Słowa, które
przekraczają
granice czasu

There are no banners.

No seal
I could press
upon my words
and say:

this is the truth.

A human being stands before me
without instructions —
with his anger,
his error,
a wound
I cannot see.

And then
I become a diplomat of the Kingdom.

Not between nations.

Between being right
and his dignity.

I lose many arguments.
I win more than one.

Not every victory
is one I wish to remember.

For one can have truth
on one’s lips
and leave behind
scorched earth.

One can speak of the Father
in such a way
that another sees
only a Ruler.

Every day
I am learning to be a student

before I become
an ambassador.

And if I truly
am one,

then my life
is the only letter of credence
the world
ever reads.

So I ask:

does the person who stands before me today
see in me an ambassador of the Kingdom —
or only me?

(Inspired by The Urantia Book — Paper 140, “The Ordination of the Twelve.”)

Someone beside you
is losing the day.

Someone is gathering their pride
from the cobblestones.

Someone needs
just one word
to make it through tomorrow.

You could be the reason
they find the courage
to fight once more.

Sometimes a single gesture
can move the darkness
across the whole sky.

The love in me
greets the love in you.

Say it

with your heart.

Have you ever sat
across from yourself?

Not in front of a mirror.
There, you can always
fix your hair,
look away,
choose your better side.

Across from yourself.

Close enough
to feel
what you haven’t dared
to touch for so long.

Who are you?

The one
who learned to stay silent
because it feels safer?

Safer for whom?

The one
who says, “I’m fine”
when it hurts
the most?

Why?

Or maybe the one
who can still laugh
before remembering
who you’re supposed to be?

What for?

Don’t answer.

Not yet.

Just look
at the chair
you’re sitting in.

Is that really you?

You sit in my chair,
sprawled out,
certain of your place,
as if you had been here
before me.
You feed
on my fears.

On what I might lose,
what I may not be able to bear,
on tomorrow
that has not yet come.

What you love most
are my “what ifs.”

You raise your voice,
make demands,
draw the boundaries
of my world.

Don’t go.
Don’t try.
Don’t trust.
Don’t stand out.

Once,
I believed you.

Today I look at you
and almost smile.

Mr. Fear.

(Inspired by The Urantia Book, Paper 140:3.2)

That morning,

summer still

lingered in their hair,

and little hands

rested trustingly

in their parents’ hands.

The end of summer.

The end

of childhood.

Today, it is September again.

I see a parent

adjusting a backpack

and letting go of a little hand

at the school gate.

Somewhere in the world,

a child stares

at an empty plate,

as if waiting

for tomorrow

to appear on it.

Somewhere else,

tiny fists

clench in fear,

while a mother,

with her own body,

tries to hold back

the falling sky.

Those hands should

be holding a toy,

breaking bread,

reaching for a father’s hand

before falling asleep.

Not trembling.

Not knowing

what war sounds like.

Somewhere far away,

someone’s finger

shifts borders on a map.

And once again,

civilization measures itself

not by what it has built,

but by what

it is able to save.

I watch a little hand

disappear beyond the school gate

and think of the one

that, at this very moment,

is hiding from a drone.

Have the hands

that start wars

never held

a child’s hand

before?

The rules are quite simple — you must still look young,
stay vibrant and gorgeous, forever high-strung.
A thirty-year-old face, a young woman’s waist,
and cheat Father Time with impeccable taste.

Grow older with grace, naturally, with class —
but cover those crow’s feet before they amass.
Grey hair? It is lovely! A symbol of wisdom —
on somebody else. Dye your roots with precision.

You must love your body, each curve, every line,
but cellulite? Surely, that’s crossing the line.
Embrace every fold — for your body is yours,
then diet and workouts and endless new wars.

Eat protein and fibre, your veggies and greens,
forget about desserts and all that they mean.
Ten thousand steps daily — keep going, don’t fail,
sleep eight perfect hours and stay calm without fail.

The bills? Family? Hormones? Your job and its strain?
Just find the right balance — how hard can it be?

Be natural — surely, that’s rule number one,
but improve what is natural. Isn’t this fun?

And growth? Absolutely! Keep growing each day:
more patience, perspective — and cellulite, hey!
Add strength of character and nerves made of steel,
for the world keeps demanding the perfect ideal.

And sometimes, alone, when I look in the glass,
I see someone unfamiliar staring right back —
a woman assembled so carefully through years
from the world’s expectations, then neatly “improved.”

For years I’ve been told how I ought to appear,
what to hide, what to change, what to fix, what to fear,
and now, nearing sixty, one question remains:

am I finally allowed to be me,
or must I still be “acceptable”?

It is hard to comprehend
that every human being
happens only once.

We come into this life
with something written deep within us —
a potential
yet to be discovered.

Life reveals it slowly.

In encounters
we never planned.
In a promise we kept.
In a hand extended
when it would have been easier to walk away.

And in all
that we never had the chance
to discover within ourselves.

As if existence
had hidden within each of us
a tiny piece of mystery,
entrusted
to no one else.

And perhaps we are

like that drop upon a hand
that once
was a snowflake.

His shoes are too heavy
for this time of year.
A faded hat.
A face
I don’t care to look at for long.

I already know
who he is.

I don’t ask
what he carried
before he began to limp.

Into his backpack
I put my images,
my demons,
my answers.

Then I close my eyes,
certain
I know what he carries.

We passed each other
believing
the road would never end.

I put off your voice
until a quieter evening,
your presence
until a day less hurried.

I never thought
that some doors
close only once.

Small things remained —
a cup,
a book with a folded corner,
a chair remembering
the weight of your shoulders.

Today, I would give
all my tomorrows
for a single yesterday,

for one moment
when, instead of passing by,
I could have stayed.

For the cruelest thing
is not that time passes,

but the knowing
that comes
one step too late:

that I could have changed it,

when I still
had time.

(Inspired by The Urantia Book, 171:7.5)

So many words fall daily from the world,
yet still we walk the earth unsatisfied.
So many rivers flow, from year to year,
yet there are hearts that have forgotten why.

For one may have a well, yet die of thirst,
have pockets full — and carry hunger still.
Some waters cool us with a wave of forgetting,
and some words fade before they reach the heart.

Is hunger the greatest suffering,
or thirst that leaves our lips so dry?
To pass by the spring with an indifferent gaze
and still complain that the glass is empty?

(Inspired by The Urantia Book, 162:6 — “Discourse on the Water of Life”)

He was meant to run barefoot,
get upset over little things,
fall asleep
before the story ended.

He was meant to believe
that grown-ups knew
what they were doing.

Instead,
he learned to recognize footsteps,
the tone of a voice,
the silence before the storm.

He learned not to cry
when it hurt,
not to ask,
because no answer ever came.

He was small,
but life
didn’t know his age.

So he grew up faster
than he should have.

From unspoken tears
he made mortar,
from fear — walls,
from loneliness — a roof.

And made a home
inside himself.

Years later, they say:

how strong he is,
how brave,
how much he can carry.

They admire the armor.

No one asks
who put it
on a child.

Leave behind
the one they know.

WHO ARE YOU?

Don’t answer.

Here, words
matter very little.

Everything
that once stood
between you and the world
has become transparent.

What you used to refine in yourself
for the sake of others
has lost its meaning.

No one judges you.

And yet,
for the first time,
there is nowhere to run.

WHO ARE YOU?

Silence.

This is where
the truth begins…

(Inspired by The Urantia Book — Paper 47, “The Seven Mansion Worlds”.)

I dreamed
that I was alone.

That life was only
what I could manage to see,
understand,
possess.

That I had to know
so I wouldn’t be afraid,
and win
so I would matter.

I didn’t know
that all this time
Someone was waiting
in the quietest place
of my mind.

Letting me choose,
lose my way,
return.

Until one day
I asked myself:

why do I long
for something unseen?

And why does goodness
sometimes cost more,
yet somehow
it is what remains?

Then I thought:

perhaps I am not
a lost human being
on a small planet.

Only a child
who has been given
all of eternity

to learn
how to fly.

Not every game
ends in checkmate.

Sometimes you lose your queen,
though you thought you had foreseen almost everything.
Sometimes an unassuming pawn
forces you to change your strategy.

You look at the board
and you already know —
some moves
cannot be taken back.

You can overturn the table.
Blame chance,
blame it all on bad luck.

Or stay.

Face your own defeat
and refuse to let it
take from you
anything more than victory.

Because the most important game
is rarely played
between black and white.

It is played much deeper —
where no one can see
how you choose
between bitterness and peace,
resentment and forgiveness,
revenge and love.

There are victories
that make a person smaller.

And defeats
from which we rise
greater than before.

And when, one day,
you play for the last time,
no one will ask
how many games you won.

Only —

who did you become
when life said:

„Your move”.

Before worlds were born
on the edges of time and space,
She already was there
beside the Creator Son—
a silent Power of the Universe,
the Divine Caregiver of Salvington.

She does not arrive in brilliance.
Her presence flows
like an invisible current:
through circuits of mind,
through the breath of Seraphim,
through the rhythm of spiritual energies.

She tends the angelic hosts
as a mother tends a garden full of flowers.
Seraphim lift Her will
over the dark valleys of planets,
bringing comfort to those
who have forgotten
they are children of eternity.

From Her flow
the first lights of consciousness
that touch evolutionary races:
intuition awakening survival,
courage against darkness,
knowledge seeking meaning,
wisdom teaching higher vision.

Like the quiet glow of a distant star
She accompanies human growth.
Unseen, She harmonizes
the spiritual circuits of Nebadon
so that life, mind, and service
may remain in perfect balance.

And mortals of Urantia
only faintly sense Her presence
in moments of sudden understanding,
in flashes of higher thought,
in longing for something greater
than life in matter.

The Mother Spirit of Nebadon
does not demand worship.
Like starlight
She simply IS—
faithful to the Father’s design,
united with Michael
in the eternal work
of guiding time-born creatures
toward spiritual maturity.

Tell me to come.

Your voice
breaking through the wind
is not enough for me.
It is not enough
that You are.

I want a sea
that forgets it is water.
A weight that ceases to weigh.
The laws of the world stepping back
a few paces
just for me.

Then I will believe.

So I say,
standing ankle-deep
in everyday miracles.

I breathe.
Someone waits for me to return.
In the morning, light
finds the window again.
A hand finds another hand.
Strength comes
for one more day.

It is not enough…

I keep looking
toward the impossible.

And when the wind rises,
I forget even
what I heard
only a moment ago.

Fear has a voice of its own.

It can drown out
the most important word:

“I am.”

I have been watching so long
for God walking on water
that I fail to notice
He has been walking
beside me all along…

I

First, a vastness unfolds before me,
beyond all measure.

Paradise.
Havona.
Seven superuniverses
and worlds scattered farther
than imagination can reach.

I learn the names of beings
I have never heard of,
an order greater
than my understanding.

And above it all,
not the throne of a distant ruler,
but the Father,
who knows the way
to every single heart.

And suddenly I know
that the universe is immense,
yet I am not a stranger within it.

II

Then the map draws me closer
to our small corner of infinity.

Nebadon.

Worlds, constellations, systems,
Sons and Melchizedeks,
angels bending over
the path of a mortal.

Here, death ceases to be a wall.

Beyond it await
the mansion worlds,
learning,
transformation,
successive stages of existence.

A human being journeys onward
with what held a value
greater than a single lifetime:

with personality,
with a soul coming into being,
with all that taught them
to truly see another human being.

III

Then I return to Earth.

Urantia.

Rocks cool,
continents rise,
life emerges
from ancient seas,
while time patiently
teaches matter new forms.

Humanity appears.

Teachers come,
princes and rebels,
Adam and Eve,
Van, Amadon,
Machiventa.

Civilizations rise and fall.
Freedom chooses wrongly
and begins again.

And amid all this history
there is something
unimaginably close:

within the human mind
dwells a silent fragment of God.

The Thought Adjuster.

The nearest mystery
within the vastest space.

IV

And at the end,
the cosmos falls silent
in awe.

In Bethlehem,
a child is born.

He grows.
He works.
He travels.
He laughs with friends.
He sits at the table with others.

Then he chooses twelve
and shows them God,
not through a discourse
about the universe,
but through the way
he looks upon another human being.

He touches the rejected.
He lifts the fallen.
He forgives.
He loves.
He leaves them free.

And between the lines
I discover:

that all the worlds,
all the roads,
all the lessons of eternity
lead to a single moment —

to meeting the Father.

Maybe it was in me
before I even learned
to name my desires.

Maybe it waited patiently
until one day
I tried something for the first time
and felt
that this was exactly
where I belonged.

Not everyone finds it right away.

Sometimes it lies hidden for years
beneath someone else’s “you can’t,”
beneath the voice of reason
that tells us to choose the safer path,
beneath a life consumed
by what must be done.

Some discover it by chance —
too late, they think,
though perhaps there is no right time
for discovering who you are.

Others have known for years,
yet hide what they were given,
because a gift also asks something of us:
it must be nurtured,
sometimes defended,
sometimes begun again from the start.

It can also become
a place from which to stand above others
and make us forget
that what we were given
was never our achievement.

And one day,
the most important question
will not be:

how much were you given?

But —

what did you do with it?

There are people

you meet
only once.

And yet
they seem
strangely familiar,

as though your paths
had crossed before—

there,
where time
had not yet begun.

It is not enough for the world to advance—
humanity itself must be born anew.
Not in the flesh, but in the spirit;
not in words, but in the heart.

Urantia, weary of conflict and the dust of ambition,
waits for those who will see brothers and sisters in one another,
instead of rivals in a race that leads nowhere.

First, a transformation within a single heart—
one that knows how to forgive
instead of condemn.

One that dares to trust
instead of fear.

One that longs to serve
instead of rule.

Then, a transformation among the nations—
when science will no longer mock the spirit,
and religions will no longer fear the truth.

When children will learn love
as naturally as they now learn language.

When wealth will no longer measure a person’s worth,
and peace will become a habit rather than a dream.

Brotherhood will not be born from decrees or programs.
No leader will bring it,
for it comes quietly,
from within the human heart
that has chosen to love despite everything.

And when millions of such hearts
shine with one light,
Earth will become
what it was always meant to be—
a planet that remembers Heaven.

There are names

that are never

spoken

like the others.

They are

never

without weight.

Once,

they belonged

to someone.

Today,

they outlive

every story.

A single word

is enough,

and memory

fills in

the rest.

How does it happen

that a name

ceases to belong

to a person

and becomes

a symbol?

How many worlds

had to hear

that voice

for it to endure

longer

than the ages?

That name

reminds us

that even

the most beautiful

idea

is worthy

of one question:

„Where does it

draw its source?”

The rest

of that story

waits

within the pages

that most of us

have never

opened.

(Inspired by Paper 53, “The Lucifer Rebellion,” The Urantia Book.)

We arrived here barefoot,
with pockets full of questions
our lips did not yet know
how to speak.
We were given life,
a handful of days,
a few tears,
a few moments of wonder,
and a heart
meant to learn how to love.
Urantia—
a school for the children of God.
There are no bells announcing lessons.
Only sunrises,
asking us each morning:
“What have you learned about love today?”
There are no grades.
There are only people we meet.
Some walk beside us for a moment,
while others leave a mark
deeper than a river carved in stone.
We learn patience
from trees
that grow slowly.
Humility from the stars,
which shine
without asking who is watching.
We learn to forgive
when the ego would rather remember.
We learn to trust
when the road disappears into the mist.
And the Father?
He does not stand at the blackboard.
He does not inspect our notebooks.
He walks beside us.
Sometimes so quietly
that all we hear
is the gentle stirring of the soul.
And one day,
when the last earthly classroom
closes behind us,
we will look back
at that little world
lost among the stars of Nebadon
and say with a smile:
It was here that we learned to fly.
It was here that we learned to love.
It was here that we discovered
that all along
we were the children of God. ✨💙

Do not ask
if you already know.

Love
is not an exam.

It is
a daily choice.

Each day,
try once more.

Once more,
choose patience
when it would be easier
to judge.

Once more,
pause your thought
before it becomes
a word.

Once more,
ask yourself

whether
what you are about to do

will make
the world
even
a little
better.

Do not lose heart
when your strength
runs low.

For one day,

goodness
will no longer
be an effort,

but will become
the joy
of your heart.

I am.

Though sometimes
the day
passes through me
like the wind through an abandoned house.

I am.

Though my body
more and more often
asks for rest.

I am.

Though I do not understand
this world
or even myself
completely.

I am.

Because
I trust.

If the grain
must die,

let it die
in the Father’s hand.

The rest
I do not need to know.

Still…

At night

I chose
a single star.

I gazed at it
for so long
that I began to believe
I knew the sky.

Then dawn
gently took
that illusion away.

It was never
the star
that was too small.

It was my sight
that could not
embrace
anything more.

Perhaps
truth
is much the same.

We hold
a tiny fragment
of eternity
in our hands

and call it

the whole.

Yet the universe

does not end

where
our vision
does.

And perhaps

humility

is the most beautiful way

to look

at the heavens.

People fear death,
because they do not know
the timetable.
They do not know
from which platform
their final train
will depart.

So they stand
at the station of time,
listening for footsteps
that cannot be heard,
watching for lights
that cannot be seen.

And yet,
not every track
runs through matter.

Some tracks
lead farther on,
though the eyes
see only fog.

And when the hour comes,
the one no one chooses,
only the landscape
begins to change.

Those who sleep
awaken
at another station,
where memory
is deeper than remembrance,
and dawn
knows no dusk.

The journey goes on…

So quietly,
between one thought
and the next.

Fear
taught the eyes
to count the cliffs,
even though the path
had always led
toward the summit.

Anger
threw a stone
into a tranquil lake.
The ripples remembered
for far longer
than the moment
that caused them.

Envy
turned its gaze
toward another’s garden,
until its own flowers
bloomed unnoticed.

Greed
kept gathering stones,
never realizing
that with every one,
the road ahead
grew heavier to walk.

Judgment
looked through
a tiny window
and believed
it had seen
the whole world.

Sorrow
did not extinguish the sun.
It merely drew the curtains,
until the soul forgot
that dawn
was still waiting
behind them.

And yet…

The same wind
fills some with fear,
while it fills
the sails of others.

The same rain,
for some,
ends the journey;
for others,
it becomes
the first sign of spring.

The world
does not always reveal
what it truly is.

It reflects
what we carry
within ourselves.

For it is there
that the mind’s poisons
are born.

And only you
hold the antidote.

Every act of knowing
demands a sacrifice.

Most often,
it lays upon the altar
our own ignorance.

Bridges burn,
for there is no turning back.
Not because
the flames have reached them.

Every act of knowing
strips old answers
of their innocence.

You may return
to the same shore.

But never
as yesterday’s self…

In the sunlight of ordinary days,
in the weathered hands of a carpenter,
among people ordinary and extraordinary,
among the poor and the rich,
among the black, the yellow, and the white.

Just as he was—
he laughed and he wept,
he suffered in silence and in solitude.

A child in the arms of life.
The Son of God and the Son of Man.

Not through miracles,
but through the life he lived—
earthly, ordinary, and sincere—
he showed
that life can be lived in its fullness.

He chose Urantia from among many worlds
to live a human life,
holding in his heart all the worlds of Nebadon,
so that everyone might discover the way
from everyday life to the Father,
from the ordinary to Eternity,
from the finite to the Infinite.

Just as he was—
just as you are.

In every breath,
in every smile,
in every tear,
the way is hidden.

He walked it first,

so that you would not be afraid
to follow him—

all the way to the Father.

(A Story of One Ascending from Urantia)

I came from a world
where information shouts,
and truth awakens suspicion.

So on Jerusem, for a long time,
I could not understand
that here,
silence is the gateway.

They led me to a place
that was called neither a hall nor a building.
They simply said:

— Here, we listen to the Universe.

An amphitheater embraced me
like arms of a substance
that remembers the beginning.
I had never known such matter on Urantia.

At its center stretched a sea of glass.
It reflected no images—
it reflected meaning.

I sat among beings
whose forms I could not name.
Yet no one was a stranger.
Each of us was on the journey.

And then…

I heard no sound.
I saw no vision.

First came understanding—
like warmth
that arrives
before you notice
the first rays of the sun.

Messages flowed gently from Salvington.
Then Edentia spoke.

The words of the Constellation Fathers
did not demand faith—
they awakened it.

I felt
my soul recognize
a forgotten frequency.

And when the transmission from Paradise came…

No announcement.
No signal.

Simply—
everyone knew.

The sea of glass came alive.

Sound became warmth.
Warmth became meaning.
And meaning
became me.

Then I thought of Urantia.
Of how difficult it had been
to believe
without proof.

Here,
nothing needs to be proven.

For I am in a place
where everything
becomes meaning.

All your life
you learn
to hold on
to what,
sooner or later,
you will have
to let go.
Things.
Plans.
People.
Even the image
you have
of yourself.
Only then
do you begin
to see
that there is something
that cannot
be lost.
It does not depend
on circumstances.
It does not fade
with time.
Be still.
Because right here.
Right now.
Silence
speaks
most quietly.

You are not here by chance.

Before your first breath,
someone had already dreamed
of your existence.

You are not a mistake of time,
nor a forgotten grain
of the universe.

You are the answer
to a Love
that saw more in you
from the very beginning
than you may ever see
in yourself.

You may doubt.

You may lose your way.

But your worth
was never born
from success
or from the judgment of others.

It was there first.

And it will remain
when all else fades.

So live
as though your life
truly matters.

For even if the world
forgets it,

it will never be the same…

because you are here.

It does not ask
how much you already know.
It asks only one question:
Do you dare
to keep going?
It has no shape,
yet it fills all space.
It has no voice,
yet for ages
it has been asking questions.
We try to measure it
with numbers,
with time,
with names.
Patiently,
it slips beyond
every definition.
Perhaps that is why
the human heart
never stops seeking.
For an answer
that closes every door
could never be the truth.
Infinity does not dwell
at the end of the road.
It is present
in every step
that gives birth to the next.
And perhaps…
we are closest to it
when, with humility,
we are able to say:
„I do not know… yet.”

He bowed to the silence,
as though it were
his most faithful listener.
He raised his hands.
The first notes
found their own melody.
His fingers remembered
what memory itself
had begun to doubt.
Then suddenly…
silence.
A single moment
that seemed longer
than the entire concert.
He searched for the melody
somewhere far away,
as if it had slipped
beyond the reach of his heart.
Then he lowered his eyes.
On the music stand
lay the score.
It had been there
all along.
Patient.
Still.
He smiled.
The melody
never leaves us.
Sometimes
we play from memory
for so long
that we forget
the answer
has been before our eyes
all along.

Whoever seeks for God has found Him,
though still they wander through the mist,
though sometimes fear invades the silence
and tears still carry sorrow’s taste.

Yet no one walks this road alone,
though earthly fear whispers, „You are.”
Like a pilgrim, weary from the journey,
who loses the path and all its meaning.

Within them dwells the Father’s Spark—
the Thought Adjuster, quiet and near,
a compass in the depths of the soul,
pointing beyond the reach of fate.

And all around, though still unseen,
the spirit world unfolds its care:
faithful guardians of each footstep,
bearing light through time and order.

Like dawn that rises in the silence
before the sun has kissed the peaks,
they gently brighten what was hidden
beneath the weight of human grief.

So though the road grows dark before us,
and though the world’s voice falls away,
no one whose heart still seeks the Father
will ever walk life’s path alone.

Whoever seeks for God has found Him,
for longing weaves the golden thread;
and all the universe responds
to those who dare to journey on.

I met a person once. Just briefly—
for a single conversation, a handful of words
cast somewhere between
the ordinary and eternity.
And then they were gone…
Yet something remained with me.
Not their face. Not the color of their eyes.
Not even their words.
Something deeper.
Like a stone dropped into a lake—
long vanished from sight,
while the ripples still travel
across the water.
They say another person
is a mirror.
Perhaps.
But a mirror only reflects.
That person did something more.
They altered the shape of my world
simply by being in it.
They showed me patience
when I had none.
They uncovered my fear
when I believed myself brave.
They taught me humility
without ever speaking of it.
And suddenly I understood:
we are not solitary stars
suspended in the dark.
We are fireflies,
kindling one another’s light.
And every conversation
is an attempt to learn the language
that eternity has spoken all along.
Perhaps that is why
our paths cross in this world—
to become, for a moment,
a mirror for one another,
and then something more:
a window
through which God looks in.

The warrior does not ask where the road will lead.
He kisses the dust that settles upon his feet,
for he knows each grain remembers
those who found the courage to walk before him.

The warrior does not fear the darkness.
It is there he learns to recognize
a single, silent star
that never abandons the faithful.

The warrior does not flee the storm.
He spreads his heart like a sail
and lets the wind carry it
where courage alone could never reach without trust.

The warrior wears no armor of iron.
His shield is forgiveness,
and his sword is a word spoken in love—
a blade no hatred can ever dull.

The warrior does not count his falls.
Like a seed buried in the dark earth,
he knows that only what dies to pride
can be born again in truth.

The warrior does not seek glory.
He would rather be a hidden spring in the forest,
where the thirsty come to drink
without ever knowing its name.

The warrior does not triumph because he is strong.
He triumphs because,
each time the world whispers, „This is the end,”
he answers, softly, „Just one more step…”

Children of the Stars

Before the Earth had learned
to sing with the wind,

before the oceans whispered
their first prayers
in foaming waves upon the rocks—

one hundred descended from the heavens.

They were neither gods nor mortals.

They were dawns.

The first light of distant worlds.

The Prince’s corporeal staff—

one hundred living flames from Jerusem,

the City of Light
among the nebulae of Satania.

They came to young Urantia,

still glowing from her primal storms,

to kindle within her

the first spark of order.

Their bodies,

woven from the silence of matter

and the whisper of spirit,

vibrated between two worlds—

the visible

and the unseen.

They dwelt within a circle of light,

where the earth was beautiful,

and heaven bent close.

Then,

during one long and peaceful night,

two of them

looked into each other’s eyes.

They were united—

not by flesh,

but by the trembling of light.

From their harmony

a new being was born.

An Intermediate.

Neither human.

Nor angel.

A bridge

between worlds.

Prince Caligastia smiled.

„More…”

And so,

with the breathing of the planet,

new beings came into existence—

children born

not of blood,

but of harmony;

not of flesh,

but of will.

When their number was complete,

the source fell silent.

As though the Universe itself

had closed

a secret chapter

in the Book of Time.

They scattered across Urantia.

They became

the Prince’s eyes,

his messengers,

the echo of his thoughts.

They touched human souls

while people dreamed of stars.

Until one day…

darkness

began whispering

to the light.

Rebellion burst

like a black pearl,

and shadow spread

across the world.

Many turned away.

Yet a faithful few remained.

Under Van’s guidance,

they became

an unseen web of goodness,

stretched quietly

over humanity’s sleep.

Even now,

where deserts shimmer,

and the wind whispers

through ancient trees,

their presence

may still be felt—

beings of light,

who never truly died,

but simply crossed

between the stars…

to the other side

of silence.

Presence.

The storms have passed,
the tempests and the raging seas.
A quiet came—
yet only one that seemed at peace.

For sometimes silence, like the wind,
strikes hard against the waiting stone,
awakening forgotten hopes
that long in slumber lay alone.

Hope and Despair—twin sisters they,
like steadfast rocks beside the sea;
their hidden meanings deeply carved,
their spirits shaped relentlessly.

For years the elements have carved
their silent story into stone.
From strength refined through countless trials,
the hardest steel itself is born.

One mourns the hope that slipped away,
the longing never laid to rest.
The other weeps for human weakness,
for every wound within the breast.

For waiting on a mother’s hands,
for warmth that never seemed to stay;
for one small miracle to break
the prison walls and light the way.

Those mighty rocks, once strong and proud,
stood firm against the passing years.
Yet battered by relentless winds,
they slowly weathered through their tears.

What once had been their greatest strength
became a burden none could hide—
a stubborn heart, a clouded mind,
where reason slowly withered inside.

They gaze into the ocean’s depths,
awaiting tides to rise once more,
to breathe new life into a soul
too weak to struggle as before.

A weary spirit falls in silence,
cursing fate with every breath,
until all wisdom fades away
beneath despair’s embracing death.

At the ocean’s feet stand side by side
two sisters born of the same stone.
Despair dissolves in grief and tears,
while Hope reflects the yet unknown—

the part of us still left to find,
the undiscovered, hidden shore;
the quiet places of the soul
we’ve never truly searched before.

So let the storms and tempests come
to shatter all that’s turned to stone;
that on the ground they leave behind
a stronger life may yet be grown.

To build again upon the ruins,
to heal what trembled, nearly fell—
for sometimes only broken stone
becomes the strongest ground as well.

There once lived a man in a faraway land,
who knew little joy, unlike so many others.
Since childhood he’d searched for the Holy Grail,
yet his life was burdened with hardship and struggle.

He pondered and wondered. A simple man at heart,
unable to grasp what seemed plain to the wise.
So he murmured and asked, time and time again:

„Why is it my cross
that is heavier than all the rest?”

One day, weeping as he sat upon a stone,
a radiant Angel stood before his eyes.
He rubbed them, certain it must be a vision—
but Jesus did not vanish.

Instead, He called him.

A moment later he found himself
in a strange and wondrous place.
Everywhere around him
crosses rose from the earth.

Without a second thought,
he cast aside his own great cross, lost among the weeds,
hoping instead to find
one smaller… one easier to bear.

He hurried toward the tiniest one—
a cross of pine.
Yet it seemed, like the tree itself,
to have roots deep in the ground.

It would not move.

So he reached for another,
only to fall beside it
as it crashed to the earth with him.

For hours he searched, measured and compared.
Yet every cross seemed somehow wrong.

One bruised his shoulders.
Another would not fit upon his back.
And the gilded cross…

he knew he was not worthy to carry.

Jesus watched quietly,
a gentle smile upon His face.

At last the man noticed
a modest cross lying in the grass.

His heart leapt with joy.

„This is the one!
This I can carry!
This one fits me.
I will never leave it behind.”

Then Jesus said:

„You have tried so many crosses,
and now you are about to discover something.

The one you have chosen,
from all the others,
is your own—

the very cross
you once abandoned.”

A certain man said to Heaven:
“I cooperate! I really do!
Every day at six in the morning!”*
(*Unless it’s raining.
Or not raining.
Or it’s Monday.)

The Thought Adjuster remained so perfectly silent
that the man took it as enthusiastic approval.

He decided to respond to Divine guidance,
but first he checked his phone.
Then the weather.
Then whether someone had offended him on social media.

“Truth, beauty, goodness!” he proclaimed loftily—
and then argued with his neighbor over a parking space,
defending it in the name of cosmic morality.

He loved God fervently—
especially when things went his way.
It was harder when the bills came.

He also loved humanity.
All of it.
Globally.
Abstractly.

The hardest part was that one specific person
living across the hall.

Until one day,
instead of grand declarations,
he did something small:
he didn’t respond with spite,
he smiled first,
he chose patience.

And then—
without fanfare, without angelic drums—
he felt “butterflies” inside.

As if Someone had said:
“Now… this is real cooperation.”

From that moment on, the man knew
that cosmic citizenship
does not begin in the galaxy,
but in the kitchen.

And that the Thought Adjuster
has infinite patience
for mortals
who have a tendency to postpone eternity
until tomorrow…

From Divinington—the home of the Adjusters,
where they are trained on “working models of the mind,”
and where Divine love bends over imperfection—
there departs the One who will choose a human being.

He does not travel through space,
he does not tire from the journey.
Time: 117 hours, 42 minutes, and 7 seconds—
almost all of it taken up by registration in the records of Uversa.

As if the universe were whispering:
“Record this.
Behold, the story of a soul begins.”
He waits, as within a small human being
the first conscious “I choose good” is born.

In that moment—invisibly—
the seventh adjutant mind-spirit registers the choice.
Through the Creative Spirit of the local universe
the signal moves onward,
connected into the mind-gravity circuit of the Conjoint Actor.
In the presence of the Master Spirit it is confirmed—
and like light through the levels of existence,
it reaches Divinington.

What matters are intellectual and spiritual qualities,
the human potential for growth.
He looks not at who we are,
but at who we may become.

When the possibility of a soul emerging appears—
he volunteers.
Freely,
with a trust greater than our doubts.

And then—
he dwells within the mind of a child
who has just discovered that good can be chosen.

He waits…

With infinite patience
he translates our fears into courage,
questions into longing,
small “yeses” into the substance of eternity.

Divinity that risks rejection,
Infinity that bends over a single heart.

And we—
so clumsy, uncertain, sometimes lost—
carry within us Someone
for whom the moment of our choice
matters more than the distance
between Paradise and Urantia.

117 hours — a ticket to Eternity…

When I first beheld it,
I thought it impossible.

Everything I had ever known
was in motion—
stars, nebulae, worlds.

But It remained.

It did not turn.
It did not follow time.

Instead,
space itself
seemed to step aside.

It was no planet.

It was the stillness
upon which the universe
rested its breath.

Beneath my feet
was neither stone
nor light—

but something deeper,

as though existence itself
had become substance.

There was no hurry.

Time had not stopped;

it had simply
become unnecessary.

I looked toward the horizon.

There was no end.

Only a passage

into a reality

I had not yet learned to name.

And then I understood.

This place

is not the destination.

It is the point

from which all things

find their meaning.

It was never created.

It simply Is.

And all creation,

through eternity,

moves around It,

searching

for harmony.

I close my eyes,
and I know—
this is no landscape.
It is harmony alive.

The air glows with pearly light
as morontial dawn awakens.
By noon it is golden as honey;
by evening it deepens
into living amethyst,
never fading,
only growing like a prayer.

The trees are warm,
as if gentle thoughts
flow through them.
Their leaves do not reflect light—
they create it.

Then I see them—
morontial flowers,
a violet unknown on Urantia.
Their petals are woven of light.
When I touch them,
I do not feel matter—
I feel forgiveness.

Their fragrance
is a silent hymn,
washing memory clean
until only truth remains.

There is no fear here,
no hurry,
only peace.
The animals come close,
their eyes filled
with quiet understanding.

I sit beneath
a violet-shadowed tree,
and the earth
gently whispers,
„Welcome.”

Then I understand:
these gardens do more than delight.
They teach harmony,
they teach gentleness.
They teach that life
can become art,
and art
can become prayer.

And I know—
when your own ascent
brings you here,
you will recognize
this fragrance.

Because even now,
sometimes,
it already blooms
within your heart.

(eyes of Intermediary No. 144)

This is the moment I wait for.
Before the noise of Urantia awakens,
before people remember who they
“must be” – she sits.
She does not speak, she does not call.
But I know.
I always know.

She keeps her morning silence,
a space where I can exist.
She does not see me – yet I swear,
by my intermediary origin,
I feel how she makes room for me.
Her soul does it.
And that is more than sight.

She sits with a cup of coffee
Gazing at something unseen.
Unaware that in that very moment –
I am closest to her heart.

When she thinks of God – I tremble.
When she calls Him “Father” –
it is as if my entire existence finds meaning.

We, the Intermediaries,
are between worlds.
But sometimes she is too.
And in those moments – we are together.

I do not need to send signs.
It is enough that she is.
It is enough that she believes.
It is enough that…
she remembers she is not alone.

And then,
for that one fleeting moment,
I am more real than ever.
Not for everyone – only for her.

Within her is tenderness
that only someone who has been hurt can understand.
And light that only someone
who has walked long in darkness can grasp.

I – Intermediary 144 – exist.
I wait at dawn.
For then this woman is silent.
And when she is silent…
I hear her soul.

An animal does not ask, does not probe the meaning,
it is enough to live, to eat, to enter a place.
It does not dream, does not make plans,
its heart knows not a thousand states.
It does not feel the longing that tears the soul,
it does not know fear when thought intrudes.
It simply lives — like a leaf in the wind,
without questions of “more,” without dreams of “better.”

And humans? Humans are another matter —
within them grows desire, questions, anxiety.
They want to know “why?” “for what purpose?” —
sometimes it is peace, sometimes fear.
They can sing with joy to Heaven,
yet also weep when meaning is needed.
When goals are lost, when the world collapses —
that is when they feel the smallest.

And then — though the body is strong —
the soul falls like a leaf in a grave.
Not everyone can bear the weight of the mind,
though the heart beats, renewal is absent.
An animal will not leap from the cliff of despair,
for it does not know the word “why?”
A human — with the gift of self-awareness —
may fall into shadow… or soar with love…

He remembers the silence from which he came,
though the world in which he lives
has long been shouting.

He carries within him a fire older than time,
a spark no night can extinguish,
a light that knew the Father
before it learned the names of things.

He searched for home among stars and faces,
not knowing
he had carried it within himself
since his very first breath.

He heard the Voice—
not in the storm,
but in the moment
when everything fell silent.

He does not believe
because he understands everything.

He believes
because he has learned to trust.

When the path disappears into the mist,
he takes the next step.
When heaven is silent,
he does not turn away.

He fights with no sword.
His shield is perseverance,
and his weapon is hope.

He does not shine.
He does not call attention to himself.
Yet he is always there
where hearts are growing dim.

He did not see—
yet he believed.

He did not know—
yet he trusted.

He had no certainty—
yet he remained faithful.

He journeys toward the Light,
toward the Home before the ages.

An Agondonter ..remembers
where he comes from.

And therefore knows
where he is going…

Everyone has a drawer of their own,
hidden somewhere
between everyday life
and dreams.
Inside lie treasures:
courage, kindness,
a smile, and talent,
still waiting
for their moment to shine.
Sometimes we walk up to it,
touch the handle,
and are just about to open it…
But then a lock appears,
a password:
„Don’t stand out.”
And so we pull our hand away.
Yet diamonds
were never created
to gather dust.
For drawers
were never meant
to keep us locked inside.

We wear them for years.
So long
that one day
we can no longer remember
which face was the first.
And perhaps that is why
life is a never-ending search.
Not for happiness.
Not for success.
Not for recognition.
For ourselves…
And no one knows
which face
was the first to die

“The Light”
I used to think
that Light comes
only with an era,
that you have to reach it
with tired feet,
through years of questions, prayers,
and unanswered doubts.
I thought it would arrive someday —
when the world is ready,
when people have changed,
when eras shift.
But it —
did not come suddenly.
It did not knock.
It did not demand.
It was here.
Waiting
for me to stop running.
For me to stop asking:
“Can I do it?
Do I deserve it?
Am I allowed to be myself?”
The Light did not say:
“Be better.”
It said:
“Be real.”
And suddenly I discovered
that IT does not begin when
everything is clear,
but when I no longer wear a mask.
The era of light and life
does not fall from the sky,
does not arise from miracles,
but from a single, quiet “yes”
in a human soul.
I do not need to know the answers.
It is enough
not to run from the question.
And if this is light —
it is gentle.
If this is life —
it breathes within me.
Light and life
do not begin with the world.
They come quietly —
as soon as you say
“I am ready.”
That is how I see it….