Saint Dirty Face

(Dirty Gospel – Chapter Fragment)

Prophecy doesn’t arrive on velvet.

It doesn’t bring filters or hashtags.

It steps out of the silence like an old mother in a plain white robe and says,

“Child… look. Don’t look away.”

That’s what the kids in Fátima swore they saw in 1917.

Not a queen on a throne.

A woman in light.

A mother.

She came with three warnings — not to scare the world,

but to call it back before it drove itself into the ditch.

I don’t care whether you think the children dreamed it,

hallucinated it, or heard the real Queen of Heaven.

What matters is what the message pointed at.

And it’s still pointing there.

The First Secret: The Fire We Make for Ourselves

She opened the children’s eyes to a pit of fire —

souls burning in their own refusal to love.

Not a medieval tourist map.

Not a horror flick.

I’ve seen the same look in real life:

in addicts who can’t stop reaching for the next hit,

in eyes that have given up hope of mercy.

in men who clutch their hate like a trophy,

Hell isn’t a dungeon.

It’s the habitat a heart builds when it walls itself off from grace.

That vision was meant to jolt us awake.

Not to gloat.

To warn.

The Second Secret: The Sickness That Spreads

She warned that a power would rise and spread an idea —

an idea that forgot the sacred worth of each person.

She named Russia because that’s where the fever was breaking then.

But it’s not about borders or flags.

Every time a system — political, religious, corporate, whatever —

forgets the human face in front of it,

it joins the same sickness.

Prayer, she said, wasn’t magic.

It was the way to keep your own heart soft,

so you don’t become part of the infection.

The Third Secret: The Shepherd in the Rubble

The children saw a bishop in white walking through a ruined city.

He climbed a hill beneath a rough-hewn cross

and was gunned down along with priests, nuns, and ordinary souls.

Not a future-shock trailer for the end of the world.

A sign of the cost of witness.

Faith doesn’t glide above the wreckage.

It walks into it.

And sometimes it bleeds there.

What the Mother Was Really Saying

Stop waiting for a headline that tells you the world is ending.

These weren’t fortune-cookie predictions.

They were road signs:

Face the fire inside your own heart first. Don’t let any ideology steal your mercy. Don’t mistake the wounds of witness for failure.

In a century still choking on wars, propaganda, and cheap saints-for-sale,

those three signs don’t feel old at all.

They feel like a fresh slap across the face.

The Cost of Witness

Here’s the line most folks don’t want to hear:

Getting bloodied doesn’t mean you lost.

Sometimes the wound is the receipt that you refused to bow to the wrong king.

“Don’t confuse the blood on your boots with being on the wrong side.

Sometimes the fact that you’re bleeding is the proof you stood in the right place.”

The shepherd in the rubble didn’t fail.

The martyrs didn’t fail.

Anyone who stands for mercy in a brutal world is going to pay for it.

That price is the cost of witness.

“Return to mercy. Guard the dignity of the person.

Don’t be asleep while injustice multiplies.”

The Mother’s words still echo.

They weren’t soft.

And they sure as hell weren’t meant for Sunday décor.

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Saint Dirty Face™
[Stay Dirty, Stay Rebellious™]
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