Yugo Joe looked at Nelly over a tiny cup of coffee that seemed far too strong for civilized society.
“Nelly,” he said, “you should come to Croatia. Or at least to Medjugorje. The place runs on prayer, stories, candles, and people looking for something bigger than themselves.”
Nelly smiled cautiously. “You make it sound like an airport terminal for mystics.”
Joe pointed a finger.
“Exactly! And listen — the six Medjugorje seers? Their story brought pilgrims from everywhere. Believers, doubters, curious tourists, exhausted people carrying heavy lives. Lovers of Gospa, you could say.”
Nelly tilted her head. “Lovers of Gospa?”
“People devoted to Nossa Senhora. People who pray. People searching. People who want mercy, meaning, maybe even a miracle.”
The church bells sounded faintly in the distance.
“In our story,” Joe continued, “the six seers are expecting not celebrities, not influencers — but ordinary lovers of Gospa. The woman with the rosary worn smooth from use. The guy who hasn’t prayed in twenty years but walks up the hill anyway. The skeptic who says, ‘I’m just here for cultural reasons,’ and somehow ends up lighting a candle.”
Nelly laughed softly.
“So you’re recruiting me into a pilgrimage?”
Joe shrugged dramatically.
“I’m inviting you into a conversation older than both of us. Canada says, ‘Keep spirituality polite and personal.’ The Balkans say, ‘Pull up a chair, argue theology, drink coffee, and tell us your story.’”
“And what if people think I’m strange?”
Joe grinned.
“In the Balkans? Strange is practically a citizenship category.”
