Krystian Kratiuk writes:
THE president OF TADEUS
There's nothing worse than a rainy January in an icy cemetery. The fog becomes an inseparable bride of the horizon as anxiously close as ever. These are the leaves and fruits that have been abandoned, and the trees vanish in the grey shell at the same time by increasingly pushy raindrops, which should be snowflakes at this time of year. But for any reason the Lord of all things did not want it to snow today, even though it rained and respective and respective days ago. Even yesterday. present it was expected to rain, so many of us reasoning about the trivial depth of the message that here we hide individual for whom even heaven cries, solidarity with the abandoned.
There's nothing worse than January at the cemetery. 2 years ago, I said goodbye to my father at this time of year. The sadness of failure is exacerbated by the sadness of nature, at first glance besides the dead.
There's nothing worse than disappointment at the January cemetery, erstwhile you look like those who should be here with you, but you don't find them. You do not find an orderly of the place, even though he should be a father and priest, and a crowd. You don't find state memos, but for 1 unruly MP who wants to honor a hero. You do not find many fellow brothers in the priesthood of the Dead, but since he was considered controversial by their superior, and the superior chose to be absent on a pre-planned fee meeting, what to expect.
But there is nothing more beautiful than to meet a devout, grateful nation going to a tiny village from all over Poland to get cold in the January rain, saying goodbye to a man fighting for them against everything. Simple people wanting to say "thank you, we will never forget you." Cut in scarves and covered in hats, taking them off erstwhile necessary. Touching with emotion and eye and mustache. Holding banners of solidarity, fire department, police, foundation founded by the deceased. Nationals firing flares and chanting the state anthem. People with a past of styrofoaming and respective beaten-up journalists fighting the wickedness of any of the church's people. The priest's wards whose sobbing – due to their uniqueness – seemed the most sincere of all the tears the planet had seen. Armenian priests singing in the mysterious language of their liturgy songs, whose words in the cemetery no 1 understood, but everyone there knew what these songs were saying and no 1 was able to stay indifferent to their beauty.
The January cemetery, yes, overwhelms, but the believer of Christ inactive more than any biologist continues to believe that those standing in the cemetery, devoured by mist, stripped of trees, will shortly blossom again. They're gonna detonate in a couple of weeks. And it will be the same – though most likely in a somewhat longer word – with the 1 that we said goodbye in the streams of empathic rain in Rudawa. Praying for his soul, but besides hoping that he, too, will pray for us and for the things he fought for. Goodbye, dear Priest Tadeusz. For your life and your fight for truth, God be glorified.
