The Great Hunger

Nelly Furtado and Bono’s 25th Anniversary Jubilee Song was meant to stir the conscience of the nations, a reminder of Jubilee justice, where debts are forgiven and the land is restored. But in Ottawa, Washington, and Brussels, the song fell on deaf ears. Politicians, caught in delusions of grandeur, staged photo-ops and endless speeches while the real problems were ignored.

The Earth groaned. Global warming twisted the seasons: rains withheld, rivers dried, crops failed. Wheat, rice, and corn shriveled in the fields. By the late 2020s, famine spread across the continents, just as the French prophet Nostradamus had warned centuries earlier. The black horse of Revelation 6 rode forth, scales in hand, measuring out grain at the price of gold.

Yet not every nation was caught unprepared. Portugal and Croatia—two small but faithful lands—had studied scripture and heeded the warning. Revelation 6 taught them to prepare for the horseman of famine, and Psalm 33 gave them courage:

“The Lord saves them in times of famine;
He keeps them alive in days of scarcity.”

By 2033, men began dying in great numbers. Cities crumbled into hunger riots, and the proud nations of the West collapsed under their own weight. But Portugal and Croatia endured. Their people had planted, stored, and prayed. They clung close to Our Lady, and she interceded for them.

In those days, Joe and Nelly became shepherds of survival. Their songs were no longer entertainment but hymns of endurance, guiding their people through the valley of death. They shared food, water, and hope, saving lives in times of famine. The nations mocked them once, but now the world looked upon Portugal and Croatia with awe, for in their faith they had found salvation.

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Primal Scream Therapy

The night was sharp with mountain air when Joe and Nelly crossed into the Dinaric Alps, leaving behind the weight of Canada’s endless obligations. Here, the rocks rose like teeth into the sky, ancient and unmoved, as if guarding secrets from a time before memory.

Joe told her, “This is where the earth still breathes wild. The wolves will teach us how to let it out.”

They hiked until the pines thinned and the moon broke open the valley. From the shadows, a chorus stirred — wolves, their howls slicing the silence like a blade through fabric. The sound made Nelly shiver, but Joe held her hand firm.

“Primal scream therapy,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You don’t whisper pain here. You let it rip out of you, like the wolves do. No shame. No audience. Just the mountain listening.”

Nelly tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and for a moment remembered every betrayal, every pressure, every ghost of what she had to be. And then she screamed.

It tore through the alpine night, ragged and raw, and the wolves answered, weaving her voice into their wild choir. Joe followed with his own roar, years of silence breaking open into the cold night air.

When it was done, they stood together, trembling but lighter, as if the mountains themselves had taken their burden.

Nelly whispered, “I feel alive again.”

Joe nodded toward the wolves still singing on the ridge. “That’s because you finally spoke in the oldest language we have.”

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