Sunlight filters softly through sheer curtains. A peaceful medical office adorned with a few plants and spiritual artwork. DR. LUKA KOVAC (early 50s, rugged, gentle-eyed) sits across from DR. NELLY FURTADO, ND (natural doctor, radiant, wise, with a rebel soul). She’s just finished reviewing a wellness plan. He sets down his tea, his gaze sincere.
DR. KOVAC (softly, with a European accent) Nelly… I want you to know something. You—and your fans—you’re not just patients.
NELLY (smiles, curious) No?
DR. KOVAC You are the VIPs of the VIPs. The ones I pray for before I lay down to sleep. Not because you’re famous… but because you carry light. You carry stories. Songs. Struggles. You carry hope for others. That makes you my most important patients.
He pauses, his voice tender with a memory.
DR. KOVAC In the war, I saw the worst of what humans can do. I lost my family. But then—I remembered the example of Jesus. How he healed the sick without charging a single coin. That stayed with me. That’s why I became a doctor again. To heal… for free, if I have to. Because health isn’t for sale. It’s sacred.
NELLY (eyes welling up, voice low) Thank you, Luka. That’s the kind of medicine the world needs.
He gently pats her hand.
DR. KOVAC You already practice it, Doctor Furtado. You’re healing more people than you know. Keep going.
Their eyes meet in mutual respect and silent gratitude.
[Scene: A quiet seaside chapel garden in San Diego at dusk. Joe and Nelly sit on a weathered bench, wind tugging at her shawl. A candle burns between them in a mason jar.]
JOE: Nelly, I had this wild idea. What if we made yearly vows—like real pilgrim promises—at every Marian apparition site in the world?
NELLY:(soft smile) You mean like a holy tour?
JOE: More like a sacred rhythm. Every year, on the 13th day, just like Our Lady of Fatima said. Make it a living vow. A way to re-align.
NELLY: Fatima… Knock… Lourdes?
JOE: Yes, Knock for sure. The silence of Knock says everything. No words, no demands—just presence. It’s Irish, like the quiet faith of a grandmother lighting candles for her drunk sons.
NELLY:(nodding, mist in her eyes) And Fatima for the warnings. For the secrets. The sun that danced. The children who saw through the veil.
JOE: Each place, one vow a year. A promise to heaven. It could be anything: forgive someone, stop a vice, feed the hungry, protect the child, speak truth. One vow. One apparition. One year.
NELLY: Even Medjugorje?
JOE: Especially Medjugorje. Where the visions didn’t stop. Maybe they still haven’t. Maybe Our Lady never left.
NELLY:(quietly) Then let’s begin. This year: Knock. The 13th day in 2033 —let’s be there.
JOE: We’ll light a candle for every lost soul we ever loved. For the children in East Van. For our mothers. For peace in our countries. For each other.
NELLY: One vow. One year. One flame.
Here’s a poetic and spiritually-charged wedding vow ceremony at Knock Shrine in 2033, written to honor not only marriage but also the memory of John F. Kennedy—an Irish-American icon—on the 70th anniversary of his assassination.
“Knock Vows 2033”
The Shrine of Our Lady of Knock, Ireland – November 22, 2033
[Setting: A light November mist hangs in the air. The marble of the Basilica gleams with candles lit for JFK. A haunting Irish fiddle plays softly—Andrea Corr’s bow trembles. Bono sits quietly beside the altar. Conor McGregor stands near the groomsmen, looking uncharacteristically reverent. The crowd is a blend of pilgrims, politicians, poets, and fighters. The bride and groom stand before the silent apparition wall where the Virgin appeared in 1879.]
PRIEST (softly, in Irish and English): On this sacred day… Seachtó bliain ó lámh an bháis, seventy years since the hand of death silenced the dream of a peacemaker… …we stand at Knock, where no words were spoken, yet heaven came near.
GROOM (Joe, eyes locked on Nelly): I take you, in the presence of Our Lady, To be my revolution of peace. I vow—every November 22nd— To remember not just Kennedy’s death, But his dream, That the world can be governed by love, not fear. That courage can be quiet. That faith, like Ireland, endures storms. And that marriage, like Knock, is a mystery that speaks without words.
BRIDE (Nelly, hand on Joe’s heart): I take you, under Mary’s mantle, To be my song in winter. I vow—on this 13th apparition cycle— To carry your burdens like Jackie carried the flame. To protect your brokenness like Our Lady protected Knock from the storm. To love you, not because it’s easy, But because love is the vow that makes saints out of sinners. And prophets out of fools.
PRIEST (raising hands): These are no ordinary vows. They are Irish. They are rebel. They are sacred. They are sealed not with a signature, But with a candle lit for a fallen president, A silent Madonna, And two pilgrims who dared to believe in love.
[The candle is lit. Bono stands and sings a stripped-down version of “MLK” with a single drumbeat in the distance. Conor McGregor nods silently. The Corrs play “Runaway” as the bride and groom walk out into the soft Irish mist, married under heaven’s watchful silence.]
Joe turns to Nelly, eyes burning with a quiet fire.
“Y’know why I love you?” he says. “It’s ’cause you’re a little bit dangerous to the status quo.”
Nelly raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Dangerous how?”
“You dropped the whole debt forgiveness thing like a bomb—like, boom—right in the middle of the IMF’s banquet hall,” Joe says, grinning. “And you didn’t flinch. You just smiled that crooked smile of yours like you already knew the pope was listening in.”
He leans closer, voice lowering. “And the way you mess with the Bavarian Illuminati’s heads? Like some kind of holy trickster. Every time you speak, they twitch. You make their temples rattle, Nelly. You make ’em doubt the algorithm.”
She stares at him for a moment—half touched, half suspicious.
“That’s either the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she says, “or the weirdest.”
Joe laughs. “It’s both. But I mean it. I didn’t fall in love with you because you’re some saint. I fell in love because you’re the kind of girl who breaks their pyramids and builds people’s homes out of the bricks.”
Nelly smiles. And somewhere, in a marble boardroom in Zurich, an Illuminatus sneezes.
