August 2002. 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.
05.05.2003 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.
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 colours, 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 Angle 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.
23.06.2003 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 inthronisation 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.
12.07.2003 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 desterous 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.
30.08.2003 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.
01.09.2003 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.
29.09.2003 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 colour 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 colours? 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
30.09.2003 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?
(I asked, what“ You” means and I heard a joyous voice saying: It depends on you whom you will meet).
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.
02.01.2004 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.
09.02.2004 Another attack of evil forces
I met my acquaintance, she was sad and mislabel. She told me about her daughter who was ill. I suggested to her that a priest should come with a special healing anointment. Then she said that her daughter is an atheist and she doesn’t want any priest. That day I prayed the Chaplet of Mercy for that person. About 11 o’clock at night, during my prayer, I saw (like on a film tape) persons, alive and dead, for whom I should pray. Suddenly I felt I was being strangled. I couldn’t let out my voice. I knew that nobody would hear me. I remembered from my previous experiences that I should pull out my arm or leg so that I could burst this cocoon but I couldn’t move. At that moment I couldn’t remember any prayer. Nor did I remember any name of a saint. My mind was blocked. Then I felt that quite a number of strange creatures jumped over my back and a big creature was holding my neck, trying to strangle me. All of a sudden I remembered the story of St. Agnes. I shouted: St. Agnes - help me. Then the big, black creature gave out a long whistle and jumped off my back and so did the other creatures. They left the room in one entity from, which was uncanny.
Heavenly clock
When you cut through my heart, Lord, with the cross
Your clock began to measure its rhythm
Hours of thoughts, full of dark doubts
Minutes of fears, seconds of prayers
During the hours of doubts, like in a spider web
There was the painful rhythm of the heart
The pulse, hardly alive, hardly being felt
Like a broken clock, with time left behind
In the seconds of fear, sin opened its jaw
Frightening my heart with the eyes of a beast
The rhythm of my heart stopped, but Your clock, Lord
Was still tirelessly calling with mercy
In the seconds of prayer, the cross that was stuck stubbornly
In my heart, pierced uncomfortably like a shield
Jesus poured out His potent tiny droplets of blood
And He treated me like a doctor, whose patient had a heart attack.
Mystery
Why are the eyes of old women look so sad
Like the cloudy sky, not sure of the weather
Why do they look somewhere afar
And can’t enliven the mouth with a smile
Why don’t the eyes of old women want to reveal secrets
And the balance of gains and losses, but they secretly
Hide them from people, even close ones
How many tears they have shed, how many smiles they have offered
The eyes of old women wait for the crumbs
Of love, of a warm hand, in dignity, they are sensitive to kisses
Even those that we are forced to offer, on the occasion of
Anniversaries, birthdays, arrivals and departures
19.03.2004 Night vigil prayers in Czestochowa in Jasna Gora (Our Lady’s famous Sanctuary),
1 o’clock at night.
After moving around the Painting on my knees, I came back to my seat and knelt down and prayed. It seemed that I was an observer only, not a participant. Then I heard: while praying, one should ask for forgiveness. I felt ashamed and then I saw a scene of a group of people walking in the middle of the church, they wore long gowns, each with a rope around his waist, their bodies were bent, with brown sacks with stones on their backs, all looking alike. Some had their sacks full, but some had them filled only at the bottom. I saw that the stones were of medium or little sizes but there were others who had only one, big stone. Somebody explained to me that those with one, big stone - have repeatedly committed the same sin for many years. They are walking now because they want to pour out the stones, which are their sins - in front of the Holy Painting of Our Lady.
Boards
Saints and sinners go to Peter’s gate
They carry boards like shields in front
The Angel of Virtue painted holy colours on them
Gray pictures of sin were painted by the Angel of Rebellion
A little child’s soul
Is flying like a butterfly, along the heavenly trail
With her first cry, she was marked on the board
She hasn’t learned any words yet, nor has she learned any sin
Despair follows her, like an echo of longing
Of her suffering mother, rebellious in her grief
She will mark the pain with a shout, on her own board
And being hurt, she will cry: I don’t understand God!
The Angel will cry silently, Peter will hug the baby
Nobody in the world knows
God’s plans and secrets
A gray-haired old man stands before Peter’s gate
He drags a board, laden and cumbersome
Life wrote worries and diseases on it
Forgiveness, faults, bad and good words
Peter, I was like You, the old man said
Sometimes I was like a saint but sometimes - humanly wretched
A rooster crowed three times for me, like for You
Before I accepted God and learned Love
And now Peter, standing by the holy gate
Receives boards decorated with writing - pretty and ugly
Written with the alphabet of the heart or the egoist’s pen
The pictures of temptation and many conversions
Mercy keeps guard of these boards
God Who gave His Only Son to liberate us
He searches for those graces that He has granted
Which are written on boards with human deeds
And… haven’t been wasted.
14.04.2004 Silent monolog.
Why can’t so-called good people go to Heaven at once? I instantly heard an answer, that a person wearing dirty shoes, with dirty hands, can not enter the place where there are only clean people. This person knows that he or she wouldn’t fit in this clean place. That’s why we know that Purgatory is necessary so that we could wash off all that is unclean - like sins, angers etc.
God’s plans
The Angels have gathered on Destiny Island
God was the Chairman, seated on his majestic Heavenly throne
People need support with the souls of preachers
So He ordered the Angels: send them down to Earth
To the families, in towns and hamlets that have been chosen
The Angels sent a soul that God has created
To a mother who already had a few children
Another soul was sent to a woman
Who begged God during her pilgrimage, for love
I don’t know when - God said - but I remember
How she was crying when she was kneeling before Mary’s picture
The Angel brought a child’s soul to a mother in poverty
She offered Mary some flowers for the gift
I will call the baby Anthony, John, or maybe Mary
And then, the Heavenly Messenger sent The Gift of Hope - from God
To the woman who once begged for love
She didn’t receive it…
Maybe in a year, Lord, or two - she apologized
It is not my time, she said, and cast away the gift
Somewhere in a doctor’s room, her child’s soul flew away
And so God planned on Destiny Island
His purposes, glorious for people
He intended to send a doctor to someone, a holy mother - to another
A mechanic, a cook, a teacher
A nun who would help save Purgatory souls
With her prayers
A happy clown who would cheer up sad faces
But people started to bargain with God
This is not the right moment to accept Your Gift, Lord
So God’s plan didn’t come to pass
And was changed by people’s will and stubborn hearts
The time will come, or maybe it has arrived already
When we pray to God beseechingly
For a gift of blessed souls
Then God, looking sincerely into our eyes
Will remind us
You returned My Gift, like a present - too repugnant
Then we will shout, filled with pain
Toward the clouds, moving high above
Lord, why is our fate on this Earth
So cursed - and merciless?
17.04.2004 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-coloured 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.
19.04.2004 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.
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?
To my son
How little you are, I thought
Seeing my son in a white cap
With a blue dummy in his mouth
Who will protect you?
You, Mother - my heart promptly replied
What an urchin you are, I thought
Seeing his muddy knees and face
I defended a goal, Mom, he boasted
Who will protect you, my son?
You, Mother - my heart promptly replied,
What an adult man you are, I thought
Seeing him in the wedding suit
With flowers in the lapels buttonhole
I love this girl, Mom
He beamed from ear to ear
Who will protect you, my son?
The Lord - my faithful heart promptly replied
10.06.2004 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 can not 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
Friends
Man came to stop at the crossroads
Solitude was near, like an indifferent stepmother
Where are you heading? She asked curiously
Your road map doesn't contain the truth
Many of your friends have left you
You pushed away some others
Who will give you a bag with hope?
Who will show you the way, without anger?
Man cried to Heaven with pain
Solitude escaped in fear
I am calling You, the Heavenly Messenger
Please, show me the way that I lost in my life
The Angel didn't hear man's cry
How could He spread His wings and come down?
Man broke His wings with sin
He asked nobody for help
Man sits down on a rock, deflated
He utters simple words out of bitter tears
And like a child in prayer, defenseless
He begs for God's Angel to come
He called to the Guardian of his soul
And the Guardian came running with one wing broken
Since then they've been walking together, in unison
He - Man and His Guardian - the Angel.
To Mother
Don't let the wolf's fangs bite me
The fangs of the people with stony hearts
Show me the wind's direction to the land of glory
Show me the island with Paradise flowers
Teach me the prayer that brings relief
Read me the books about happy children
Give me the hand when I get lost
Fry me enough pancakes for the whole week
And just smile with reassurance
Do not cry
Do I demand too much, Mom?
Not so much, my child
You know, I give Love... free of charge.
To The Good Man
Lend me, Good Man
A pinch of your love for the world and the people
I would like to add it to the loaf of life
Which I bake so painstakingly
Lend me this morsel because my hands are empty
As if daily life wiped all particles out of them
The particles that I was collecting so eagerly
I want to feed the hearts of close ones and strangers alike
I don't know, Good Man
If I could return this pinch of the borrowed love back to you
Because I am not a skillful baker of my daily bread of life
I am still learning how to knead and shape it, over and over.
21.06.2004 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.
Maturity
It always gives change for the banknote of love
It wants to offer more than it receives
It remembers its own sins of ingratitude
Those of the young age
It sits on the trunk of a cut-out tree
Looking at others how they happily climb the mountain of life
It remembers its falls, injuries
Of the youth that was unquiet
It gives a helping hand to those who ask
It picks up those who felt dizzy
Because they wanted to reach the sky too fast
Like the young ones usually do
It needs loneliness and looking into the sky, the stars
It likes to feel the air of life without touching
Then it feels the time more strongly
And it doesn't hurt any more
It prefers to feel the warmth of the hand of the beloved person
Much more than hot kisses of unsteady passion
And it looks for a mystery in the eyes, not good looks.
09.07.2004 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, coloured, 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.
22.08.2004 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 neighbours, 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.
A warrior
When he left the cradle and his mother's arms
His father gave him a wooden sword and said:
Fight with life on this earth
Only man's will gives hope
He was fighting long, as his father commanded
First with a wooden sword, later, with one... made of steel
He was tough, love was for him to cast away
He defeated other men
And one day he met a stronger man on his way
With a sword that was powerful
The sword slipped out of the warrior's hand
And was driven with its blade into the hard ground
A cross was formed - eternal weapon
Out of the sword put somewhere in the field
It flashed in the sunset
It touched the severe heart of the warrior with fear
The tears that he once buried deeply
In front of his house
Came out like dew around this cross-like sword
Giving Hope born out of Love
God sometimes reshapes a warrior
He knocks the sword out of his hand
And gives power that is stronger
Pointing at the sign
Of the Holy Cross.
10.09.2004 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 colours 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 loose - 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.
18.09.2004 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!
19.09.2004 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
12.11.2004 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.
05.12.2004 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"?
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
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?
Pilgrimage of the saints
The saints and the blessed wander over the world
They go through villages and crowded cities
Peter is the leader, in the authority of law
They collect prayers for help and health
How to take care of it all - that's gray-haired Peter's concern
When so many people beg them and invite
Francis and Valentine give bread to the hungry
Faustian paints graces of Mercy
Theresa picks flowers and decorates little chapels
John Bosco visits children and is generous with presents
Paul looks for crosses that time knocked down
Maybe someone will kneel down and pray for faith?
Father Pio keeps running, out of breath
How to make it when people call?
And Joseph? He stops by every cottage
Asking about health, trying to repair furniture
He will hug the old ones, those loved by no one
And like other saints - he has time to listen
The saints go through towns and villages
They ran away from Peter, getting closer to other people
They bless the sick, they give sleep to the tired
They wipe off tears, give teachings and hope
Time for me, Peter said and followed his Heavenly trail
It looks like the new saints are waiting at the Heaven's gate?
And to those who stayed on earth so willingly
He sent the blessing of peace and said:
Keep on your pilgrimage
Prayer to Saint John of the Cross
I ask You, Saint John of the Cross
With my prayer that is simple
Give us the courage of faith
Light up the flame of love
You were the soul of Carmel
And gave birth to the saints, just with your word
Hold out Your strong hand of the saint
To the world that is in doubt
Please look down from Heaven
Leave behind the gate of Paradise
Teach us how to remove distrust from the heart
Show us how valuable sincere prayers are
Strengthen the voices of Heavenly Angels
Close the mouths of devils insane
Give hand to Johns of our times
Help people to put on their scaplars
Put a confessional in a church
Not a carved one, neither wooden nor great
But a spiritual one
With a priest of Hope
Slide off the bars that man wears
Going like a warrior to a war unwanted
Bless our lonely hearts
Light up the flame in our thirsty souls
Teach us, contemporary Johns
How to bend our rebellious knees
Whisper silently that it's not we but the cross is the weapon
This has been the arms known for centuries
And although you had lived hundreds of years before
Darkness wasn't a stranger to you, like it isn't to us, either
Beseech for us, even with a single sigh:
Oh, God, give those contemporary Johns
The great Power of the Holy Spirit
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.
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.
05.05.2003 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.
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 colours, 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 Angle 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.
23.06.2003 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 inthronisation 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.
12.07.2003 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 desterous 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.
30.08.2003 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.
01.09.2003 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.
29.09.2003 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 colour 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 colours? 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
30.09.2003 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?
(I asked, what“ You” means and I heard a joyous voice saying: It depends on you whom you will meet).
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.
02.01.2004 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.
09.02.2004 Another attack of evil forces
I met my acquaintance, she was sad and mislabel. She told me about her daughter who was ill. I suggested to her that a priest should come with a special healing anointment. Then she said that her daughter is an atheist and she doesn’t want any priest. That day I prayed the Chaplet of Mercy for that person. About 11 o’clock at night, during my prayer, I saw (like on a film tape) persons, alive and dead, for whom I should pray. Suddenly I felt I was being strangled. I couldn’t let out my voice. I knew that nobody would hear me. I remembered from my previous experiences that I should pull out my arm or leg so that I could burst this cocoon but I couldn’t move. At that moment I couldn’t remember any prayer. Nor did I remember any name of a saint. My mind was blocked. Then I felt that quite a number of strange creatures jumped over my back and a big creature was holding my neck, trying to strangle me. All of a sudden I remembered the story of St. Agnes. I shouted: St. Agnes - help me. Then the big, black creature gave out a long whistle and jumped off my back and so did the other creatures. They left the room in one entity from, which was uncanny.
Heavenly clock
When you cut through my heart, Lord, with the cross
Your clock began to measure its rhythm
Hours of thoughts, full of dark doubts
Minutes of fears, seconds of prayers
During the hours of doubts, like in a spider web
There was the painful rhythm of the heart
The pulse, hardly alive, hardly being felt
Like a broken clock, with time left behind
In the seconds of fear, sin opened its jaw
Frightening my heart with the eyes of a beast
The rhythm of my heart stopped, but Your clock, Lord
Was still tirelessly calling with mercy
In the seconds of prayer, the cross that was stuck stubbornly
In my heart, pierced uncomfortably like a shield
Jesus poured out His potent tiny droplets of blood
And He treated me like a doctor, whose patient had a heart attack.
Mystery
Why are the eyes of old women look so sad
Like the cloudy sky, not sure of the weather
Why do they look somewhere afar
And can’t enliven the mouth with a smile
Why don’t the eyes of old women want to reveal secrets
And the balance of gains and losses, but they secretly
Hide them from people, even close ones
How many tears they have shed, how many smiles they have offered
The eyes of old women wait for the crumbs
Of love, of a warm hand, in dignity, they are sensitive to kisses
Even those that we are forced to offer, on the occasion of
Anniversaries, birthdays, arrivals and departures
19.03.2004 Night vigil prayers in Czestochowa in Jasna Gora (Our Lady’s famous Sanctuary),
1 o’clock at night.
After moving around the Painting on my knees, I came back to my seat and knelt down and prayed. It seemed that I was an observer only, not a participant. Then I heard: while praying, one should ask for forgiveness. I felt ashamed and then I saw a scene of a group of people walking in the middle of the church, they wore long gowns, each with a rope around his waist, their bodies were bent, with brown sacks with stones on their backs, all looking alike. Some had their sacks full, but some had them filled only at the bottom. I saw that the stones were of medium or little sizes but there were others who had only one, big stone. Somebody explained to me that those with one, big stone - have repeatedly committed the same sin for many years. They are walking now because they want to pour out the stones, which are their sins - in front of the Holy Painting of Our Lady.
Boards
Saints and sinners go to Peter’s gate
They carry boards like shields in front
The Angel of Virtue painted holy colours on them
Gray pictures of sin were painted by the Angel of Rebellion
A little child’s soul
Is flying like a butterfly, along the heavenly trail
With her first cry, she was marked on the board
She hasn’t learned any words yet, nor has she learned any sin
Despair follows her, like an echo of longing
Of her suffering mother, rebellious in her grief
She will mark the pain with a shout, on her own board
And being hurt, she will cry: I don’t understand God!
The Angel will cry silently, Peter will hug the baby
Nobody in the world knows
God’s plans and secrets
A gray-haired old man stands before Peter’s gate
He drags a board, laden and cumbersome
Life wrote worries and diseases on it
Forgiveness, faults, bad and good words
Peter, I was like You, the old man said
Sometimes I was like a saint but sometimes - humanly wretched
A rooster crowed three times for me, like for You
Before I accepted God and learned Love
And now Peter, standing by the holy gate
Receives boards decorated with writing - pretty and ugly
Written with the alphabet of the heart or the egoist’s pen
The pictures of temptation and many conversions
Mercy keeps guard of these boards
God Who gave His Only Son to liberate us
He searches for those graces that He has granted
Which are written on boards with human deeds
And… haven’t been wasted.
14.04.2004 Silent monolog.
Why can’t so-called good people go to Heaven at once? I instantly heard an answer, that a person wearing dirty shoes, with dirty hands, can not enter the place where there are only clean people. This person knows that he or she wouldn’t fit in this clean place. That’s why we know that Purgatory is necessary so that we could wash off all that is unclean - like sins, angers etc.
God’s plans
The Angels have gathered on Destiny Island
God was the Chairman, seated on his majestic Heavenly throne
People need support with the souls of preachers
So He ordered the Angels: send them down to Earth
To the families, in towns and hamlets that have been chosen
The Angels sent a soul that God has created
To a mother who already had a few children
Another soul was sent to a woman
Who begged God during her pilgrimage, for love
I don’t know when - God said - but I remember
How she was crying when she was kneeling before Mary’s picture
The Angel brought a child’s soul to a mother in poverty
She offered Mary some flowers for the gift
I will call the baby Anthony, John, or maybe Mary
And then, the Heavenly Messenger sent The Gift of Hope - from God
To the woman who once begged for love
She didn’t receive it…
Maybe in a year, Lord, or two - she apologized
It is not my time, she said, and cast away the gift
Somewhere in a doctor’s room, her child’s soul flew away
And so God planned on Destiny Island
His purposes, glorious for people
He intended to send a doctor to someone, a holy mother - to another
A mechanic, a cook, a teacher
A nun who would help save Purgatory souls
With her prayers
A happy clown who would cheer up sad faces
But people started to bargain with God
This is not the right moment to accept Your Gift, Lord
So God’s plan didn’t come to pass
And was changed by people’s will and stubborn hearts
The time will come, or maybe it has arrived already
When we pray to God beseechingly
For a gift of blessed souls
Then God, looking sincerely into our eyes
Will remind us
You returned My Gift, like a present - too repugnant
Then we will shout, filled with pain
Toward the clouds, moving high above
Lord, why is our fate on this Earth
So cursed - and merciless?
17.04.2004 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-coloured 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.
19.04.2004 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.
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?
To my son
How little you are, I thought
Seeing my son in a white cap
With a blue dummy in his mouth
Who will protect you?
You, Mother - my heart promptly replied
What an urchin you are, I thought
Seeing his muddy knees and face
I defended a goal, Mom, he boasted
Who will protect you, my son?
You, Mother - my heart promptly replied,
What an adult man you are, I thought
Seeing him in the wedding suit
With flowers in the lapels buttonhole
I love this girl, Mom
He beamed from ear to ear
Who will protect you, my son?
The Lord - my faithful heart promptly replied
10.06.2004 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 can not 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
Friends
Man came to stop at the crossroads
Solitude was near, like an indifferent stepmother
Where are you heading? She asked curiously
Your road map doesn't contain the truth
Many of your friends have left you
You pushed away some others
Who will give you a bag with hope?
Who will show you the way, without anger?
Man cried to Heaven with pain
Solitude escaped in fear
I am calling You, the Heavenly Messenger
Please, show me the way that I lost in my life
The Angel didn't hear man's cry
How could He spread His wings and come down?
Man broke His wings with sin
He asked nobody for help
Man sits down on a rock, deflated
He utters simple words out of bitter tears
And like a child in prayer, defenseless
He begs for God's Angel to come
He called to the Guardian of his soul
And the Guardian came running with one wing broken
Since then they've been walking together, in unison
He - Man and His Guardian - the Angel.
To Mother
Don't let the wolf's fangs bite me
The fangs of the people with stony hearts
Show me the wind's direction to the land of glory
Show me the island with Paradise flowers
Teach me the prayer that brings relief
Read me the books about happy children
Give me the hand when I get lost
Fry me enough pancakes for the whole week
And just smile with reassurance
Do not cry
Do I demand too much, Mom?
Not so much, my child
You know, I give Love... free of charge.
To The Good Man
Lend me, Good Man
A pinch of your love for the world and the people
I would like to add it to the loaf of life
Which I bake so painstakingly
Lend me this morsel because my hands are empty
As if daily life wiped all particles out of them
The particles that I was collecting so eagerly
I want to feed the hearts of close ones and strangers alike
I don't know, Good Man
If I could return this pinch of the borrowed love back to you
Because I am not a skillful baker of my daily bread of life
I am still learning how to knead and shape it, over and over.
21.06.2004 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.
Maturity
It always gives change for the banknote of love
It wants to offer more than it receives
It remembers its own sins of ingratitude
Those of the young age
It sits on the trunk of a cut-out tree
Looking at others how they happily climb the mountain of life
It remembers its falls, injuries
Of the youth that was unquiet
It gives a helping hand to those who ask
It picks up those who felt dizzy
Because they wanted to reach the sky too fast
Like the young ones usually do
It needs loneliness and looking into the sky, the stars
It likes to feel the air of life without touching
Then it feels the time more strongly
And it doesn't hurt any more
It prefers to feel the warmth of the hand of the beloved person
Much more than hot kisses of unsteady passion
And it looks for a mystery in the eyes, not good looks.
09.07.2004 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, coloured, 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.
22.08.2004 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 neighbours, 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.
A warrior
When he left the cradle and his mother's arms
His father gave him a wooden sword and said:
Fight with life on this earth
Only man's will gives hope
He was fighting long, as his father commanded
First with a wooden sword, later, with one... made of steel
He was tough, love was for him to cast away
He defeated other men
And one day he met a stronger man on his way
With a sword that was powerful
The sword slipped out of the warrior's hand
And was driven with its blade into the hard ground
A cross was formed - eternal weapon
Out of the sword put somewhere in the field
It flashed in the sunset
It touched the severe heart of the warrior with fear
The tears that he once buried deeply
In front of his house
Came out like dew around this cross-like sword
Giving Hope born out of Love
God sometimes reshapes a warrior
He knocks the sword out of his hand
And gives power that is stronger
Pointing at the sign
Of the Holy Cross.
10.09.2004 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 colours 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 loose - 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.
18.09.2004 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!
19.09.2004 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
12.11.2004 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.
05.12.2004 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"?
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
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?
Pilgrimage of the saints
The saints and the blessed wander over the world
They go through villages and crowded cities
Peter is the leader, in the authority of law
They collect prayers for help and health
How to take care of it all - that's gray-haired Peter's concern
When so many people beg them and invite
Francis and Valentine give bread to the hungry
Faustian paints graces of Mercy
Theresa picks flowers and decorates little chapels
John Bosco visits children and is generous with presents
Paul looks for crosses that time knocked down
Maybe someone will kneel down and pray for faith?
Father Pio keeps running, out of breath
How to make it when people call?
And Joseph? He stops by every cottage
Asking about health, trying to repair furniture
He will hug the old ones, those loved by no one
And like other saints - he has time to listen
The saints go through towns and villages
They ran away from Peter, getting closer to other people
They bless the sick, they give sleep to the tired
They wipe off tears, give teachings and hope
Time for me, Peter said and followed his Heavenly trail
It looks like the new saints are waiting at the Heaven's gate?
And to those who stayed on earth so willingly
He sent the blessing of peace and said:
Keep on your pilgrimage
Prayer to Saint John of the Cross
I ask You, Saint John of the Cross
With my prayer that is simple
Give us the courage of faith
Light up the flame of love
You were the soul of Carmel
And gave birth to the saints, just with your word
Hold out Your strong hand of the saint
To the world that is in doubt
Please look down from Heaven
Leave behind the gate of Paradise
Teach us how to remove distrust from the heart
Show us how valuable sincere prayers are
Strengthen the voices of Heavenly Angels
Close the mouths of devils insane
Give hand to Johns of our times
Help people to put on their scaplars
Put a confessional in a church
Not a carved one, neither wooden nor great
But a spiritual one
With a priest of Hope
Slide off the bars that man wears
Going like a warrior to a war unwanted
Bless our lonely hearts
Light up the flame in our thirsty souls
Teach us, contemporary Johns
How to bend our rebellious knees
Whisper silently that it's not we but the cross is the weapon
This has been the arms known for centuries
And although you had lived hundreds of years before
Darkness wasn't a stranger to you, like it isn't to us, either
Beseech for us, even with a single sigh:
Oh, God, give those contemporary Johns
The great Power of the Holy Spirit
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.