Nelly Fan – Page 9

July 22, 2025July 22, 2025

Mary’s Tears

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.

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July 22, 2025July 22, 2025

Memes 13

Dr. Luka Kovac remembers:

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.”

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July 21, 2025July 21, 2025

Love Not Narcissistic Supply

Dr. Luka Kovač’s Confession: The First Patient

Vancouver, 1989. Before medicine, before Sarajevo, before I learned how to set bones or stop bleeding—I learned what it felt like to be helpless and in love, under the flickering lights of a church gym.

My mission to heal Nelly Furtado began during Confirmation prep classes at St. Joseph’s Gymnasium, under the firm-but-kind supervision of Sister Helen.

We were tweens—not quite children, not yet teenagers—learning square dancing as part of our “community formation.” Most of us groaned at first, but something about the rhythm made sense once we moved.

Nelly and I danced with perfect synchronicity.

Our hands met without awkwardness. Our feet mirrored each other, instinctively. Do-si-do, allemande left, promenade. The music was simple, structured. There was safety in the choreography. Purity in the pattern. When we danced, the noise in the world seemed to fall away.

For those moments, she wasn’t shy, and I wasn’t foreign. We were just two souls moving in time.

But everything changed at Sister Helen’s sock hop.

She called it a “wholesome social,” but you could see her bracing herself the moment she pressed play on the boom box. Chubby Checker. The Ronettes. Little Richard.

She winced when the beat kicked in.
“This,” she muttered, “is what I call the devil’s music.”

And she wasn’t entirely wrong—for us, at least.

Because when the square dance ended and the wild rhythm of The Twist started, the room split. The choreography was gone. The innocence evaporated. Now the dancing was adult. Loose. Improvised. Charged.

And we were terrified.

The boys didn’t know how to dance.
Not the Mashed Potato. Not the Jerk. Not even the Twist.
We froze, leaning on the wall like backup furniture, pretending not to care.
We were wallflowers.

And even Nelly, who had danced so freely before, seemed uncertain now. She didn’t move like she had during Cotton-Eyed Joe. She stood still, glancing at me once—and I looked away, ashamed I had no steps for this new world.

That was the moment I realized something:

Healing doesn’t happen in certainty.
It begins in that stammering silence.
In the place between knowing the steps and fumbling in the dark.

I started bringing my cassettes after that.
Not to fix her. Not to impress her.
To say I’m still here, even when the music changes.

I wasn’t giving her narcissistic supply.
I was in love with my first patient.

Not as a savior. But as someone trying to keep dancing with her—through the structure, through the chaos, even when the rhythm frightened us.

She was my first mystery.
My first lesson in presence.
And the reason I still believe some wounds are spiritual before they’re clinical.

Sometimes healing begins in a square dance.
Sometimes it stalls at a sock hop.
But love—real love—keeps showing up anyway.

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