"I have raised up one from the north, and he shall come: from the rising of the sun shall he call upon my name: and he shall come upon princes as upon morter, and as the potter treadeth clay.” “Who raised up the righteous man from the east, called him to his foot, gave the nations before him [...]? Who hath wrought and done it, calling the generations from the beginning? I the LORD, the first, and with the last; I am he.” “Declaring the end from the beginning, and from ancient times the things that are not yet done, saying, My counsel shall stand, and I will do all my pleasure: Calling a ravenous bird from the east, the man that executeth my counsel from a far country: yea, I have spoken it, I will also bring it to pass; I have purposed it, I will also do it." Isa 41:25; 41:2,4; 46:10-11

Wandering my thoughts through life, I discover how a talented Writer, delightfully matching details and perfectly developing the script, has outlined his life too, together with that of many others, day after day, thought after thought, step after step… The miraculous embroidery of a life is weaved in this way, an embroidery reaching over one of those countries where, not long ago, the free expression of faith in God was punished in the most various and horrible ways possible. Nevertheless… “Let him meet Me!” – these were the words which the Writer suited in the boy’s diary when he was only thirteen; it was enough that the Writer “articulate” by His pen a word, one single word, and there it was eternally sculpted in this child’s life book.

He had begun school for a while when the Book of books was opened in his small hands by another child, for only one day which seemed no more than a moment. A new door was to open in front of him; (…) beyond it, there was a path which he was anxious to explore, to know in every detail, and admire the beauties revealed by each of its turnings. When the Book was opened in his tiny hands, the boy knew that it was saying about the Writer, but he was not aware that He was the One who was shaping his story that very moment.

The door to this new path seemed closed, because the child did not have his own Book. Months passed and all this time he had been continually praying the Great Writer to let him have a Book of his own. There followed a period when tons of other books in which He was depicted were being brought to him, but not the Book. One day, the Writer approved: “Let it be given to him!” And so it was… He was extremely overwhelmed by this Treaty of love which was effusing page after page, in his frail soul, the love of the Writer who accepted, for him and for each and every man, to descend from the glaringly luminous throne and, on stepping into a dark world, to die, so that each of His children should have a story with a happy end, by accepting His love.

Day after day, the little child's love for the Great Writer was continuously growing in intensity. He had abandoned, although it was not about abandonment, everything it is generally considered to be “the natural occupation of children”: playing, going out with friends, watching TV. The love he felt inside stirred into his mind and into his heart the urge to take a decision, which later proved to be THE decision: “Regardless of what the path of life will reveal at the following turning, this has to lead directly to the TARGET.”(...) His love was effusing on him every single moment, giving him even more perception of the Word. He began to cherish more and more the miracle of Knowledge, constantly feeling the need to meet other youngsters with whom he could share the love powerfully rushing into his soul.

The Word had entered into his life, shining like a torch in the dusk of a too heavy end of a road. He was praying to meet someone capable of explaining the things which he could not understand from the Word. The mind was thirsty for the Light and for the Knowledge beams. His big eyes were sheltering under the quiet shadows that desire of reaching closer and closer to Him.

What was to happen next? All the things in his life seemed detached from their natural course and every dream about Him was entwining with his own life. The silence almost abyssal of the dreams would bring into his soul undeniable proofs of love. The incandescent noise of his experiences was covered one day by a whisper coming from his mother: “Something happened before you were born. As I was ill, I found out that I had a baby in my belly: you. I was advised to give up the pregnancy, because both our lives would have been greatly endangered. In the night preceding the day when I had decided to end the glimpse of existence from inside me, I had a dream. A woman dressed in white came to me and insisted that I should not end the life growing inside me and I obeyed. It is by the intervention of this dream that you were born, you, our support from later. You are much loved, indeed.” He couldn't hear enough of his mother's words. Yes! The love He manifested to him was tremendous. The Writer had uttered for him in a low, but firm voice, the following words: “The boy is Mine! He shall be born and shall live!”

On waiting to be taken by the hand by someone and led to those things that he could not understand from the Word, the boy had another dream. It seemed that one night, while he was out playing with his friends, among them a special, even strange being appeared: half man - half lamb. One of his friends shouted at him, saying: “Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!” The young boy immediately went to Him, invited Him into the house and they had dinner together; the words “Behold, the Lamb!” will be the golden words in his later life.

Even today, he relives very intensely the feeling he had then! How could he possibly forget it? His life then seemed cut into pieces; the pattern of the things was suddenly interrupted and, between one experience and another, empty spaces remained. The things around him seemed to be in a balance so frail until that Someone skilfully shaping his destiny wrote: “Let him be led to My people!” His eyes, reflecting extremely delicate and alert movements of his face, were denoting an internal life of an amazing delicacy and sensitivity. He understood that he could make a covenant with Him by baptism and thus he was to be for ever put aside in the great family of the Writer, of the Lamb sacrificed for him, a covenant with the Living God, as an expression of being born again. This was the only way the empty spaces in his life could be filled...

His parents would not approve of it. Such a thing was against their way of worshipping, against their tradition according to which “you must die in the faith you were born in; otherwise, God will get angry”. In his case, it was God who had led him to this decision. Dark days followed and it seemed that the boy would never be able to act according to his wishes or, to be exact, God's. Before the day he was to be baptised, the Writer commands: “Let the boy's mother have another dream and the baptismal vows shall be made!” The next morning, the boy's mother told him that during the night she had another dream where a young princess, dressed as a bride, appeared: “She was dancing with you and she was so happy that I think no one could ever be.” Something had changed into her heart and she approved, crying. The Heaven's plan was one more step closer to be fulfilled. And thus, the young boy in the story enters the great family of Heaven by baptism. This was the long-awaited moment when he joined the Church – symbolized in the Writer's Book by a young bride adorned with the most precious pearls.

A new light turns him into something translucent, veiling his frail, shivering being. The fulfilment of the Book words were bumping again and again against the walls of his soul, multiplying in continuously repeated echoes.

The path is following its way (…) The runaway time develops to the child who has now grown into a young boy, a fabulous scenery of his life, ruffling the eyes either by the immensity of the dream fields with surprising intensity or by mountains of beliefs and experiences so special and intense, then followed by the peace of a thought – this making the mighty scenery become more accessible, more understandable. “I shall give you a dream where I shall reveal My plan with him!”, says the Writer. And thus, the young man's walk gained that beneficial rhythm.

It seemed that from somewhere above, detached from his shelter, the young man was looking to a sleeping giant… there he was. His massive body was immersing in the white fabric of a bed as big as he was, just like in feathers. There was a pleasant drowsiness in the room where the giant was sleeping. The two side walls were framing a very large window. The giant rose and looked at the world outside the window, at a golden country presenting a sunny summer field with damp wisps, a world cut in thousand flowers, wrapped in rainbows lasting no more than an instant and arching under their splendour. The most surprising breeds of butterflies and birds could be found in the shadow of the relief formation yet unseen. Having the eyes wide open and being prone to sensations yet unfelt, the giant decided to step into that fairy world, but… he bumped into the window and was pushed back. The light of the world from beyond the window was piercing his eyes and, with his fists closed, he tried to break the window. His efforts were useless. He would never be able to feel under his giant steps the fields crossed by crystal rivers and dream mountains which seemed to shape the horizon. In his helplessness, he plunged into the soundless background of tears. He looked though the window. It seemed that the horizon was lowering its line, discovering the endless spread of the world, in all its splendour.

For a moment, the giant's heart stopped beating and the sight was weaving in a wonderful way the pleasant canvas of this view. He would have given anything to be beyond the window. Staring at the grass blades stirring under the breeze of a rainbow, he made a vow in his mind: “I will not walk on this ground before I invite others, too, to enjoy with me its beauties and its charm!” With slow movements of the hands, he raised the bed he had been sleeping in and broke the window into pieces as small as dust. The resulting mixture was immediately swept away by the short gusts of wind. The room, which seemed to have turned into a corridor, was roaring, ready to leave, under the steps of the crowd of men of all ages, who seemed to escalade the beauties of that world. Afterwards, he entered, also. Any trace of fear had disappeared. His ears could hear whispers uttered continually by that Someone who was so close to him that he could feel His warm breath: “Welcome!”

In the profound silence of a ward, two hands have joined to say goodbye. The absolute silence seized the young man's bent body, when his father died. One year later, a new crossroad of fate: following an accident, in her shuffled walk, his mother remains condemned to a world reigned by routine, a world delimited by a seemingly insurmountable border of habits.

The Writer paints new aspects in the young man's life; He is the only One who does not make mistakes when writing. The young man becomes a Theology student. The Writer, who has a precise calculation of the events, prepares him for his mission in this way as well: he attends the courses of a faculty, he is involved in missionary projects and… he continues to study the Word. The Writer holds an exquisite proportion of the elements and a precise graduation of details. Therefore, He tells the young man to read again in the Great Book, something he had read many times before: two chapters in the priests' book describing the days and the nights for anointment. This time, he was amazed! Among offering rituals, new aspects of God's Plan had been revealed to him, pointing at the Final Day, the Great Day when the Lord of lords was to come and take His children Home.

The path which the young man was supposed to take in order to reach his final destination was spreading quietly before him. (...) His attempt to share with his friends what he had discovered bumped against their doubt. (...) Since then, the path has turned into a striving road, a road breaking the world he had found himself in, into two parts: on the one part, there he was, small, huddled like a crinkled piece of paper rapidly thrown on the pavement, and on the other part, there were all the others.

Seeming entangled in an abyss where he was thrown without having chosen to do so, his ears filled with the hum of a world where he did not fit in, making him suppress in his frail soul real cries for help and explanations. Then, one November night, the Comforter came and screwed inside his soul those balance, explanation and trust elements which he was to understand individually only much later. The young man's face became twitched with fear. He was so overwhelmed by His presence! Nevertheless… his heart was on the verge of decomposing under the overwhelming happiness flooding in.

The path he was walking on seemed to turn to a ravine. (...) The overwhelming experience was followed by four days of fasting and praying. His attempt to explain to a Professor what he had understood was met with rejection. Everything was deploying very clearly in his mind! What would his mistake be? He studied again the walking and the movement of everything he had experienced and could detect nothing wrong. With his soul overloaded with disappointment, he returned home, abandoning examinations or attempts to understand, giving it all up. He could not find anything around him to invigorate his existence.

His path was now turning among rubbish heaps, wrapping the front of a hill cliff too abrupt. (...) He began to write the book which the Writer had commanded that night. He was supposed to attach to the written material some images which to materialise visually what represents to be or not to be filled with God's Spirit. He had been told to do so…

Seven weeks follow, during which the young man would carefully shape what the Writer was whispering to him in his mind and in his heart, seven weeks in which the young man would write, attach notes, collect information given to him quickly and with enviable efficiency. What was the result? A manuscript which had to be compiled within the shortest term. A friend made available to him his personal computer in his own residence, since his parents were away for a few days. When his friend's mother returned, she shared to all a dream according to which a great angel was sitting into her house at a table, writing; the very place where the young man had compiled the piece of writing later became and remained even today his working place.

Although somehow impressing by its own dimensions, the book developed by the young man did not seem to have the necessary utility and perfection of each detail.

An empty and gloomy February. Two copies of the book yet not proofread and far from being finalised, go to the capital town. (...) The path which the young man had been following for so long so successfully was once again covered by the low, dark clouds of rejection coming from a person specialised in the theological field.

The path had darkened and the young man could barely see two steps ahead. (...) His face was scourged with the tears covering his sight. The run of the wind blowing against him was whipping his face, seeming to neutralise his strength to go on. A few missioners who have come near the small town where the young man was living, took a copy of the book in order to give it to a special man who had been studying for a long time the subject which was also present in the young man's book. In his capacity of both theologian and writer, the former sends to the young man several appreciation letters, expressing his delight regarding the prefect vision of the things from the spiritual and theological point of view, present in his book.

"I confess, praising God, that I have never read a book to move and impress the soul so much, although many paragraphs were very familiar to me, but I did not understand them in the light sent by Heaven, for this miraculous hour we have reached […] I have sipped the words of this book, as a response to my prayers to God." (excerpt from the correspondence, Nicusor Ghitescu)

And thus, the young man would find shelter behind this thick tree. (...) A beneficial warmth filled his heart with happiness, that happiness of being home once again, amongst warm and natural things. His entire being had found his shelter in this place. The suave twining between his soul and what had been sent to him from Above, a twining which seemed, not long before, to have lost its colour, turned again in a rope having light colours.

The silence he was bathing in at that moment was agonisingly extending… There followed another dream, the most special of all. It seemed that he was in a house, together with his friends. Suddenly, seized by a feeling that his Lord would soon return, he went out of the house and headed to the courtyard of that house, staring at the sky to see signs of his Lord's return in that night. At some point, a voice from above told him to look closer. On watching, he could see a light. He did not have the chance to admire it long enough when, just by wonder, that house was hit by a bus. The bus stopped before having gone completely through it. Almost apocalyptical silence and darkness was reigning in the courtyard, interrupted from time to time only by the frail whispers of that light in the sky. Suddenly, the headlights were turned on. The front door opened and people started getting out one by one. They were gathering in groups and they were talking. They had a very special simplicity. They were looking at the light in the sky and an enormous joy could be seen on their faces. They were continuously getting out, filling the courtyard. The young man was amazed. He could not understand what was happening. On seeing his surprise, the people around him were trying to draw his attention, offering real proof of the reality around him. Then, the young man awoke. He felt how real the experience was. He had been given another guarantee that the hopes, placed and buried in his heart by the Writer, in order to yield fruit much later, will be rewarded by the One writing the story as He pleased.

The path was now getting down a little. (...) The young man was trying to see signs or proof of the fulfilment of what the Writer had communicated to him not only by the Book with golden letters, but also by dream, but he could see nothing. “Look closer!”, whispered the Writer. (...) Suddenly, rich fields of vineyards were developing on one side and the other of the path. This was the moment when he really understood the prophecy of the book written by Daniel. (...) The vineyards had filled with different fragrances and perfumes, just like during grape harvesting time. He started outlining only a few paragraphs of what was later to become “Attempt on the crown of Heaven”. Things which the surrounding reality could not include were greedily piling up on a single page. “This book has to be finished!” he was whispered. What a overwhelming experience! One may undoubtedly get to know the ocean also from the deck of a ship, but to be thrown in the middle of it without anything else but your own conviction is a different story.

Years follow, during which the young man would turn again and again the pages of the book, making notes in certain places, stopping for a moment, then making other notes. After each polishing, the book would take shape and bear a special intensity, which could not be in any way compared to the lack of clearness of the first pages of notes.

Time seemed to stop for a moment. Once again, the Lord's Spirit came upon him with new tasks, among which, that of finalising the last chapter. (...) He sat under the shadow of a tree, the branches of which prevented the heat of the harrowing midday sun reach him, and started writing. His pen would shape again new aspects of the remainder of that world, for which he felt that he was responsible and which he had almost abandoned. But now, he was determined to gather it in the most unexpected ways and to invert, by the thoughts of the ones who would be captivated by reading, the torrents of mud and muck of the whole world and transform them into torrents of glory.

"Before she travailed, she brought forth; before her pain came, she was delivered of a man child. Who hath heard such a thing? who hath seen such things? Shall the earth be made to bring forth in one day? or shall a nation be born at once? for as soon as Zion travailed, she brought forth her children."

Isa 66:7-8

"For I will pour water upon him that is thirsty, and floods upon the dry ground: I will pour my spirit upon thy seed, and my blessing upon thine offspring: And they shall spring up as among the grass, as willows by the water courses."

Isa 44:3-4

When his pen would go crazy or when it would move ungracefully, new ink would be chosen for it or another pen would be used, until the paper including the signs of the eternal silence of a Creator was booby, glued and became ready to be taken into your hands.

"I have long time holden my peace; I have been still, and refrained myself: now will I cry like a travailing woman [...] I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight [...] and not forsake them."

Isa 42:14,16

When your frail, powerful or perhaps trembling hands get hold of this book, it will touch you just like the pollen of a rare flower. In any case, it is good for you to know that it was written because Someone loves you and wants you to be His son or daughter, for ever. He loves you so much that, if your hands can get hold of this book, His hands, spread on the cross, will never be able to describe, or gather His love for you.

The Writer also wrote in the young man's diary the following words:

With tears of love and longing in eyes, He wishes to write eternal words in your book, too. Let Him do it…