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