not enough

A loaf of bread doesn’t tempt with satiety

And the stones that Jesus stumbled over, are often the only bedding

Give us, Lord, the grace of understanding how to be pilgrims in faith

And when we stand over the abyss, on our mountain

Show the cross with the suffering Son, move It over toward us

So that we, being in His arms, could stand before You,

Barefooted and hungry for Your Love.

Power of Love

Life hurt me with suffering

Like You with the spear of Longings

Blood and sweat splashed from Your side

Love for You splashed from my heart

I glue over my wound with love given so unexpectedly

Like the bees with a honeycomb

My soul is filled with sweetness

When I share Your suffering with mine

And although I bear my pain in a human way

Like a soldier, injured in a fight

I feel a strange power, kneeling before You

And the trust, irresistible

I ask You, Jesus, my Lord, for one thing

When the world hurts my heart again

Please be like Veronica, cover my face with the veil

And help me like Simon to carry on my cross.

The unfinished picture

I saw a strange picture before my eyes

Gray-blue, unfinished

As if the painter walked away from the easel for a while

Looking for creative inspirations

On the picture - a stormy ocean, an empty beach

And just two people, the silhouettes without facial features

One of them had an anchor by his leg

The other dragged an iron ball, like a galley-slave

Both, daring, without hesitation, walked into the ocean

What did the painter want to convey, with this picture?

What was the stormy ocean for him?

Was it a life’s vision in the fight for survival?

Or a whirlpool that engulfs man?

Lonely, in thoughts, I stood before the picture

And tormenting fear was poured into my heart

Why did the man with an anchor plunge in the water bravely?

Why wasn’t the man with a heavy ball afraid to drown?

Suddenly an angel brought me an inspiration

The man with an anchor walked into the ocean in faith

That God will fix it against too dangerous waves

This anchor means our trust in God’s Commandments

They are our protection when the whirlpool of evil pulls us in

The man with an iron ball, believes in his own strength

And flows into the ocean of life, full of vain pride

For both of them … it is a fight for eternal survival

And suddenly … hope removed my anxiety:

When the painter comes back, with an inspiration from God

He will paint a boat, in addition, somewhere over the horizon

On the boat, the inscription will light up

With the words: Mercy keeps waiting.

We repeat very often: God is Love. And if we accept this Truth, we should consider it more deeply in the context of the Holy Trinity. For us, Catholics, God is the Father. The Father of Love. And if He is the Father of Love … then He bears this Love. He is not the “closed” God, but the “giving birth” God. He is not the Love for love itself. He creates Love through His unique Personality. He bore Jesus, His Son, out of His Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit of God and Jesus are of one Spirit. So the Son of God is the God who reveals Himself to the people on earth. He has all Divine features and He fulfills the Will of His Father. Jesus’ Will is God’s Will. Thus only such great, perfect Love could be revealed on earth. The Love that is disinterested and cares for our Salvation. The Love that gives away Its Son.

Desire of my heart

You have given me, Lord, the cross for my size

First You had weighed it not to make it too heavy

You have also given me, Lord, the Love of Your Son

To enrich my pilgrim’s route

You had prepared the cross for me with Your own hands

And put it gently on my human back

Although I carry it, being bent down under its weight

I remember that it is You, Lord, who created this cross

And when the cross presses me down and I get weaker

I beg like a beggar, before Your Countenance:

Give me, Lord, Veronica’s veil to wipe off my sweat

Send Simon to me to help me carry my cross

And keep reminding me, Lord, that it was You

Who gave me this cross according to my size

So that I wouldn’t cast it away during my hardship

And wouldn’t hang my own complaints on it

I have a desire in my heart, beating like a living spring

That someday, halfway between Heaven and Earth

Our hands could meet, in a loving grasp

Then I could give this gift back to You …

Like a treasure, bestowed and not wasted.

Request for the gifts

You know me, Lord

You know the day of my birth and my life’s end

You know the darkness and light of my days

You give me a cross unexpectedly

And bestow a grace upon me, though I don’t deserve

You give me prayers, so beautiful that my heart rejoices

You surprise me with Your patient Love

When I don’t love myself

You walk in front of me, like a burning bush

And lead me to its fire, to the glow of Eternal Truth

Take off your sandals – You call like You did, to Moses

Because this ground is holy and the time is holy

When I want to talk with you …

But I am so afraid to hurt my feet

Against sharp stones and hot sand

I see the burning bush of Your Love

And feel too weak to reach it

Give me, my God, the gifts of Your Spirit

May they become Your hands that will lift me up

May Their power and Your blessing

Change my weakness into the courage of love

And if Your will is for me to conquer the hardship of this way

Hurting my feet against the stones of life

Grant me the courage of bravery, the will of victory

Then I will take off my sandals that protect me from wounds

And I will stand before You, I, the non-saint person

Trusting that the Holy Love of Your Son has saved me

Burning my weakness in the fire of His Passion.

A necklace

Old age is like a broken necklace

With little pearls, scattered around

Old age bends down to pick the passed time

The time of old years, fragrances, flavors

Old sins and joys

Old age can be like collecting memories

But also it can be the wisdom of … cleansing

Of body lust, of pride, of vanity

Old age teaches transition

Of what is volatile and passing

The scattered pearls of the necklace are covered with dust

New youth strings the pearls now

In their own necklace of life

Old age watches how they do it joyfully

The young hearts, desiring hope to come to pass

In the necklaces of new youth

Old age sees a passing glare

Of her own scattered pearls of hope

Scattered in the dust, like worthless tinsels

Old age wants to tell them about the pearls of faith, hope and love

The young hearts listen carelessly

To the whispering voice of wise old age

Then old age reaches into the pocket of her coat

And caresses in her hands, the only necklace that never breaks

The Rosary … and she prays for the young hearts.

Anticipation

In the darkness of December mornings

And the streets still asleep and motionless

The faithful are heading to churches, to the Rorate prayers

The church greets them with turned-off lights

And with a peculiar mystery of meditation

Over the miracle that is about to happen

These days are like the pearls of the Rosary prayer

Shifted slowly to rejoice the moment

They are like a lace, slowly woven out of the thread of hope

While waiting for the masterpiece of God, the Birth of His Son

During these days of the holy pilgrimage, step by step

The pilgrims of the Rorates are heading to Bethlehem

Together with us, Mary is going to Bethlehem, too

With Her Infant in the womb

She asks to hold the lamps of faith in our hands

And share the olive of love with all

This time of anticipation is a great feast in Heaven

God Himself blesses us, sending the Savior to earth.

Advent prayer

Guide me, Jesus

When I swim in the warm waves of Your grace

So that I didn’t forget about Your pain

Guide me, Jesus

Among the stormy waves, where even the courageous die

And don’t move away Your helping hand

Guide me, Jesus

Along the high mountains of faith, when Heaven seems near

And don’t let me fall into the abyss

Guide me, Jesus

Across the sad plains of infertile fields

Give me extra strength in this melancholy of life

Guide me, Jesus

Through my dark days, when the light doesn’t get through

May Your hand be like a flame

Guide me, Jesus

When I pray and my heart isn’t on fire

But just a complaint of loneliness

Guide me, Jesus

Through the solemn holidays which shouldn’t be like a greeting card

Or a wooden cradle or a lamp on a Christmas tree

Guide me, Jesus, along the way of Your grace

Where I can see Your living Countenance

And please, hold my hand so tight that I can even feel pain.

The dream-production world

The world that surrounds me, is full of pictures and sounds

They disturb the silence, with their importunate noise

Of strange thoughts, stuck in film pictures

Which often show evil in attractive colors

Music, instead of sounds of beauty and harmony

Evokes aggression, and destroys the rhythm of the heart

Fashion becomes a slavery command

Defining the look and value of man

And a young man gets drowned in this mass production

Before he learns that he is fooled

He is just a customer of consumption advertisement

A paper bill for a purchased gadget

Tears, love, suffering, man’s intimate beauty

They are attraction for a mass viewer

The more you see them on the screen, the more the profit

There are others that fell behind the consumption market

They seek an illusive stop, to fill the vacuum

By taking drugs to have narcotic visions of illusive world

This dream-production world has its own message

You can become a “god”, a master of world’s bargains

It’s enough to hold out a hand and gather extra cream

And luck will touch you, suffering will be gone

And only those who look for a penny in an old wallet

Know the truth about the dream world, with their empty pockets

I do have some hope, strangely trustful belief

That man, lured with the ideas of false prophets

Will recognize the lie of their shining silver coins

And will look for the Love that does not lie

The Love that is injured and nailed to the cross

And It calls to man: believe in the sanctity of your life.

I look for happiness

I look for happiness in my life

Not elusive, tears will not drown it

Suffering will not break it

And in spite of many obstacles

It can rise above momentary experiences

Of a fulfilled dream, or a grace of fate

I look for happiness that is difficult but renewing

Giving hope through the mystery of life

I go along my way, the pilgrim, dressed in my carnal senses

Which demand a state of happiness

False ideas and world’s pictures lure

Giving a moment’s sweetness of oblivion

And then they crack up like soap bubbles

The desire for happiness cries, feeling deceived

Out of sorrow, you raise your eyes toward Heaven and beseech:

Teach me, Lord, Your happiness

I hear an angel, running to me

He knows more about happiness than I do

I wrap myself in silence, suppressing my senses

It leads me into the mysterious space of the soul

I hear the words: “the Son of God died for you

Look for eternal happiness in His arms

And when you understand how great His Love is

Then you will find the happiness that you are looking for”.

Courage of love

How to get on the road that You went along, Jesus

And not to stop and seek rest halfway?

Whom to become to help You carry Your cross

And not to leave You alone?

How not to just stand at the waters of the Jordan

And watch Your Baptism from the safe bank?

How, being nourished and satiated with bread and fish

Not to return to another sin?

How to adore Your Mother

To make our hands bake bread for others with Her?

How to be by Your side, flooded with blood and tears

And not to run away from Gethsemane in terror?

How to recognize the Grotto, this passage from Earth to Heaven?

How to avoid fear when Herod tries to kill the Child?

How to keep going with the Three Kings, along their pilgrims’ way

And not to go astray on the desert of doubt?

I have so many questions to You, Lord

While kneeling at the manger in Bethlehem

And You order me the silence, putting the finger on Your lips

And pointing with Your eyes, to the beating heart of the Infant

Then the questions that are infected by weak nature, get silent

And I want to hold the Infant in my arms

May He teach me the courage of love…

May He teach man the courage and trust in Love

The Love that always gives a helping hand when you fall

And It stops and waits along the way of your life…

Until we shake off the dust of our weak nature.

The Book of Truth

So many words wreathe around us

So many books, filled with words

Hundreds of words cheated us

Many books lured us with illusions

With human zeal, we look for the words of truth

And reach for new books on the shelves

The truth that we find, becomes illusive

The words that seemed wise, sound empty today

We feel that there is the Truth, written down somewhere

But life still looks for the truth of this world

As if it wanted to know the instruction for life’s mystery

How to become happy here and now, on earth

The time of disappointment will come, or maybe, Lord’s grace

When we, hurt with the words from the shelves of this world

Will reach for the Book of Truth, The Holy Scripture of The Lord

And the Truth will speak, with the words of eternal life

And the heart, like a gate, will open up for the life of Jesus

Then we send a beseeching request to Heaven:

Give us, Good Lord, such a length of life

That we wouldn’t pass away, with the Book of Truth, half - opened.

On the run

Like in a marathon, people run today

And seek laurels to then dreams, in a hurry

They have no time to look back

And turn away from each other

To run faster and faster to reach their goal

They run as if they knew that glory waits on the horizon

Where to get the prize for this crazy race

In such a run, it's so hard to see Heaven

Or to smile and give a helping hand to a runner next to you

They are like swift greyhounds, chased with a sudden yell

They jump over a cross knocked down by wind

It is an obstacle on their running track

While passing by a church, they don't see Jesus there

Time is too short for them to hall Mary with a prayer

When She waits for: “Under Your Protection “in a roadside chapel

And when they reach their destination, paradise of vain desires

They are surprised to see nobody to greet them

And no hand - shakes in a friendly gesture

But only a band of rowdy youths, running and shoving them aside

And ... the aged ones just look and smile sadly

Now they hold a piece of glass, not a diamond they were fighting for

Deceived, they come back along the side trails

They desired worldly goal which was delusion

And somewhere along the way, they lost their families and friends

And perhaps their salvation as well?

They wanted to make miracles, those marathon - men

Fed with the fruits of the world, with fame and money

But a strange hunger was left over, that of the soul

May somebody's prayer light up their hearts with grace

To enable them to pick up the fallen cross, worship and embrace it.

Indifference

Is indifference like a concrete wall?

That rebounds emotions and sheds no tears?

Or maybe it is walk in the dark fog

And absorbs man or engulfs him

And avoids the hand, held out for help

Like an inconvenient nuisance?

Whose stepsister are you, human indifference?

Do you come out of egotism, stone heart, blind eyes?

You were hanged, Jesus, on the cross

That was built out of hatred

And You, through Your Passion, saved us

Forgive them, Lord, because they don't know what they are doing

This is what hurt Love whispered

Until the very end.... because It was forgiving

Suffering, tears, love, good and bad emotions

They are all strangers to indifference

Which doesn’t know what forgiveness stands for?

Unless … it is hurt

Does indifference have its cross, its savior?

Or maybe it is like an icy palace

Waiting for the hot rays of someone’s prayer?

Difficult prayer

I would like to pray to You, Lord

Like the repentant, prodigal Son

He knew his sin and iniquity

He also knew the Truth about Merciful Love

I would like to pray to You, Lord

With the words that are born in the heart

Spontaneous, ungrammatical and amiable

With the accent of action and love only

I would like, while praying, to follow my words

May they not flow like nice, gentle river current

But let a river stone stop them

And restrain them when they become an ordinary chatter

I don't want to be like brother of the prodigal son, envious of his return

And deride You when you bestow grace upon a sinner

While a good man suffers from misery and affections

Human justice doesn't understand this

I don’t want to ask You questions: where are You, Lord?

When the innocent faithful suffers

And evil, like a peacock, spreads its dazzling wings?

I just want to be like John, with my head nesting on your Son's chest

Human prayer is complex, Lord

The one that is truly profound and trusting in Your will

Its mystery is the heart that knows how to forgive

And the eyes which, even in darkness, stare at the cross on Golgotha.

A laurel

For a child’s laurel with painted carnation

I thank You, Lord, for Your anointing it

With sublime words, awkwardly written

For the gift of life with purpose

For Your patience, Oh, Teacher of Love

When Your pupil stumbles in the darkness

In search for light to follow the path to salvation

Thank You for my falls when I feel pain of doubts

For the joy of encountering Your Love

For the heavy stones of tragic events

I would never manage to carry them

If I had no trust in Your Mercy

Thank You for those beautiful dreams and peaceful nights

For hope of the rising sun again

For the mysterious flashes of light

Into my soul, heart and mind

Giving an insight into the world of Your Truth

Thank You for the grace of the Eucharist and prayer

For the hand of Your Son that I reach out to

When I find myself sinking

And I thank You for my days, being alone in the darkness

When it seems that I lost You

Thank You for teaching me to share my love with others

How delightful it is when we don’t expect gratitude from ingrates

Thank You, Lord, for the gift of experiencing life

For reminding me who I am for You, not for myself

Although Your teaching is sometimes cumbersome

I am happy to receive it from Your hands, Lord

As the most precious gift

Sanctified with The Body and Blood of Your Son.

The element of nature

Man feels his weakness and fragility against the power of the elements

Then he looks for the worlds that are small and safe

And the things that he could carry with his own hands

And the roads that are easy for his legs to stride along

He builds houses, hoping they will serve as fortresses

Against intruders and the elements that may challenge his liberty

We need such faith for life ought to be jealously guarded

But the truth is painful, there is no such citadel of shelter on earth

It is nice to sit on a rock by a waterfall to cool your feet on its surf

And watch the world pass by, imagining the source of the river

How different the sea is in the darkness with its threatening hum of waves

Meddling cyclones, thunderstorms, volcanic eruptions are so terrifying

The overwhelming, destructive forces of nature renders man defenseless

But man’s heart and his help is the most powerful element

And the grace that brings hope when we are in despair

It happens when we kneel before The One who is The Master of all elements.

The Lantern of Love

You may ask me

How I experience Divine Love, how I feel It?

Just imagine a menacing tempest at sea

With our boat of life sailing on it, rocking precariously

Distressed and helpless at the mercy of nature’s wrath

Roaring giant waves rid us of peace and safety

We feel like a ship’s wrecker in our boat of life

Suddenly, in this stormy weather

We experience an encounter, warmth embraces us

Calm descends, gentle ripples replace the raging storm

We feel peace and joy

As our Friend Jesus the Captain

Takes over the helm of the troubled boat

Now we are in the Eye of Great Love

We have strength and faith

That we will overcome this evil storm

Behold, somebody keeps vigilance over life-boat

It can all happen in a flash, a moment of dazzle

The memory of this encounter will enable me to sail on

And search for the encounter every day

With the Eye of Great Love

And watch out for the Lighthouse Lantern of love and hope

That we do not fall victims of the ocean’s element

While sailing the Seven Seas without Spiritual compass

But we are the children of the Father who watches over His kids

And shines His lantern-beacon to sail our life-boat safely

May this Lantern of Love guide us assuredly to our final destination

Despite high waves and dark nights.

A narrow road

In my soul, I have a picture of a beautiful valley

Covered with lush green fields, flowers, color and light

It is like a resting place for me, a sanctuary

Of safety and joy

Prayer in this peaceful valley makes you spread your wings

I wish to last forever in this Kingdom of Comfort

When I raise my eyes up to the crowns of the trees

I can see another road, a stony one

Full of hostile brambles and dry leaves

Then I hear the words:

The road towards life is narrow and rugged

Then I abandon the safe valley

To enter the stony path with anxiety

Each encountered stone is like my sin and of my fellow man

The stones are slippery and hurt immensely

I pray in hardship as my words slip away

I try to repeat them but they dissolve into oblivion

I can see travelers at the path’s edge

They are like ghosts, begging for help

Great pain pierces through my heart

Where are You, my Land of Comfort? — I shout

Are You here, Jesus? - I ask, depressed

A merciful hand wipes sweat and fear off my face

Don’t be afraid and do not give up the trek now - I hear

I Myself bless the prayer on this road.

The King

You are The Prince Regent, Jesus

Generously endowed with power from Heaven

Our pity over Your poor manager means nothing

One of royalty is never afraid of poverty

You are The King, Little Infant of peace

So great that You don't need glittering throne and palace

People are so eager to look down on others

But You, Little Infant, Are the power above all powers

Opulent regal in and scepter mean nothing to You

You know that moths and decay will defeat them

Your power and wealth are eternal

You are truly the royal crown prince of God's kingdom

Our condition of peasantry is only temporary

Our poverty we want to hide from the world

You came here on earth, from the Kingdom

Where The Father of Love majestically sits on the throne

Our mortal kings here on earth

Delude our eyes with affluence, ill-gotten from their subjects

And You, poor child that gets warmth from hay in a manager

Lacking earthly wealth, You are the rich gift from Heaven.

Oh, Little Infant of Bethlehem, give us the wisdom

That worldly flamboyance does not obscure

The heart that will recognize the value of Your gifts

And will not be deluded by any mediocre crown

Allow us, Little Infant, to recognize by heart, not by mere sight

The essence and power of Your Kingdom

Where Love is seated on the throne

Fighting for our souls’ eternal salvation

And speak to the people, Little Infant, with the miracle of Your Birth

To those who find it so hard to believe

That The King that is truly rich

Is the One Who serves with His Love.

My Advent Rorate Mass

Having been awakened on this winter morning

I am heading to my Advent Mass

Darkness still envelopes the streets

With the throbbing silence of the sleepy city

Sputtering snow crises-crossing the light of street lamps

Early rising shop-keepers scuttling to re-open for trade

Dark figures of the tramps craving for curly drink- fest

Stand by doors of bars wait for their opening

Perched crows, crowded in the tress, croaking unmelodic ally

Cutting the motionless silence of the morning, like a razor

Oh, Most Holy Mother, Are You here, blessing my time?

Are You on vigil?

Hail Mary, full of grace.... I repeat

Stepping carefully along a slippery sidewalk

What were You thinking about, in Nazareth?

When Archangel Gabriel heralded You the News?

Did You feel joy or did shock envelop You?

The church is dark inside....

The pews are filled with the faithful on vigil

The candles light up their aura with hope

This is the hope that I head for, through the streets of my city

Like any human being pre-occupied with my daily life

Feeling joy from encounter with Jesus and Mary

Feeling sad to see people looking for hope outside The Son

Hail Mary.... I keep praying

Redeem those who live in darkness

And those who dowsed their light of hope

Due to ignorance and un-dignified life

You, Mary, who will give birth to the righteous Infant

Please, walk along my dark streets

And shepherd all abandoned and indifferent hearts home

Light up their faint spark of warmth

Before they turn into cold, worthless seeds and damnation

Which put out every little light of hope with a freezing blow.

Help me

Enmeshed in sadness, like a spider in its own net

I ask You, Jesus, please disentangle me

And you show me Your sad face

I carry the cross with daily problems unwillingly

Please cover it, just for a moment, I beseech Thee

Yet, You show me the bruise of Your fall

I miss love - I complain

My heart turns icy, strange enough

But You point at the thorny crown

I look for joy, like dried-up grass crave for moisture

And the sun of life scorches me mercilessly

But You show me a sponge with vinegar

What do You want to tell me, my Savior?

When You are fed by us with ingratitude

With sadness and pain

I hear a quiet voice, being muted by the organ chords

Help Me, like a sister, close to My heart

And not like a chance visitor, invited to a feast.

Flowers on the paved road

Every day I lay the flag-stones

Of my own way of life

I learn from my mistakes

We were given one chance

To build our way of life

And we are the authors of just one book

Sometimes I look behind

At the rough road

Paved out of feelings that life brought over

I can see its uneven corners

As if the constructor didn’t have patience

I can also see the mosaic so beautiful

It amazes with its craftsmanship of laid-on flag-stones

This is the part of the road, built in sober silence

With prayer in the heart for peace for my soul

But the greatest enchantment is evoked

By the mysterious flowers that grow magnificently

Among the leaky flag-stones

I haven’t sowed you, and I haven’t watered you

Who is the cultivator of this beautiful adornment?

They flowed down, I hear, from the seeds of God’s grace

Your tears and love lifted them towards the sun

They are the gift for those who patiently

Build their roads out of the offered flag-stones

How many flag-stones will You give me, Lord

And how many blooming flowers

You surround these human questions with a mystery, Lord

Giving hope instead, to the builders of ways of life.

The Gate of Faith

Once I went through the Gate of Faith

The Eyes of Love were leading me

I stared at them, hope-bound

I followed them like a pilgrim, unaware of hardship ahead

Behind the Gate of Faith, there are diverse paths, mountains, deserts

Sometimes I got lost in the stony grottos

And thick fog, like a smart enemy

Was beclouding the eyes of Love

I strained my sight, when veiled in darkness

I looked for consolation, like the rising sun

With the wind from the desert, singing a beseeching song

I found the Eyes of Love on Temptation Mountain high

The loneliness of these Eyes, full of Mercy

Was like diamonds of Heaven, in the darkness

And although I felt scared, I was learning the truth

Our Lord, on Temptation Mountain, was redeeming people from evil

I will be with You, I whispered with humility

I shall change my human fear into penance

Then His Eyes, covered with sadness

Filled me with strange joy that I didn’t lose Them

Then my soul was speaking to the Lord

About the Olive Garden suffering, and the road to Calvary

About how many hard paths there are behind the Gate of Faith

And how many mountains of temptation and lack of faith we must face

The desert wind was throwing up sand into my eyes

And I heard voices say: there are easier ways

But even in the great darkness and lonely grottos

I will never forget Your Eyes, my Jesus

Once I went through the Gate of Faith

And though I am weak and hungry for the world

I feel that a hand is leading me, stronger than the world’s temptations

And the most faithful Eyes of Love watch over me.

The scales

Do you know how much a tear weighs?

The one in despair and the one in joy

How much does love weigh and offering and devotion?

Can a word be weighed?

Such as love, faith, hope

How to recognize a sincere smile

And an ordinary grimace of the face?

How to distinguish a helping hand

From the one that gives nothing?

There are such scales

Where we put what is the most attractive

That man can weigh

But no earthly scales can weigh …

It is the cross of The Savior

Where God estimates with infinity wisdom

Human mercy and justice

According to the Mercy of God.

Return

We ask You for graces, Lord

And You crucify our plans

We feel rebellion, like a prodigal son

And choose our way, out of free will

When we fill our purse with silver

And decorate our walls with diplomas and ambition

Then we feel strange loneliness in the heart

And often return to the empty house

On the way that we’ve chosen ourselves

There are no crosses with Christ and holy pictures

Only people, always rushing and indifferent

Counting mechanically, bent down at the screens

On the way that we’ve chosen ourselves

Our tears mean weakness, with no value

The station that we are heading to

Has the word “success”, written on the platform

We see people somewhere on the roadside

They kneel at the cross, in humility

A thought comes to us, like a vending angel

Maybe we ought to stop by them and think?

Why are their faces beaming blissful smiles?

And their knees, bent in obeisance?

Why aren’t they ashamed of their own tears and others?

How much power does Christ give them from the cross?

It’s an illusion that there are roads without crosses and sharp stones

Overgrown with flowers only

Where God Himself puts a cross into our life

And also sends down Mercy and heals

If we chose the way, like the prodigal son did

We are sure to meet human executioners on it

And their crosses and nails, prepared for us

Are like killers, if without the grace of Resurrection

What sense does the human way make

That the prodigal son followed?

There is hunger, loneliness, animal food on it

And longing for Father … in his heart

There is clear light that illuminates

On every trail, even the darkest one

God Himself comes out and lights up the lamp

So that His prodigal and lost children could see their way back.

I promise

Cover me, Lord, with the wings of Your angels

And with the sword of Archangel Michael

Let my heart be devoid of dark fears

In the cradle of the angelic wings

Let me hold on, with my hands

To the joyous angels and beautiful

And let me leave the sorrows of this earth

Even for a tiny, little moment

Let the Heavenly hosts lift me up

Toward the world without pain and tears

So that I could know the love of all of Your saints

And then, I promise to come back to earth much stronger, Lord.

The pearl

I write my rhymes with fair words

They are like little coral gems close to my heart

I paint Your face, Jesus, with my eyes closed

I can see the old-fashioned robes and the beautiful hands

How can I describe with words, my desire of Your closeness?

What eyes shall I paint for You

So that I could sink into them?

How can I get closer to Your anguish?

Is there a poet in this world

Who could contain Your beauty in words?

Is there such a talent

That could really paint Your face?

Human works of art are short-lived and mortal.

Sometimes in dreams, a good angel will show us

And open the Heavenly world for a moment

And a gentle breeze will touch the soul and move the heart

Then the beautiful words flow onto the heart

Like man’s prayer, in great ecstasy

But it lasts a moment, like a flash of light in a storm

We come back to daily life on earth, but with a Heavenly gift

In the heart, we have a shining pearl so precious

It came out of the most beautiful words of spiritual prayer

And the image of God, carved with the chisel of Love

With the Heaven’s hope that I will never forget It

I want to keep feeling these euphoric moments so gracious

And discover again, the gift of the pearl for my soul

And see Your image, Jesus, so bright and so pure

And feed myself with Your closeness, in the gift of the Eucharist.

Stopover of Silence

There are so many sounds, pictures and noisy words

That surrounds every man

So many enslaving ideas and thoughts

Which make the world amused, hurt, rejected and attracted

Like a thread of yarn, pulled into its texture

It evaluates us, criticizes, lures, makes us pay dearly

And we, often defenseless and willing, yield to this game

Sometimes, to know the world better

And cast away false playing dies

It’s good to go to the Stopover of Silence

And get to know ourselves better

Frozen in silence, like in a protective shell

And repelling the acts and ideas of others

We listen to the heart that beats stronger

At the Stopover of Silence, engulfed in our own silence

We can hear our thoughts and the eyes can see more

The words of others are no more luring to us

Our conscience is not beclouded by the crowd’s mutters

At the Stopover of Silence, loneliness does not cry

It teaches us courage

For the wise friendship with this world of ours.

In the arms of the Cross

Once I approached God like a child

I looked for consolation, signs

He was listening, I was talking …

But the day came when the shadow of the cross of Christ

Came closer to me

And marked my life with a cross

Words sank to the bottom of silence

The cross of Christ and mine embraced each other

In a merciful hug

Now God was speaking and I was listening

I didn’t shout out of pain

Embraced by the arms of the Savior’s cross

I was listening in stony silence

I didn’t want to deafen His words

My shouting would knock my cross down to earth

The cry would pull it out of His merciful arms

I would become a grave full of sorrow

Bereft of hope and love

I stand in the shadow of the cross of Christ

Sometimes I raise my head high toward Him

And ask, like a jilted person: why?

He points to His blood and wounds

And answers my question with a question: Why?

Once I was speaking to God and He was listening

Now, in the shadow of His cross, I am standing with mine

God is speaking and I am listening

Sometimes we have a dialogue

I hear words of wisdom in my heart, I see beautiful pictures

He feeds me with the Eucharist, and His reverend Gospel

So that I could prevail in the shadow of His Cross

In Adoration of His pain, His suffering

In faith and awareness that He is the Savior of the world

He is the answer to every human question

The healer of people’s wounds

The Mercy that co-suffers with us.

Birthday

I wanted to send you a whole basket of roses

But I thought they would fade away and nothing would be left

Therefore, I send you good words, they don’t wither so fast

But as long as we live and celebrate our next birthday

I wish you many happy years

Like the ones that ordinary human life provides

The days that you will appreciate

Because of simple gestures, friendly smiles

A helping touch of a hand, dinner ready on the table

For friendly words of people that remove sorrow

For your close friends and well-wishers

Whom you always can hug tight

You must know that there are many roses in our life

But we, often in a hurry

Catch the flowers by the thorns

And when irritated with pain, we overlook their heavenly beauty

In daily common morning

In a boring hustle of the streets and even in cat’s meowing

In a coffee-cup, a little battered

Which loving hands put in front of us

How beautiful a journey with no destination can be

And the memory of the ones who are in love

And the look at the sky, and the sun

The touch of a tricky rain that just started

When you have no umbrella with you

Let life lead you with respect

For the beauty that it offers

Invite God to this life of yours

Thank Him for His Mercy

Through a simple, daily prayer

And repeat it in the morning and evening

Whenever you notice its beauty...

Be always with me, Lord

Because I am Your child.

What can I offer you?

What can I offer You, Jesus

That I haven’t received from You?

I can look into my soul with the eyes of faith

To see with my heart, the talents You poured in there

I want to grasp every gift of Yours, like a priceless treasure

And surround it with ardent meditation, so beautiful and sublime

And decide with prudence

How to make use of it

Shall I dig it into a barren soil, out of fear of a loss

Or multiply it, out of love, and offer to others?

You gave us free will, Almighty God

And strew graces upon us, with the hand of Love

We, people, are so weak, blind, hard of hearing

Only appreciate Your gift only after we’ve lost it

We buy counterfeit love with it

Joyous in pride and glitters of this world

We buy ornaments that lose their glamour and decay

And then, hungry and homeless, we seek rescue

Not with You, at the offering table

But in the earthly bank of ruthless accounts

With quavering hands, from lack of hope

We look for the coins to liberate us

What can a poor man buy with this money?

A chunk of the world, a tomb – but not his salvation.

Where shall I look for love?

I thought that love is like beauty

Just by its very look

It sows goodness

I thought that love is visible

Like the sun in the artist’s landscape

But it is not like that….

The sun and beauty glitter but love is missing

My heart began to look for love fervently

Not in the glare that makes you dizzy, not in deceptive words

It happened, like an adept detective, seeking the truth in a man

I discovered love in a sermon of a country parson

Tormented with a chronic affliction

He knelt with difficulty, as if pressed down with a hefty cross

I saw a desire to pour love on

In a gesture of a handshake as a sign of peace

In the eyes of almost a hundred-year-old woman

I saw the poor sharing love with each other

I heard love in prayer

I felt love being transmitted from the healthy hands to the sick ones

In hospitals, hospices

This love didn’t shine with the beauty of the world

It wasn’t dressed in colorful clothes

It was the grace in man’s heart

Like a gift from God that no currency can buy

Often nailed to the cross of illness, of devotion, of humility

If you want to touch, to know the truth about love

You must get closer to the cross of Jesus

Because without the Truth of His cross

The beauty of the world glitters.. but love is missing.

Letter About love

I love You, Jesus, on days that are gray and dull

Or when the sun shines and I feel the joy of life

In suffering, I also love You, Jesus

You Are the dearest Doctor of my life

I love You, Jesus, when my soul is tormented with solitude

So intense that I fade away in my own Olive Garden

Perverse Satan evades my heart with bad thoughts and fear

I wage war with him, for death or eternal life

I love You, Jesus, when I see the beauty of nature

I feel safe in Your all-welcoming embrace

Also when there is nothing but emptiness in me

When uncertainty plagues my soul … if You are near me

I love You, Jesus, when I look at the cross

I want to relieve Your hands with my painful sigh

And support Your wounded legs with my anxious heart

And take the thorny crown off Your holy head

I love You, Jesus, when I hear people’s blasphemies

I want to shout out loud: have mercy on us

They are so miserable and don’t want Your Love

Please don’t cry, Jesus, I am beside you

I love you, Jesus, when I sink into the darkness of deceit

When I see immorality and sin in their sharp frames

And people around explain that it is a sign of our times

Then I feel Your sorrow and want to beseech You with prayer

I love You, Jesus, when You wait in the monstrance

For Adoration of the faithful, for their sincere prayer

So many people have no time for You, today

And You, the Prisoner of the Tabernacle, are here every day

I love You, Jesus, when I meet beautiful people

Dedicated, faithful priests and monks

My heart is filled with loving sweetness

At these moments, my soul rests in Paradise

I love You, Jesus, when I kneel in front of You

Surrounded with the fragrance of wonderful bouquets

Do I hear Your voice, or just the humming of angels’ wings?

And the words: I desire more love ... and not the withering flowers.

On the Day of The Holy Trinity

I asked You, Lord, to speak to me inside my heart

On the Day of The Holy Trinity

And You, on this day invited a group of children

Painfully experienced by fate

Blind, helpless without their caretakers’ hands

They read the Holy Script, one boy sang a psalm

At the end of the Mass; they said good-bye to the faithful with songs

Joyous, about love for You

Although I didn’t hear You voice inside me

My heart was as talkative as an excited teacher

Beautiful love, I heard, is when you are ready to carry the cross

Along the way that God Himself chose for our salvation

Love is like these blind, it doesn’t see a smile

You can’t cheat it with superfluous gestures

Love evaluates actions, not man’s words

Love is humility, the quiet lady, gentle and patient

I thought about graces that God gave us

About our oblivion to thank for them

Somewhere here, there are disabled people, children

Maybe they carry a heavier cross for us?

There were the blind children, standing at the altar

A testimony of humility of their Way of the Cross

They were like an icon, painted by the hand of God

For our memory, to assess with love, not with our eyes.

Diamonds

You want to win a lucky number in life

And brag about power, wealth and strength

And when, at last, fate sends you such a diamond

You watch over it every day and protect from a thief

It becomes your lord, and you are its slave

You make sure there is protection, safes, locks, codes

But when a thief wants to steel it

Will get smarter than your locks and codes

And you have no power, wealth, splendors any more

The safe of your life becomes empty

Don’t be afraid to lose such a diamond

It was just a stone, hard and insensitive

Look for more precious treasures

The diamond for eternity, not for a life’s moment

It is the one that pours peace into your soul, and lives in the safe of your heart

It is The Merciful Lord, Jesus, in the Holy Eucharist

You will be rich with goodness, like a royal child

Not like a slave of earthly diamonds

He will take care of your common, daily bread

He is the food of power, and not a hard stone.

I heard a prayer

There are days without holy signs that excite our hearts

Only ordinary ones, like a tillage behind a plough in the field

We must fill them with drudging work

Even a prayer becomes just empty words

Sometimes a common day sends a miracle to us

A sign, so holy, that it bends our knees with joy

We stretch out our hands to Heaven, like a lonely tree

The prayer flows out of the heart and the mouth can’t catch up

I saw an a venerable aged man on his knees

In front of the holy picture of Mary

In an empty church, praying eagerly and fervently

And was sobbing like an abandoned, defenseless child

And it would be nothing strange

If it were a woman with emotional outburst

So rarely do we witness praying aged man in tears

They want to be tough, even before God Himself

Oh, Mother, he whispered, my Only One, the Holy One

And his voice was re-vibrating all over the empty church

Be with me, I live only for You

Oh, Pure Lady, Honorable …

How much grief he must have been afflicted with, be fate

How many disappointments he must have experienced in his days

How much man’s pride, life must have smashed in his life

Before he knelt down at last, and cried before Mary’s picture

It may be useless, I thought, to fight for survival

It may be useless, to have gracious intentions

It may be useless, to work hard and be tough

When, in life, we lack the blessing of The Holy Mother.

Journey

We are sent on a mysterious journey

Devoid of passports, visas and stamps

We crash down to Earth in crying pain of our birth

Straight into the hands of our conceivers

It’s high noon of life when we set out on our journey

Like travelers with a baggage of faith the promise land

We learn to surmount crossroads, bends

And confuse directions of the travel plans

We withdraw in fear when face the crosses

Somebody put them there once like boundary-posts

This is the route for courageous pilgrims through life

Not all of us have courage enough to start this journey

We look for busy places and good, old routes, well known

Where pilgrims of life have piled for years

We build a house on sandy soil

Although there stands a high and beautiful rock nearby

Life’s afternoon casts long shadows

And they shroud colors that we liked so much

And what seemed to be a treasure in the garden of life

Looks now like a dwarf, with faded paint on

And though the legs are weak, the heart uneasy

We gather prayers for storage a new journey of life

Somewhere on a narrow path, a lonely Pilgrim passes by

Wearing a smile full of love, He invites us to a new land

It is not a journey to an unknown direction

It seems strangely safe and joyful

This Pilgrim carries the cross and marks the trail with the beam

He pauses and helps, He cures and nourishes us along the way.

Storm

Like Genezaret, our life gets stormy

The heart becomes faint from fear

Sleep doesn’t bring any rest

Help doesn’t come

Dark clouds of mistrust make blurred

The horizon of God’s Love

We scream like frightened children:

Wake up, Jesus, save us

And He sleeps soundly

The rumble of thunders doesn’t wake Him

His face is calm

He sleeps like a man, tired from a journey

But stays beside us, and doesn’t run away

Lord, how great our faith must be

How fearless — our hope should remain

How trusting — our love should bloom

When we travel with Jesus

In our boat of life, during the storm

So that we allowed Him to rest on His way with us

In spite of our human fear

And just trusting in His ever-holy presence

Give us, Lord, such love

That raging thunders of fear of losing our lives

Will not take Jesus’ caring presence

Away from our hearts.

Who Are You to me, Jesus?

In my childhood, You were the Holy Mass, in a language I didn’t know

You were the first Communion, The Confirmation, the procession on Corpus Christi Day

A path in the flowered meadows, covered with dew

When, early in the morning, I was heading to a country church

You were a warm color, a holiday event

When I was growing up, You were the question about evil, contempt and wars

A prayer, often careless, a request.... for something

In my adult years, the world shaded You from me

With worries about what the next day would bring

I left you in the temple while coming out into my life

Striding over the ground, I looked for dreams in the clouds

Sometimes I stumbled over a stone of human ingratitude

And sometimes I gathered crosses on my way

Not sure if I could carry them

But my heart made me come up to You with every cross

The day came, ordinary, clouds - one of many in the calendar

When our eyes met each other at last

You, at the altar, nailed to the cross, and I, lost in life

There were no tears in this encounter, but just pressured silence

My soul, tired of me, flew up to you

Images came back from my life, like a boomerang thrown into the past

I saw you at every moment of my eventful life

You accompanied me to every Mass, and held me with the hands of my parents

You condoled me, over the graves departed of my beloved ones

And waited patiently when I resume loving you

Who is Jesus to you? - I heard this question incessantly

The Holy script answers with crystal - clear beautiful words

For me, Jesus, You are the way the truth, the light and the life

The desire for love of a sincere, innocent child

You are my trust that Your hand will always guide me

Two kinds of loneliness

There is such loneliness that despairs only

Filled with tears, like a dumped vessel, with rain

There is another loneliness that lays out

Like an empty cup, to be filled with God's love

The despairing loneliness can corrupt the soul, the heart

But when filled with love ... it can do away with its own loneliness

We stand before God as a lonely tree, not as a forest

Only God estimates, not people

How many there are living leafs on it, and seeds of enlivening good

Oh, loneliness, being filled up with the cup of God's love

Remember those who have their hearts flooded with tears of bitterness

Surround them with prayer and pour the rain of despair out of them

A strange dance

I experienced a great moment of bliss

My soul wanted to dance the dance of joy

Out of love for God

She felt too constricted in my body

A hot feeling embraced me

Only loud singing and dancing

Could calm it down

I was whispering gently

There were so many pilgrims around, all asleep

But you - dance and sing to throbbing joys

To the quiet rhythm of my heart

It is too little to contain your joy

I will hide this joy deeply

In my memory

Like a noble stock preserved for hard times

I will draw rhythms and sonorous singing out of it

When I am out of strength

And when the sound of my prayer gets faint

Then I will take your joy, my soul

Like a grain or a bud, blooming anew

With a beautiful flower of love to God's glory

That enlivens my faith in this gray reality.

On a straight way

I saw a man falling down

On a highway as smooth as asphalt

He stumbled over his own legs

Because there wasn't any other obstacle

Lord, he said, I wander towards You with a song

I know very well, what You want of me

Your rules are embedded deeply in my memory

And I am free from all life's attachments

The sun was shining with a bright glare

There was no darkness, not even a shadow

The man was going proudly; his head was raised up high

And suddenly a fall, like a bird’s flight, too low

Why did I fall, Lord, in spite of the light and singing?

I passed by rocky trails and dark paths

Why did I fall, Lord, when I sang my song of praise for You?

Why did I have to fall, even though I knew the way to You?

I don't know how God answered so many questions that were asked

I saw this man years later, on a road full of stones

He was stepping carefully, in strange and silent humility

And was carrying a heavy cross on his back and posed no questions to Heaven.

The canvas painting

Once there was a piece of tapestry hanging

Over a child's bed of sweet repose

There was a forest on it, the sun, animals and grass

Just a simple daub, of no high value.

The child's heart poured some life in it

It enlivened the landscape, added some depth

The picture spoke out every day....

With a living sight of the warm sun, with motion

Many years passed

The tapestry was cast in the attic, like an unwanted item

It seemed to be just plain fabric

Nothing mysterious, nothing marvelous

I thought about our faith in God

About our maturity that lacks the childlike trust

About the heart that is frozen with daily life of the adults

And about imagination for the beauty, that dies down with the passing years

Whom is God for us?

Is He only like the flat fabric, seen with adult's eyes?

Where did we lose the enchantment of a child?

How can we return to the old world of trust?

Give us, Lord, in prayer, in the Holy Mass

The enlivening, mysterious enchantment of a child

And the childlike trust in the beauty of the Eucharist

Give us the holy joy of a child in loving You.

Confession

Once I roamed around, with an angel

In the strange, misty space

With dried-up grass and carelessly scattered stones around

I wanted to side-step them and look for easier ways

But the angel told me to bend down

And read the message engraved in the stones

He, himself got lost somewhere in a thick cloud

While I was going around, reading the inscriptions

Like a bent plough - man, in his penance clothes

One every stone, there was a sin, engraved sharply

Nearby, there was a weather - beaten cross, stuck in the grass

I sprinkled every stone with tears

Seeing my own faults there

Those that I forgot long ago

And those that I didn't want to recall

I was cuddling to my chest, like a priceless treasure

The cross standing by the stones

I saw Jesus' eyes, suffering

At every cross, where He fell down for me

It was a holy moment, so clear and transparent

Purifying my soul, in my sins’ self-examination

Like the way of the cross of my life

Somewhere high in the distance, in the sunny space

I saw a lonely confessional

The angel carried me up there, like towards the source of hope

There I knelt down and cried, like pressured Peter

At the denial of his Lord three times

In the confessional, Jesus sat, looking like a priest that I knew

I put down the stones of sins there, in humility

And closed my eyes, in this unusual confession

I heard a quiet voice, or rather a whisper of love

Don't scatter your moments of life, recklessly

You are My sister, for whom I died on the cross

God conceived you for My Love, and not ... for sin.

The Angelic Grotto

Our soul is like an abandoned house, without windows and doors

When there is no prayer of love

Untamed wind and shower hurt it

Worthless trash squeezes into the empty windows

And though the walls still resist, the house slowly decays

There was such a pilgrimage in my life, they called it, angelic

In the Grotto of Archangel Michael in Gargano

The Angel’s sword that was raised high

Carved the grotto for my own soul

He cut the spare stones with His sword

Like the ballast that enslaves

The windows of your soul’s grotto, He said:

”Cover with Jesus’ Countenance of Manoppello

So that His beautiful, merciful eyes could protect you from evil

Keep in heart the Eucharistic Miracle of Lanciano

May It be the visible sign of the presence of God

May the touch of the holy relics be the light in your grotto

You gave me, Archangel Michael, the gift of the grotto

And You let me free to fight all my life, for the home for my soul

And now Jesus’ eyes look through its windows

While I fight for the door of this house

That is opened only with the prayer of love

Please St. Michael, be my protection against the traps of evil.

Follow Me

You watch me, Jesus, every day

And look into my soul

Through the windows of the house where I live in my small world

There is so much going on, good and evil

Outside these windows

It’s hard to get the house bolted against evil that is strong

Dressed up fraudulently in fashionable clothes

It’s hard for the eyes and heart to recognize good

That is unattractively dressed in weakness

Both of them knock on the door of the house of my small world

I look out the windows of my house

At the sad fog outside

At the melancholic, indifferent rain

It darkens Your image, Lord

I clean the windows of my house every day

With love, prayer, empathy

So that You could look into it

Sometimes I feel like a lonely cross on the country road

That is pulled by wind, rain, snow

I feel enlivened when somebody puts a little flower of grace there

And I bend down to pick it up, to hug it and to thank for it

My soul is weak without Your flowers, Lord

When she is pressed with the world of bad weather

Among the humming of the world and storms, deafening the godly tune of the soul

In spite of that, I still hear Your voice, Lord: follow Me

In spite of bad weather and fear

In spite of loneliness, indifference, pain

I keep hearing: follow Me

I AM the Truth, the Way and the Life.

Corridor

The corridor, full of doors, is like our life

That we often wander along blindly

On the doors we pass, we read inscriptions

These, with rich, golden handles, tempt us

We press down a handle and inside, there sit specialists

To make dreams, ambitions and wishes come true

We entered there, full of hope for fulfillment

As leave as paupers— with deficiency on the whole life’s account

There are such counselors out there to fulfill dreams

They compel us to pay with the credit card of human dignity

They demolish your conscience for a moment of joy

They don’t charge you with money but with slave-like submission

How many of such golden handles in forlorn corridors

Have we pressed down in life, through vanity, conceit and egotism?

How many deluding, golden handles are there still waiting

Ahead of us, in the corridor of life that we move along?

We should thank The Most High God

For His grace that, like a miracle, sometimes touches us

When we wander blindly, often empty-hearted, and stumble

Over the Beggar of Love, Jesus, at the door with the sign reading: The Truth.

A sigh

Protect the candle of my life, Lord

With Your Divine Mercy

Take it in Your Holy Hands

And don’t allow the winds of this world to put it out

With doubt, sadness and iniquity

Put it near You, for Adoration of the altar

Let the radiance of the candles that were lit for You

Embrace it strong with the warmth of Your flames of love

And let the life-giving olive of the Eucharist

Strengthen the holy memory in me

That I received Your blood and body, Oh Lord

That our Father lit up my candle of life

That You shared Hope with me

Allowing Your blood to circulate in me

In spite of my human sins

Hold my candle of life, Oh Lord

In Your merciful hands

Kindle its flame with Your breath

Oh, holy memory, the gift of the Heavenly Fatherland

Please keep reminding me where I came from and to Whom I will return.

Our garments

Sinners’ garments are like a mendicant’s robe

They are miserably patched to hide our hideous sins

They are stitched with prayer, often absent- mindedly

And decorated with flowers of our deeds and thoughts

They look like classy adornment but they wither so fast

We remember our good mother after many years

She made miracles out of our old garments

And decorated them with patches, like artists do with poverty

So that others didn’t laugh at our poverty

And didn’t humiliate us with cruel laughter

Our mother is gone now, so is our laconic childhood

Maybe, these earthly garments don’t demote mortal poverty anymore

God dress us in garments adorned with The Holy Spirit

He sees holes in them, threadbare spots and misery

Sin ravaging it, hurting God’s craftsmanship

He sends us the most tender Mother from Heaven

The same who carefully patched Jesus’ flimsy robes

She will help to patch our garments, torn by sin

With the angelic thread and needle

Give it to her, and she will change it into a regal garment.

The invisible

Can you stop the wind with your hand?

Switch over the sunrays from day to night

Delay the fragrance of living flowers to make it last

Plead to the leaves not to wither

Trap joy forever, like a bird in its flight

Force love to be yours

Forge friendship in a stony statue to be everlasting

Conjure beautiful music and poetry from thin air

Arouse hope in yourself when tragedy comes?

Your can already build so many things, man

Count stars in cosmos, transform nature

But you can not stop in your hand

What can’t be seized but makes sense in our lives

These moments of longing which feed your soul

And become mystery of the depth of our existence

And no genius can replicate your soul

To appease the rightful owner, your God

It is His gift and grace for your body and spirit

And when you understand, at last, that your hands will not stop

What is passing and invisible to your eyes

Then your heart will open up like beautiful fabric

Where God writes mysterious formulas

You will discover faith, love, and hope will flourish

You will catch joy in mid-light, like a beautiful bird

You will hear angelic songs of God’s love

Then you will know the mystery of … the invisible

Being housed and dignified by God–given body and spirit

Beauty

I saw gigantic mountain ranges shrouded in thick fog

In the winter; they were shrouded white in snow

Seas were severely stirred or peacefully waving

Sunrises and sunsets full of colors

Mysterious grottos, silent deserts

The sky, covered with clouds or shining with thousands of stars

I was enchanted with the perfection of nature

Adorned with the generous Love of God

I felt so little against this space of richness

I thank The Creator for the grace of the gift of my vision

I cannot cuddle these mountains with my hands

Nor can I touch the sun and the stars in the sky

I can only dip my hands in the sea-shore waters

And feel the touch of beach-sand under my feet

I stand overwhelmed against the immensity of this beauty

And store my enchantment in the archive of my memory’s visions

I will re-assemble them, while in nostalgia on melancholic nights

They may fade with passing time …

What do you want to tell my soul, Lord

By showing the beauty, created with Your Love?

I kneel before the Beauty of the whole world, Your Son

Modestly glided in the golden cup of the Tabernacle

In front of the guiltless Infant in the manger

In front of the cross where He was hanging

And all around me, the nature, so silent, so full of beauty

I may not be able to hug the sea, the mountains, the desert

But I can hug Your Son, Lord, in the Eucharist

For me, He became so tiny, like a daisy in the meadow

As defenseless as I am, against the power of nature

And so much desirous of love, of my love

Was that what You wanted to tell me, Lord

That genuine beauty is contained in love for Your Son?

Prayer of trust

Can we love You, Lord, just a little?

And bestow our love upon You only in steadfast prayers

At the moments when our hands are full of Your gifts and graces

With our weeping hearts in gratitude

Can we love You, Lord, just a little?

And pardon our blasphemy when in trial and tribulation

And have no courage to proclaim Your truths

When others attack our faith with hostility

How fragile our human love is, Lord

It escapes from the cross, and prefers singing, banners’ flapping

And when suffering blithers our lives

We become infidel partners of Love

Teach us, my Lord, the prayer of courageous trust

Which does not ask for miracles, does not demand any proofs

Teach us the prayer for souls’ salvation

Because only the soul can recognize the touch of Your merciful hands

When we relinquish our souls and lives to God

And trust in the Love of the Bethlehem manager

And follow It as far as to the Calvary of suffering

Then God Himself will sanctify our human love

                  And it will change from a weak dwarf …

                  To a magnificent statue.

The House on Holy Mountain

I open the book of my life

Like the Bible

Discovered anew among the books on the shelf

I find a chapter that was written

With the years of wandering through my bitter sweet life

I read the words with my heart, not with my eyes

I lived to find you; the only path

That leads to the House

It stands on Holy Mountain

The cross is like a signpost that shines beside it in the sun

The pilgrim’s knees bend under its weight

I look for the window, decorated with unearthly colors

And the door ajar like an unprotected heart

And the table where I will rest

And the food for my constant hunger

Thank You, Lord, for the vision of this House

Thank You for the path that is so unique

And is marked with the Stations of the Cross

Thanks for the window through which happiness flows out

For the door of Your House, opened widely

For the table where Love is laid on.

Painful Love

I tell you, Jesus, that I love You

When I kneel before you, like a contrite sinner

The smell of candles, songs and prayer are up-lifting

And the sight of the faithful who pray, inspiring

The air is dense like clotting balm for a wound.

And rebellion against the rules of the world, is quelled

But there are other moments that I experienced as well

When the hurricane of activities

Sweeps garbage into the heart

When I kneel and say: I love You, Jesus

I come across the wall, like the Weeping Wall of Jerusalem

Then, like a blind person, in silence, without soothing songs

I yearn for Your breath, behind this wall

The words die down, like unfaithful thoughts

And the soul is calling and lamenting

This is the time of calling and searching for You, Jesus

And it carves a lasting and painful groove in my heart

And when I touch it, like a holy icon

I see the Way to Golgotha with my soul

And I say to Jesus: I love You, Lord

I know that Your true, holy Love, so much injured

Is so deeply painful for me, too.

Strange procession

Maybe it was in the waking

More so, like in an awesome daydream

I saw a procession with monstrance

And people like colorful butterflies

The priest, dressed in elaborate canonical regalia

Angels were carrying a canopy

I heard singing in sonorous high and clear tones

And the light was so clear and brilliant

When the cordage marched past

Disguised as butterflies, like the saints

I saw another somber parade

With suffering people, stooping in pain

Some propped up on crutches, covered with festering sores

Several affected ones were borne on backs and stretchers

My heart became heavy for them

But there was the figure of Jesus

Who was accompanying them, helping those in dire need

With a reassuring smile so sweet and gracious

I called to my soul: wake up my body and spirit

Like an alarm-clock, with the annoying noise

Let me spring up and not be late

For this procession with Jesus.

Eternity

If there were an oak tree in this world

Powerful, with strong roots

I would hide beneath it

If there were a durable house in this world

With foundation solid as a rock

I would dwell in it

But the world gives birth

To oak trees that hurricanes uproot

Houses that decay

Truths that wither

And people like errant knights

Wander searching for eternal Truth

For eternal house, eternal oak tree

They pass by the Cross where eternity …

Is reaching out its hands to man.

A Fairy Tale of Love

A long time ago, while wandering over the earth

The angel lost a stone, unusual and priceless

Man found it, and sang a beautiful song

He opened his heart for love to flow out

And this love was rich and abundant

People scooped it with intensity

And nobody was starved of love on earth

It nourished handsomely those desiring affection

This Paradise, full of love, should have lasted till the end of time

But, alas, a certain man from beyond the seas appeared

He stole the angel’s stone and tried to sell it

The stock of generous love was exhausted

People, troubled with it, started the pursuit

Looking for the thief of the priceless love

Jewelers, swindlers deluded them with gold

Telling lies that its glow is a crumb from the Angel’s stone

There was great confusion among the people

Everyone wanted to buy and possess something of his own

Secured vaults were built for their new treasures

They were guarded jealously, and nobody could steal them

But there is a priceless stone, somewhere in the world

Legends have it that it gives away love

And people still dream they will find Love on earth someday

Love that will never be imprisoned by any safe-code.

Meditation over passing time

This is the time when thoughts skip to the past

Like crabs, wandering backward

To the dreams from childhood

About colorful butterflies of hope

We hold out our hands, through the curtains of memory

We pass by successive mirrors of the years

Until we reach the child with a mirror

So small

That there isn’t any reflection of the world yet

Only the curious eyes asking, who am I?’

In meditation, years are like minutes

Time is not akin to monotonous hacking of a woodpecker

We recall the moments of gladness and remorse

The smiles, the warm hands, the good words

The warmth of the sun, the glee of the breeze, fragrances

And the cross of suffering that suddenly falls on us

Without warning, or a secret sign

How short life seems to be

When it only includes vital moments …

In the rolled-up ribbon of daily life

Of the years written into birth certificates

Among the ritual of gestures and common actions

Of interest, boredom, expectations

There are exquisite moments worth musing upon

And whatever you are, my life

The colorful butterflies from my childhood dreams

Shell never discolor …

Prayer and hope resurrects them again

And then they let them free

So that they returned in the holy, human meditation.

Sunday morning

What a wonderful moment I experience

A feeling so sublime, just a twinkling

As if my soul desired

To see with the eyes of the saints

I experienced the joy of thanksgiving to God

The delicate crust of my heart got perforated

The feeling of great gratitude was oozing out

The burning tracks of my tears, on my face

My heart, body and soul got melted like wax

And my spirit was flooded by lava of all-powerful Love

This feeling suddenly flowed down in the morning

Before prayer, before my daily monotony

As if waiting for my awakening

For my sleep-purified heart

For my soul, awaiting the Lord on Sunday morning

My God, I pray with gratitude and adoration

For my faith in Your Love

For the hope of meeting You

For the touch of love that went through my spirit

For the grace of thanksgiving that I experienced.

Common holiness

The angel told me to look for holy people

Not in the wise books

But among the living

How can I recognize - I asked the angel

The saints among the common people?

But the angel flew away, giving no advice

I sat on a bench, next to an elderly lady

We exchanged a few words about the weather

Then a line of thought flowed out, about a holy woman

And about the folks who benefitted from her act of courage

I remember the life of my Grandpa and Grandma

They had hard fate and daily hardship

Worn-out hands and morning singing

When they headed to the Mass along the country paths

I thought about missionaries, their evangelization

About young insurgents, how they died for the country

About the people who gave their lives for faith

About a lonely woman and her ill-fated child

How many inspiring stories of everyday people

We lose among the contemporary values

How many saints we ignore to create our own idols

I understood, my angel, why you flew away

And instructed me to look for holy people myself

Everyday holiness is so silent and humble

That life doesn’t notice it easily

Thank You, Lord, for these common saints

For goodness that blossomed on earth, beside me

It is like a slice of bread that feeds the hungry

With faith and hope

Toward another man

Because he was created, as an image of God.

Homeless heart

Authorities take care of the homeless

Scattered around in the burrows of the city

There are night’s rest places and soups for them

And social and charity enthusiasm

There is also homelessness with its own key

Clean, well cared for and drinking coffee

But only its sad heart cries

It’s homeless because it’s not loved

When it gets up early in the morning

It holds on to the dreams, its night friends

Those about the man who will give away

A room in his heart, even for a while

This room can be small

The homeless heart will fit into it

It didn’t use to live in a palace

What it needs is just another heart

Oh, homeless heart that is waiting

For the home without the key of indifference

Leave home and seek patiently

There are so many homeless hearts around

Homelessness will fall asleep in a night’s rest place

Dressed in rags and social care

Nothing but love will hug the homeless heart for the sleep

Even in a beautiful home.

Intentions

I offer my intentions, at The Holy Mass

And put them on Mary’s hands and the saint patrons

And wait impatiently, like a beggar

For the gift of Your blessing, Jesus

I believe that You take my every intention

That is put on the altar, in the basket of hope

Into Your hands and You decide according to God’s will

And give it back to my life, as the Rosary of pearls

Sometimes, like a helpless blind-man

I lose this Rosary, shining with the pearls of grace

When I use my own will to choose my way

Then Your Rosary is covered with fog there on

When I come back, tired, from this way afar

When the stones of my own will hurt me

I bring my soul, my heart to the altar

And ask - Lord Jesus, did You forget my requests?

Today I know, they had to blossom fully, like flowers

Strengthened with the power of Your Holy Offering

You transformed them into the fruit of Your giving powers

And put it into my hands, as a sign of Your presence.

Timid love

How timid human love is

Like a moth, it wants to move toward light

It doesn’t want to wait in the shadow of humility

It wants to rejoice in the glare of light

Jesus’ love for the people pushed Him to the cross

He plunged in to the darkness of degradation

Defenseless for love for his oppressors

He whispered: forgive them, Lord; they don’t know what they do

How timid human love is

It shines with little twinkles and casts away the frock of humility

It wants to be dressed up, victorious …

It won’t hold its folded hands toward Heaven for long

God gathers the weak sparkles of this timid love

He joins it together with the wood of His Son’s cross

He supports the weakness of timid love

Like the little fires of the eternal lamp

Oh, how weak you are, human timid love

Pressed with the burden of life’s hardness

But the Holy Cross has blessed you

And Jesus, on the cross, has saved your weakness.

My paths

You sent me on a pilgrimage, Lord

On a painstaking way through my life

So many paths that I had to follow

And no sea parted for me to cross over

I sank into the quicksand of delays

Sometimes breathless, with no shout

I held on to the edges of pain

So that I could get to the surface again

The cross always accompanied me on my way

The little one, on my neck, remained with me

To You I sent my grieves and requests in earnest

Like a child who lost his hope

A path was leading me to You

Through brambles and maze of cornfield

I got to know the nights of doubt

I got to know the power of Mercy

And the day has come, in a twinkling of light

And the sea separated

I saw a beautiful path among the waves of life

It blossomed with gratitude, like abundant flowers

My childish grudges and requests have disappeared

The thanksgiving prayer filled my heart

For the injured arms and legs of Jesus

For love flowing from the cross …

Looking back, I saw my pilgrim’s paths

Those full of requests and human gratitude

But those paths were not enough for my soul

She was fighting for something and shouting …

What do you want, my soul? - I asked passionately

I heard a voice from somewhere, so tender and sweet

Defend me and protect from the whole world!

Don’t let people hurt me with their actions and words.

Feast of the vicars’ patron, St. John Vianney, the vicar of Ares.

To my vicar

God has given You two hearts

He wouldn’t pour too much courage in one

He blessed you with the priestly call;

And sent you to this world with a fatherly kiss

He didn’t provide You a promise of easy life

He had His own plans concerning You

An angel threw The Holy Bible unto Your cradle

The Holy Mother took over your fate, instead of Yours

Your faith blossomed with mustard seeds

It moved mountains, carving church walls in them

They were born out of Your stubborn strength

Out of Your love, longing and … hope

Although the secrets of your soul remain a mystery

You saw homeless Jesus on Your way

He asked you for a house - a church, even a modest one

So that He could put His heavy cross against its wall

You are human and Your strength gets frail

One of your hearts got weaker from hard work

You never had enough time to tender to it

Even when it asked you for a little respite

Albeit, the other one beats very strong assured

You muster extra strength in your priestly ministration

Even when sadness sometimes appears on Your face

And obvious meditation about the final journey ahead

Oh, reverend one, the engineer of God’s building plans

Neither Your illness nor weakness will lift You up from earth

The time will come when the Lord Almighty, with the hands of His angels

Finishes the beautiful temple for Your

Your patron, the vicar of Ares

Whispered to me, after the Mass, with a knowing smile

Let your vicar keep praying earnestly

The angels in Heaven hardly built a corner-stone for Him.

In the shadow of the cross

In sadness

Pouring over the soul, like a deluge

Bringing waters full of hurting roots

I stand in the shadow of the cross

Looking for a cool shelter

Suffering Jesus

In the grilling heat of our sins

Burnt with oblivion and ungratefulness

He is still on the cross

And doesn’t seek to hide from the heat

I want to hide in the shadow of Your cross, Jesus

When so much humming of evil thoughts haunts me

It torments me like the smell of poisonous flowers

My way is perilous

And my strength … is only human

I will close my eyes and ears

The shadow of Your cross will heal me

And the tired human sadness

Will be soothed with a lullaby of a prayer

And will fall asleep under the cross.

Offering of the soul

I go round the world

Often among half-truths and deceits

They cheat you with the light of seeming happiness

They detain people with fetters

Like the slaves in a material world

And the Truth abandoned on the cross

Is bleeding …

During the Holy Mass, in Adoration

I will search for the Truth under the cross

I will offer It love and hope

At this holy moment

I will give freedom to my soul

Freedom from half-truths and deceit of the world

I will mix my tears with Yours, Divine Truth

Maybe with this human adoration

I will stop eternity for a second

And the Truth will bleed no more.

Gratitude

I wished to send beautiful words to the altar

And adorn The Offering of The Holy Mass with gratitude

But my mouth couldn’t say a word

As if someone ordered it to be silent

Only hot tears were flowing down my face

Composing a strange melody out of them

Mysterious notes written with tears

My soul, like a musician, was playing the flute

It seemed that it was hardly a moment

The bell for The Mass stopped this concert

But the tune, written in the notes of the heart

Remained in my memory, like a song about human gratitude.

Praying for love

How can I recognize love on earth

If I can’t feel the touch of Your Love, Jesus?

You will not favor me with the gift of heart and wisdom

Earthly love will die among tears of despair

Please, weave a nest with Your Love in my heart, Lord

Then I will hold out my sincere hands to people

I will be a gift for them, like a fisherman with a full net

And not like a hungry beggar, waiting for the alms

Oh, Heart of Jesus, the source of Merciful Love

Teach Your Love to mothers of this earth at the cradle

So that the voices of the children resonated beautiful and noble

And the world never seemed a gloomy secret to them

Please touch us strongly, Lord, with Your Love

May Its abundance appear to be fidelity, in the hardship of life

Touch us, Lord, with Your Wisdom

Which recognizes the teachers of beauty and false love.

Request to the saints

There are days when I feel great emptiness

I don’t feel Your presence near me, Lord

You became the dearest guest who went away

Leaving the painful longing behind

In the mailbox of my soul

I can’t find any letters of loving consolation

My mouth can hardly say any cohesive prayer

My legs can hardly lead me to the Mass

I implore You for help, Mother Theresa

For the staying power of Your suffering

And You, Sister Faustina

For entrusting in God’s Mercy

Just look, my beloved saints - I say

How weak I am without consolation

And can’t sanctify my daily life

When Father’s hand seems to be so distant

I squeeze Your frocks with my weary hands

Like the ill woman did with Jesus’ robes

Please, lead me safely through the darkness

Along the hard way of Your sanctity

Please, beseech The Holy Spirit for the grace of light

And not a faint candle-flame for me

And turn my childlike desire of God

Into mature fidelity.

During Adoration, I turn to Lord Jesus and say: Please, help me … Staring at the Most Holy Sacrament, burning with light in the chaple, I receive a “ picture” of a black cross, wooden, filled with little channels, through which, the warm blood of Jesus flows and murmurs like a mountain stream. The cross is filled with blood and there is no hard wood, it is swollen with the heat of the flowing blood, it LIVES … I embrace it and it warms me with its warmth … The picture disappears and I receive an interior transmission for my heart, my mind … for the Way of the Cross: I am alive, I have given My life for you … carrying My Cross, you will never encounter hard wood, I have turned it into the warmth or even the “heat” of My Love. Remember this “picture” when you have doubts, uncertainty, embrace it so that you could scoop the power of My Blood.