The story about a BOOK

24.09.2015 09:13








 And it happened on that day that I took a piece of paper and let it be filled with all those lovely things that the spirit so long had been showing to me. It was the first snowfall, and it happened in that silent Finnish village we then left. There was something predeterminated in this outpouring, the ejection of light from a huge lighthouse, where untill then only darkness had prevailed.

  I was a friendly person even then. The book wrote itself in three days, but before I have determinatedly studied religion, philosophy, old texts, for over a year. I had gone to the cellar where University kept its abandoned books, shelf after shelf with blackspotted covers and outdated language.

   It is a big thing if God writes a book through You. It is like the angel coming to virgin Mary, or as the dove descending  to markJesus sonship. But to whom shall this be told, and how? Doesnot the text talk? Obviously not. It seems to be just words, if not accomanied by  our bodily witness. And that is why I am returning now to explain  something of the nature of  this wonder.  It belongs to the holy and gets its worth from the holyness of our incarnated lives, which is the gift, the gift of death. Access to this death is the greatest of gifts, a gift we shall not fear.

When the neoclassical buildings around Senate Square where repainted in brighter colors, blue, green and pink, I was a young flaneur who loved to imagine that people on Aleksanders' street noticed what one wore, and talked about it. Self I noticed after all. For example this young relative of the UKK , standing wageing on her heel, stopped by some bright young men from the nearby University, she  with the hair in a plait, in black barret and black suit as I want to remember it. Ever since I was a small child my mother had seen to it that I was thoroughfully and well clad. Leftist era came between and I fell a few degrees downward in style and ambition, but picked me up indeed quickly when the long-haired leftist boys I floored in line got competition of a neatly groomed and dressed runner-up from the right.
   I remember the city so: Partly as a desirable design surface which I never succeeded really to came into. As a corrosive starvation. As a tiring routine of extraneous people that nothing amused and who let themselves be built up from what seemed to be nothing. As an indescribable boredom, which would later have its explanation from that I had a vicious, well, a resolute slanderer, an indeed eager defamer. Even the connected misery of people close to me who long even they suffered in an indescribable silence, weakened me, because worldly words was of none help, only the devastating truth, which was still to be hidden.
   That day God came to me, as the Michelangelsos "God creates Adam," and touched me with his finger saying "You are beloved" (it was the pentagonal room of the triangular quarter by the sea, next to the Russian Embassy, ​unter den linden) I thus summarized His future as an assurance of eternal guidance. Many steps remained to be taken at the stairs that led me to the absolute reconciliation, and should later on be used to comfort even the others. We are awaiting the day when we would be found guiltless, and the defamers voice could be shown off. God leads us now. He shall protect us from the forces of evil, så impertinent and obstrusive and indiscreet. (Yes, we still fear for them!)

The book went on to become the commandment of the Atonement. God brought himself pen. Only He knew what we suffered, and how we had been wounded. I let Him use me in trust. His words are healing and have told about things we men may not know. The untouchables were touched and exalted. Those who have allowed the suffering servant to bear their sins got them now repossessed while he could go free. It was a book that solved from the shame and judgment, because the one who writes from us are the righteous and almighty God, unfurling all that has been, showing us the spirits wind, do not leave us any choice except to believe.
  God's voice! What joy, what pride that God has given me the knowledge and use me for this the highest of the mission: to save!
When I 8 years later came to Skåne, to the iron age heights and the low farms and their poplars under the night sky, the world seemed open but it closed down soon and became distorted. Only now, almost 30 years later, also the outer world I live in is embraced and contained in this celebration. Maybe it depends on my Africa. During all these years I have had to be entirely without my book. Books, authors have come and gone. Media have been available to them. Pretentious and deaf,  stupid noice and clatter. About my book has noone spoken. Was there something wrong? Can one not write to / for / of God anymore in these areas? Where it embarrassing? It would go against the social contract? My father has passed away trusted. Personally, I have been drowned in this silence, unknown both in my country and in this land. Godless people have controlled. They also repressed all other dearing intellectual  ambitions I had.
   This is the story of a book, written by the wondrous power, to its form and nature entirely blameless, but which has been made invisible. What did you want with me ?! Did you want to avoid His presence ?! Yes, it is indeed great, his ability to expose and teach, there where we ourselves see nothing worthy!

Today is the day to ask you in, to marvel at the birth! For this celebration should go ahead and be shared by many in these irreligious landscapes, where holiness does not count. May you be witnesses to childhood summers flawless and unblemish, and sons, daughters and princes homecoming.
  - See with me and join in our happiness!

I'd like this book beeing translated to four, five languages, but You do'nt even bother to notice it's weight! It was without blemish, it was learned, it was intelligent, it had serious depth! But has it yet reached even one of its right readers?! The newspaper which task it always was to present the important writers has slept! They all write themselves now, the busybody journlists, and the average redactors make dissertations, they do not have time...! And not a single person from my country has looked up This side:" Prophets and Mystics!" What does this tell about them?!!


My works; Birgitta Hjelt: Ur sömnens ask, 1975. Söderströms ab (Now Schildts & Söderströms  )