Divine Game

03-04.04.2026, Kraków

Beginning

Actually our encounter began at home, late in the evening, a minute before leaving for the Sanctuary of Divine Mercy in Łagiewniki, when for some reason I looked at my palms and froze for a moment, studying them. Hands as hands, mine 🙂. But something about them strongly drew my attention: I suddenly wanted to... trim my already short nails even shorter 👀. Inventing some ridiculous rational excuse for why I had to do it right now without a moment's delay, I went to fetch the scissors.

As in the previous two years, that very night from Friday to Saturday at the Lord’s tomb became magical and incomparable. A night in which the Lord let me know Him more closely and fully than in the whole previous year put together.

Father

— Palms, hands... What do hands have to do with this? — I thought to myself as I walked from the car park to the tomb.

And there is the illuminated poster with a slyly smiling Christ greeting me right at the chapel entrance. I turn, enter the familiar doors and... almost laugh out loud 😂! Above the body of Christ there is an installation with huge hands emerging from the clouds — the hands of God the Father! Incidentally, with the same very-shortly-cut nails as mine, and only one of them trimmed a little longer, on the right hand. The nail I somehow lazily didn’t cut shorter 😆.

— Well hello, I too am very glad to meet You 🙂, — I laugh to myself and sit on a bench with a wide, utterly inappropriate-for-place-and-time smile.

It is worth saying that with St. Faustina it was like that in the previous two years, too. It seems that the sorrow and pain hanging in the chapel that night could be cut with a knife — it is that dense. People live through very heavy states in that night prayer. But the Lord gives me no room for sadness: joy seems to flow through me at that moment, inexplicable and irrational. Joy that everything is right. Joy of His presence.

I enter into prayer as into an Ignatian meditation, surrendering to Him all my faculties, easily and joyfully asking that they serve only His glory. Time to formulate the request for the fruit of the prayer:
— What should I ask of You today? Well, why beat about the bush... Most of all right now I am worried about why business isn’t going the way I would like. I seem to be doing everything correctly, but something still doesn’t work. If it is Your will, please show me what to do. Which passage should I take, Lord? You know I came here without a clear plan or preparation.

My gaze falls on the inscription above the Blessed Sacrament: "Father, into Your hands I commend my spirit." I feel that I belong there, and quickly find the corresponding verse in the Gospel (Lk 23:46) and read the chapter. I imagine the scene, I imagine the darkness that covered the earth, I imagine those who came just to see this spectacle — they got exactly what they wanted. And then these verses strongly attract my attention:

Luke 23:48-49 (NRP)
[48] And all the people who had gathered to witness the execution, seeing what had happened, went home beating their breasts. [49] But all who knew Jesus, including the women who had followed Him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching what was happening.

— But all who knew You stood at a distance and watched... to watch what was happening... — I repeat to myself.

They were not part of the performance, not participants in the spectacle: they stood at a distance, observing what was happening. At that very moment Christ was at work — they contemplated and did not interfere. I remember my hands:
— So I, doing something with my hands, should hand them over to You and myself stand aside, not getting in the way. I seem to do something, but it is Your light pouring through me at that moment, and how important it is not to hinder it.

I recall a particular state — one can call it variously: "flow", "inspiration", "knowing". When I did something and then, at the end, not believing my eyes, turned back amazed at the path I had taken and thought: "What was that just now?.. Could I really have done that?!" It was in that state of trust that the most beautiful things in life were made. I sink into it and live through it very vividly, as if committing it to memory.

After a while a thought comes to me which I voice to Him:
— Right now You are inviting me, one who knows You, to watch what is happening? — and I shift my attention to what is actually happening around me in the chapel.

I watch the Father's hands above the tomb, I watch the body of Christ, I watch the people who know Him. A long-ago meditation comes to mind where I felt myself leaning on Christ. I was literally standing on a matter woven from His love.

And now I look at the installation of the Father’s hands, and a similar feeling comes over me again. But now I clearly feel the difference: it is the Father Himself who holds me on His hands and through His Son creates that matter. And on those hands, in every moment of life, with enormous love and care, He seems to lift me up to what He wants to draw my attention to, what He wants to show me. The sense of the Father's presence, the support of the Father, abiding with Him.

On the installation’s thumbs there are stripes, like traces of small scars:
— I may flail about, turn away, rebel, scratch and bite like a frightened hamster, inflicting wounds on You, and You will endure and hold, not letting go and not letting me fall. And on the other hand, I can look with gratitude and attention at what You lift me to, what You show me.

And then I realise that right now His hands have brought me to the tomb to His Son and placed me right in front of the Blessed Sacrament. And for the first time in my life, feeling so deeply the direct presence of the Father, not the Son, in real time — watching, feeling and knowing how He holds my soul in the material world, I answer Him:
— All right, Papa, I understand You. I will look attentively at Your Son in the Blessed Sacrament.

In that address — "Papa" — is contained so much that cannot be described: my relation to God the Father, my felt sense of His presence. This response is nothing like how I address Christ — with Him I speak more like to a friend. But here it is quite different: the reply is utterly devoid of emotion. The very presence of the Father has a wholly different "taste". It is very hard to convey in words. It is more fundamental. He simply is, and I am before Him. That is all, a full stop. And that moment of "being" is the communication. There is neither sadness nor joy nor any other emotion. There is feeling, but it is very far from symbolic systems so as to be even approximately describable. With Christ I can shout "Hey!" and run joyfully to Him, laugh, be afraid, joke or object. But with the Father there is simply no room for that: He is above any matter and representation. Therefore the reply sounded like an acknowledgement of reality, a moment in eternity, a statement of the very "is".

The dialogue was like:
— Look at the reality before you, as I have created it for you; it is like this.
And I answer:
— Yes, I see, it truly is like that.

The Game

I switch my attention to Christ and give Him my imagination and thoughts. In my inner vision there is mist, then it clears, and I see on a rocky, grass-grown surface something like the entrance to an earthen vault. A thought flashes through my head: "This is that very island and another side entrance down." I open the door and go down a tunnel staircase, open the door at the bottom of the flight and find myself in a hall familiar to me, where, as soon as I step in, many people approach with a question that sounds almost like a reproach:
— Where have you been? Where do you disappear to?

It puts me off balance. In another meditation, where I saw the island, the hall was full of those with whom we had made the Spiritual Exercises and with whom we were yet to make them.
— Where have I been? Seriously?! — I reply without a shadow of humour. — Maybe someone here wants to suggest how I should sort out my current issues before we meet in space and time?
And, without waiting for an answer, I immediately ask:
— Where is the Lord?

Then, almost pushing them aside, I stride quickly to the middle of the hall. Jesus comes out to meet me. All in white, not in shadow like the others. I blurt out impatiently:
— Explain to me what is happening.

There is so much hidden in that question about what I do not understand in my life right now. Do I need to make an effort to begin guiding Spiritual Exercises offline, what to do with my legal entities, will I organise retreats, will I build a retreat centre, will the island become real or remain just a metaphor? He smiles cunningly and calmly, with a look that reads "wait, you'll see", gestures for me to sit at a small square table upholstered in dark green fabric. We sit opposite one another. All those present crowd closely around us. I cannot see their faces; they are lost in shadow. A hanging lamp lights only the table surface and us sitting at it. The table resembles a game table — like when two people sit down for a game of chess, a board game or cards.

— Well, show me what you’ve rightly sorted out in your life, — He invites.

He is, of course, talking about my recent decision to focus intensively on making lamps and my marketing strategy. In the method of its development the first step looked like honest answers to myself about why I am doing it and what lies at its heart. Then you build the brand and the concrete steps for promotion.

My answers on the table take the shape of cards.
— Okay, look, — I begin confidently. — First: I create things with the same attitude as when I make a gift for a good friend, — I say and lay the first card on the table.
— Oh, really? — He asks mockingly surprised, looking at the card.

In that moment I understand that what I have just said is a lie. I do not create things as gifts; there is something else. Close, but not it. And in this strange game my card is immediately sent to the discard pile.

— Good, — I continue. — Second: when developing an item I bring it to the highest possible perfection allowed by materials and technology, — before He can reply I realise that this is also not entirely true. My real aim is to reach a sufficient level of beauty, outwardly and structurally, so that the object acquires itself in beauty, materials and quality. The picture on the card changes and instead of the word "Perfection" the word "Beauty" appears.

I notice that He is holding just one card: it is dark and nothing on it can be made out, but I already guess that when He places it on the table it will wipe out everything I have put down.

— Third, — I carry on, — I chose metal and concrete as materials because they give that special feeling... Damn. And that is nonsense. I chose them not because of the feeling they actually give, but because I love building. And I really want to share that construction aesthetic with someone, — I finish and lay my third card on the table, which is also sent to the discard pile.

I look at the table and realise that my whole marketing strategy at its foundation is built on lies or half-truths.

He smiles and lays His master-card over my three. In that moment I understand that now He will show what truly lies at the basis of my intentions. I cannot make out what is on the card.
— The Father? His hands? Trust in the Father? — I ask hesitantly, remembering the beginning of the prayer.

He says nothing and, smiling, draws another card from beneath this one, on which are depicted hands like on the tomb installation, only they are mine.
— You love creating with your hands, mere work with the immaterial is not enough for you; from childhood to this day you have been creating, building, doing something with matter, haven’t you? — He looks at me.
— Of course, yes.

At that point I decide to sketch these cards in my notebook so I don’t forget. And so I draw the first card, for some reason leaving space for three more, and write: "create with hands". Below I add: "tool". From this comes my urge to own good tools. Wherever I have been, I always had basic tools for working with electricity, carpentry and metal; if I have nothing, not even pliers or a set of screwdrivers, a persistent background feeling settles inside me as though I have forgotten my wallet when going to the shop.

— Shall we continue? — He says and draws another from under the main card.
I cannot make out what is on it. I look up at Him and see Him turn His gaze to the crystal glass with something dark and a little thick on the right-hand side of me, which from the start of the "game" I had not paid attention to, as if it were just decoration to create atmosphere. An identical one stands to its right. I take the glass in my hands and realise it is dark kvass. I distinctly feel its rich aroma. In that drink and the way it is served there is a lot of symbolism for me, and instantly I understand what His second card means.

A few months ago I had bought dark kvass hoping to find the dense bready flavour I love. But having bought several samples I was disappointed and decided to brew my own — a real one, as I once did in childhood. A drink not ruthlessly diluted with water and oversaturated with carbonation; not something for quickly getting a sweet taste, not for satisfying a passing craving for something tasty, but a real kvass. As it was originally conceived: not as thin as water, rich, slightly tart, as if someone had managed to put a whole loaf of dark malt bread into a single glass. Its smell seemed to hide a whole bakery. Back then I didn’t buy the malt I’d found and never brewed it. But now, looking at the glass, I understand perfectly what it signifies.

In my hands is a real thing, intentionally made to convey a particular taste, not spoiled for the sake of immediate profit, not faked or imitating flavour — a thing in itself. Honest. It is served in a beautiful package that one would not bring oneself to throw away — in a carved crystal glass with a clear lovely pattern. The glass stands on a round flat coaster of white marble — genuine stone with its natural beauty, which contrasts strikingly with the dark surface of the table and creates the perfect background for the dark drink.

In that image all the traits I strive for when creating something converge: a wholly real and honest thing, a fittingly beautiful package worthy of it, creating a suitable background where possible. When I make something not according to these principles — for example, when there is a compromise in materials or an imitation of something, an ugly or simply inappropriate package for the item — I feel uneasy, as if I am deceiving someone, even if the recipient will be happy and content. I take my notebook, draw the second card and write: "create the real. Beautiful because it is real."

Damn, how could I forget that... of course, I do not bring things to perfection — I make them real. The criterion of the "real" has accompanied me since youth.

— What will be the third? — I ask, and Jesus takes out another card. On it is the word "Inspire". Of course — I do not create a gift; I create something that will inspire.

— You forgot what I showed you long ago. Where is your "inspire" in what you do? — He asks. I am silent: in my intentions that trait is certainly absent. I remember product descriptions, photo creation and so on. There everything is half-alive, aimed mostly at extracting profit and zero at sharing something beautiful, zero to inspire the one who does not hold the object in their hands but merely looks at a photo. In the objects themselves there is no deliberate aim to inspire and astonish — there are only those first false notions of mine. I draw the third card in my notebook: "Inspire, touch the heart. Pierce and erase all conventions to reach the most sincere that is in a person."

Leaning back in the chair, I stare at these cards in bewilderment. It is all so obvious. And I had so cleverly deceived myself. "So, what precisely should I do about this?.." — I think and begin to consider how my strategy will change after this.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I notice a figure detach from the crowd on my left and quickly, almost impatiently, approach the table. Emerging into the lamp light and looking at Christ, he slams a bronze figurine onto the first card depicting my hands — a model of a retreat house for the Spiritual Exercises.

— St. Ignatius, — flashes through my head. — I remember the retreat houses, you don’t need to remind me, but can I sort out my current issues first? — I say, following his gaze as he stands behind Christ.

— Fool, — he answers me. — In this matter you will find in abundance everything you need. You will play with your building, electrical work and aesthetics, organise processes, lay down dozens of surprises, inspire a bunch of people. Won’t that be enough?

Of course he is right. But, knowing that this too is an excuse, I reply:
— Okay, okay, but I have no idea where to find the resources for this. Until I figure that out, let me settle into something present in life now.

He turns and steps away from the table.
I continue to look at the cards in silence.

— Something is missing, — I address Christ, lifting my eyes to Him. — This is all truly mine, but something very important is missing.

At that point His gentle way of speaking by hints evaporates entirely:
— Something is missing?! — He asks loudly, in a tone as if I had asked Him where to get air to breathe. Then from under the main card He takes out the fourth and with a thud places it on the table.

— In what state have you always acted when you acted from the heart? What have you always shared? What always fills your heart when you do something in your vocation? — this harsh, not-to-be-argued voice, in which the Father is recognised, cuts off deafeningly in the silence of the hall.

— Joy.

In one short instant a chain of sensual realisations passes through me that words cannot hope to describe.

Then the silence turns into a grey mist. I see myself standing on a flat ledge with graphite cliffs disappearing into the fog behind me, and below the cliff a hidden sea quietly laps. In that place it is calm and even a little cosy; I have always liked the misty grey. But now I can clearly see that in that usual and even comfortable condition there is no life. Beside me sits silently a serious, almost sad boy of 5–6 years and watches the fog. I seem to feel the same as he does. He has resigned himself to this silent calm and even enjoys the mist, though deep down there is a sense of an unfilled emptiness, a feeling of the absence of something very important. Something real.

— Now at last I see what I have so often heard from those to whom I give the Spiritual Exercises, — my inner child, my soul, — I say to myself.
I clearly hear Christ's voice from somewhere:
— You must help him climb up; he will not get onto those rocks by himself.

For me the rocks do not seem high or difficult, but for the child they truly cannot reach. It feels as though I helped him down here and left him.

Supporting and pulling him by the arm, I seat him on ledges and we climb up. Just before the cliff edge the fog lightens and plays with warm light. We get up onto a vast plateau where the mist burns, swirls and shimmers in the rays of the morning sun. How much light and gold there is now in the air! How much beauty! How much joy! It fills everything around, as has happened many times in my life on misty fields in the morning.

We walk along a meadow path; gradually the sun completely disperses the mist and before us stretches an endless panorama of sunlit rolling fields! We run across those fields; I notice how I merge with him and already we are not two but I joyfully run as a child across the field towards one of the hills, from the top of which Jesus waves at me smiling. I run up, throw my arms around Him and wrap myself in the folds of His white garment.
— With what do I always meet you, even on the cross and at My tomb? — He asks me. I nod in answer:
— With Joy.

The Joy that fills my heart at that moment cannot be described; there is no dictionary for such states. It is not cheerfulness; it is a deep, calm, quiet, foundational sensation. One can only say that it is incredibly powerful. Images rush through my memory of how joyfully I used to go to the fields, alone or with someone. And in all those moments He was invisibly present. With Him there always was, is and will be pure Joy.

The image returns to the island, to the hall. I look at Christ sitting opposite me. And suddenly, breaking the image, through the open chapel door a sound bursts from the night silence — the siren of an ambulance passing by behind the sanctuary.

— You understood everything correctly, act, — He says, as if pointing with His gaze to the sound of the siren behind me.

Long ago I used to perform a little trick: being in a state of Joy and Love, I would wish good for someone — for example, recovery or relief from difficulties. And it really helped; later or immediately I would learn that the person's burden had eased. So now I wish ease of suffering to whoever is in that ambulance, and strength and calm to the staff. But unlike before, when I had to concentrate with effort and direct my attention to the person, now, in the state of joy He gave me, everything forms in a fraction of a second, so quickly and easily that I cannot even notice the exact moment it happens. And in that same moment, as soon as my impulse "flew", the siren, as if in confirmation, abruptly fell silent. Then I notice that one of the people who had fallen asleep in prayer is snoring quite loudly, making a ... somewhat distracting sound in the chapel 🙂. I only have to think of sending this joy to him and he takes a deep breath and the snoring stops on the next exhale 😄.

In the image, in the hall, the general light comes on, those present disperse from the table, conversations are heard and the space fills with the steady hum of voices, as happens when an audience leaves a theatre after a performance. Jesus rises from the table:
— Time for a break.

Break

It is well past one in the morning. Taking a deep breath, I decide it would be good to get some air. There is a petrol station near the sanctuary.
— I’ll walk for a coffee, — I decide.
Heading for the exit, I ask Him:
— I wonder what will happen when I come back? — and step out of the chapel.

Outside, right by the exit, the same poster of His face lit by a spotlight meets me. It shows an arrow pointing pilgrims to the icon of the Merciful Jesus. But now, from my angle, this arrow seems to point the way for me.
— Fine, I’ll go to the petrol station by the arrow, across the railway crossing rather than through the tunnel, — I decide.
Leaving the sanctuary grounds I hear the level crossing bell; I will have to wait for the train. I approach the closed barrier, look at the town and objects around, and my attention is drawn to a half-peeled sticker on the crossing post. On it is a very oddly translated quote from the First Letter to the Corinthians: chapter thirteen, verse six. I decide to remember it and be sure to check a proper translation later.

When I pass the risen barrier I meet another arrow on a road sign, which very clearly tells me to turn back and go the other way. I dismiss this thought, justifying it by saying everything is very illogical. Finally I reach the petrol station and find the café closed. I knock on the 24-hour service window and ask for coffee, only to be told the machine is in cleaning mode and cannot make any. The ignored arrow pops up in my thoughts and I head back. On the way I decide to google where coffee is available nearby, get in the car and drive off for it. Everything passes without particular adventures and I return to the chapel.

Master-card

Sitting back on the bench, I ask Him:
— What do You want to say to me now? What will the conversation be about?
The image of the hall and the table returns. Everyone gathers around the table again and we continue.
The main card still remains closed; I cannot see what is on it.
— What is so powerful there that produced the four previous cards? — I ask.
And then, as if in answer, that verse with the strange translation comes back into my memory. I open the Epistle and see that the verse is part of the Hymn to Love.

1 Corinthians 13:6 (NRP)
[6] Love does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth.

— Love! Well, of course! — I exclaim, and Jesus turns over the main card, on which is depicted His heart in a crown of thorns. — Love does not rejoice in falsehood; there is no joy in falsehood; in falsehood it dies. I have trampled it underfoot with lies to myself.

Before me the whole picture: Love and its derivatives. I spend time contemplating these traits and the essence of what has been shown to me. In the chapel the sisters methodically replace each other in prayer before the tomb. This time two young women from the novitiate continued the prayer.
— New and inexperienced, like me, — runs through my mind. — Well, shall I try to plan some concrete actions for the near future? — I ask Christ.
It is hard going 🙂.
— So, Joy... I need to make sure I share it... No, something... Inspire... how can I inspire, change descriptions, perhaps?..

The sisters change; more seasoned and faithful ones take their place.
— Oh, the faithful and experienced have come in their place, — I say to myself and continue to force thoughts out of me.
— Let Me show you how it is done. We will go by the cards from right to left. Start with Joy, — Jesus interrupts my futile attempts.
— Very practical, call it a "Daily Routine in Joy"; you need to sustain the state throughout the day, return to the habit of having a quiet joy within. In a partial examination of conscience check in which states you approached tasks and communications.
I briefly note this in my notebook.
— Next, regarding Inspire and Astonish, sit down and rework your listings when you are in a normal state so it pleases you; nothing special needs to be done, you already have the knowledge for sales; the text and photos will come by themselves in the process.
I write that down too.
— Regarding Beauty and the Real: when you do current orders, again do it in a normal state of joy; your sly eye will appear, you will see with an inner gaze how your recipient will rejoice when taking in their hands what you have created. The thing will fill with meaning, acquire beauty and become Real naturally and simply.
— Understood, I write.
— Regarding your hands and creating anew, again, sit down and do it in joy. As with the previous point, everything will be natural and simple; even at the design stage the object will be filled with beauty — in that state you will not be able to design rubbish. Remember how your first models appeared.
— Yes... Truly simple, all noted.

We rise from the table.
— Shall we walk up top? — I ask and we ascend by one of the staircases to the balcony. Outside the night is quiet and warm.
— Go to sleep, — He says with a smile. — And wash the car at last, it looks terrible, — He adds laughing; I had been putting it off for days 😅.

I embrace Him farewell as I had on the hill in that prayer. As I had never embraced before. Another barrier, one I cannot even name, is erased.
— Why are you saying goodbye to me? — He laughs.
— Indeed, — I answer, get up and head for the chapel exit.

P.S.
I washed the car at 3:30 in the morning, as it turned out, not for nothing 😄.