Joe takes Nelly’s hand, weathered with time and grace. He reads softly from Psalm 89:36, his voice steady, full of meaning:
“His dynasty will last forever, his throne will endure before me like the sun.”
He looks into her eyes, then closes the Bible and speaks from his heart.
Joe: That’s not the dynasty of Rothschild, not the empire of gold coins and compound interest. Not the fame of David Hasselhoff singing on the Berlin Wall in flashing lights. God bless him—he helped tear down a wall. But this verse isn’t about that kind of stage.
This is the quiet dynasty. The hidden one. The one built from faithfulness, from the hand you gave me back in 1989 at that Tiananmen Square dance.
You made me strong. Not like a soldier, but like a king who serves— whose throne is carved from patience, and whose crown is made of long-suffering love.
Joe smiles, gently.
Joe: We may not sit on any throne the world can see. But our dynasty will last forever— because it’s written in heaven. Like the sun, like the moon, like you and me.
Joe Jukic and His Two Mothers: Mary of Heaven and Mary of Earth
Joe Jukic tells the story of his two mothers.
The first is Mary up in Heaven, the Blessed Virgin, Queen of Sorrows, Mother of Mercy. She holds him in her prayers like she once held her dying son at the foot of the Cross. To Joe, she’s not just a statue in the church, but a real presence—his true North, the one who whispers to him in dreams and rainstorms, who understands what he can’t even say. He calls her Mama, and every time he falls, he says a Hail Mary instead of a curse.
But then there’s Mary down here on Earth, his actual mother. A Croatian woman with a wooden spoon, a sharp tongue, and no time for messianic delusions. She’s tough as boots, straight out of Monty Python’s Life of Brian. Whenever someone tries to lift Joe up on a pedestal, she shouts,
“He is NOT the Messiah! He’s just a very naughty boy!” She says it with a cigarette in one hand and a mop in the other. She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t trust praise, especially for her own son.
Joe once tried to explain the shoe to her—the one that fell during the protest, the one he held up like a sacred sign, the way the disciples misunderstood Brian. She said,
“Put your damn shoe back on, it’s cold outside.”
And Joe thinks of Kanye.
Kanye’s mother told him he was Yeezus, the chosen one, a prophet with beats. She wrapped him in affirmation like a holy shroud, told the world he was sent by God with a mic in his hand and a vision in his eye.
But Joe? Joe got the KIBOSH.
His mother clipped his wings before he could fly too close to the sun.
“Messiah? No. Wash the dishes, clean your room, stop quoting the Bible like a lunatic.”
Joe loves her for it.
Because if Heaven’s Mary keeps him humble through grace, his earthbound mother keeps him grounded through sass. One saves his soul. The other saves his pride from swelling.
And in the middle of those two mothers—between prayer and sarcasm, prophecy and potato stew— stands Joe Jukic.
Not the Messiah.
Just a naughty boy with a destiny no one quite believes in yet.
Luka smiled gently, the way only a man burdened by war and loss could smile—like the sun breaking through heavy clouds.
“I remember her victory,” he said quietly. “The way little Nelly danced between the chairs—barefoot, wild-haired, full of mischief and light. And when the music stopped, she sat like it was destiny. That yellow lollipop in her hand… she held it like a trophy. It wasn’t the sugar she wanted. It was the sweetness of being seen.”
He leaned back in his chair, gazing out at the Adriatic.
“That yellow dress at Sister Helen’s sock hop? I think she wore it for that little girl inside her, the one who believed she could still win. Maybe Chris Martin saw that too… wrote her that song, Yellow, trying to fix something he didn’t understand. But it wasn’t his to fix.”
Then his expression softened even more, touched with reverence.
“After the game that day… she walked straight to the corner of the schoolyard chapel. There was a small statue of the Virgin Mary—faded, chipped from the winters, but still standing. Nelly knelt in front of it, clutching that yellow lollipop, and whispered a prayer only heaven heard. I didn’t catch the words. I didn’t need to. It was the look on her face—hopeful, innocent, grateful.”
He paused, then added with a quiet honesty, “I know… it was just a statue. An idol, maybe. Not the living God. But we were just kids. We didn’t know any better. We thought if we prayed hard enough to her, she might tell Him. And maybe she did.”
Luka turned slightly toward the camera, speaking now to the Nelstar faithful.
“To those who loved her songs, her smile, her fire—remember what she prayed for. Not a spotlight. Not a stage. Just one small moment of joy, and someone to share it with. Don’t live your life chasing broken dreams or yellow songs someone else wrote for you. Dance your own dance. When the music stops, sit with courage. And if you find your hands empty—make your own sweetness.”
He glanced at the waves again, a flicker of light in his eyes.
“And if you’re ever lost… find a little statue, kneel, and whisper your heart. Not because stone can answer—but because sometimes, your soul needs to kneel. That’s how we heal. That’s how we live. That’s how we remember.”
