Love Made Visible

I passed into adulthood on New Year's Eve when I was only nine. The process of passage began December 27, 1944.

* * * *

'Where we goin', Pop?' I asked as we walked down the hill away from our house at the top of Prospect Street.

Pop didn't answer. I could barely hear my own voice above the howling wind that blew my skinny body into the street.

Though the freezing snow swirled around us, I could see the distant horizon. It glowed now, as it had for years, from the ever-present culm dumps of sulfur burning blue against the coal-black sky. The miles-long slag heap loomed like an eerie ghost spewing stinking fumes into the otherwise still dark night. I thought of the story in yesterday's Wilkes-Barre Gazette. A tramp, one like so many others left homeless in this 1944 war-time economy, who had sought out the warmth of the hills, was found dead, asphyxiated by the treacherous gases.

* * * *

The new snowfall had started earlier as we sat down to our supper at six. By the time Mom was washing the dishes, new flakes had coated the ice-sheathed streets. After supper, I sat before the coal-burning stove reading a year-old Batman comic book. I was engrossed in the cover action of Batman and Robin watching Hitler get blown up by a Fourth of July firecracker when I heard the phone ring.

Mom called. 'Khalil, get coat. Go helb Pop. He too old be out alone this bad night. Can't take Billy in this weather.'

Just before supper, I had helped Pop bed down Billy, our draft horse, in his stall. I knew Mom was right. If Billy slipped on the ice, it would have been the end of Pop's livelihood. No junkman could peddle his wares without a sturdy horse and wagon. Everyone else drove trucks now, but Pop was of the old school, too old to learn to drive, too ingrained in his method of doing business to want to change. There was no need to take Billy out on a night like this anyway. Why even Pop and I were being dragged out at this late hour, past my usual bedtime, mystified me.

I carefully wrapped newspaper around my feet and pulled two wax-lined paper sacks over my shoes to keep my feet warm and protect my only pair of shoes from the snow. Now worn and ill fitting, the shoes had once belonged to my nephew. I tied string around the bags to hold them tightly to my ankles.

I bundled into my huge, black coat, a hand-me-down from my nephew. That's what happens when you're the last, and late born at that, in a family of thirteen. Two of my siblings, both more than thirty years older than me, were married and had nine children between them before I was even conceived. Mom, at forty-eight, had no clue she was carrying a child. Barely five feet tall and nearly as wide, Mom was surprised when I arrived nine years ago, a change of life babyÑor more exactly, a life-changing baby, for the household was never the same after I made my unexpected entrance. Pop, now sixty-eight, was older than my friends' grandfathers. Nevertheless, he was proud to have a third son.

So, this bulky coat was one of the many curses of all Lebanese families: never waste a morsel of food or throw out a coat with a shred of wool still clinging to it. This coat had been lying in mothballs for eight years waiting for me to grow into it. It could have stayed in the black trunk another ten and it still wouldn't have fit. It hung loosely on my narrow frame and reached almost to my toes. Even when rolled back, the sleeves covered my fingertips and drooped five inches from my wrist allowing the frigid air to rush clear up to my shoulder blades.

Mom pulled my wool cap, a Christmas gift from my sisters, over my curly blond hair. It was the only new possession I owned. I treasured it as if it were spun from gold. She bussed me on the cheek as we stepped into the swirling snow.

'Watch Pop not fall,' Mom whispered in my ear.

A fresh crust frosted the four-inch underlayer of ice. Icy daggers pierced my cheeks and eyes. The snow illuminated the otherwise pitch-black night. I followed in Pop's footsteps as he broke a path through the crusty snow.

'Where we goin', Pop?' I asked louder.

'We go church.'

'Why, Pop? Why so late?'

'Abouna Jabir need me.'

I heard a distant church bell chime ten times. 'What does Father Jabir want at this late hour?'

'It no matter what he want. I take care church. I take care Abouna. He need me. I go.' His hand was in his right pocket. I knew he was saying his prayers, quickly slipping his black rosary beads through his fingers.

We started down the ice-covered stone steps leading to Dana Street below. The wind had forced my eyes to slits and was trying to freeze them shut. I hunched over, driving my wool cap instead of my face into the wind. I could see nothing except my feet pushing one step at a time through the crust. I prayed the paper bags would not rip apart. There was no rail to hold. I hung onto Pop's sleeve. We descended one step at a time. Pop clung to the jagged stone wall that rose ten feet to the street level above us.

I reached for the next step. My foot slid on a patch of ice. I grabbed for Pop's hand, but missed. I tumbled down several steps and dropped in a dazed heap on the frozen street.

'Khalil,' Pop cried. 'Khalil, dun move. I come helb you.'

I took a deep breath. Nothing hurt. Within seconds, the snow spread a frosty layer over me. I pushed the wetness from my face in time to see Pop scrambling down the steps.

'Careful, Pop,' I yelled above the wind. The responsibility on my shoulders weighed even more than my coat. What would Mom do if I let something happened to Pop? Why wasn't Zachary--or his goody-two-shoes sons--bearing this obligation?

'I'm okay. Just slid on my theszu.' I struggled to my feet. I shook off the whiteness that clung to my enormous coat as I tried to shake off the resentment building up inside me.

'Ya, Allah dakhleek. Thanks be to God, you okay. Thanks be to God you wear thick coat. It break you Mom heart if any thing happen you.' Pop raised his black beads to the heavens. 'Ya, Allah dakhleek. Come, we go church and pray. Ya, Allah dakhleek.'

We continued our trek through the blizzard. Begrudgingly, I too thanked God for this ridiculous black coat.

Pop clutched my arm tightly. We moved more cautiously now. His rickety old legs took forever to cover the remaining three blocks on the ice-encrusted sidewalk down Dana Street to St. Anthony's Church. What usually took ten minutes to walk took almost an hour. What dreadful emergency could have brought us out on such a cruel night?

We entered St. Anthony's through the side door leading to the sacristy. I followed Pop to the front of the altar and knelt next to him on the top step. Even at his age, he knelt tall and straight. He stood so tall that friends and strangers alike thought of his height as over six feet, not his actual five feet eight inches including shoes. No slouching ever, certainly not in the presence of the Divine. Though not even ten, I had had years of practice molding myself into Pop's image. I loved the beauty of the Maronite liturgy as much as Pop did. Being in the presence of the Holy Eucharist, especially being able to raise my voice in song to glorify and honor God, sent me into rapture. I knelt upright beside him trying to extend my chin to the greatest height my slight body could reach. He was a saint, and I wanted to be like him.

Dozens of tiny red votive candles lit beneath the pedestal of the Virgin Mary cast eerie flickering shadows around me as Pop chanted in his baritone voice, not diminished but enriched by age: 'Ya, Allah dakhleek.' Though exhausted from the long, freezing walk, I summoned forth my pure soprano voice to mingle in harmony with his. Singing with him was one of the few joys in my life. I even forgot to beg God to let me get back to my warm house, to sleep in my warm bed. I allowed my voice to mingle with Pop's and sent the hymn of praise to Mary into the heavens above riding on the smoke rising from the flaming candles:

Assalam AAlayki ya Maryam,

ya mum ta li'aat niihmat ,

Arrabu maaki

Mubarakaton anti finnisaa'

wa Mubarakaton thamaratu batniki sayyidna

Yasuu Almasihh.

Hail Mary

Full of grace

God is with you

Blessed are thou among women

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, our Lord,

Jesus Christ.

Ya kiddissa Maryam,

ya walidat Allah

salli li ajlina nahnu alkha ta' aa al

Aan wa fi saaat mawtina.

Amin.

Holy Mary,

Mother of God,

Pray for us sinners now

and at the hour of our death.

Amen.

As the lingering notes wrapped around the rafters above, Pop blessed himself. 'Come, Abouna Jabir need us.'

I followed him to the large rectory next to the church. A solitary street lamp broke the darkness. The snow still fell, thick and wet, but the wind had abated. The rectory steps were covered with a half-foot of snow. Pop pushed the snow aside with his foot.

I made him stop. This was my job. I scraped the thick, moist snow from the steps with my hands. I made a small path up the three steps, across the porch, to the front door. By the time I'd finished, my hands stung as if inflicted with prickly cactus needles.

Pop rapped quietly on the door. He didn't want to wake the sleeping pastor. Housekeeper Maroon had called. Pop expected her to answer the door and give the reason for their cold night venture.

The porch light snapped on. Abouna Jabir, himself, opened the door. Barely an inch taller than me, but two hundred pounds heavier, he was bundled in a massive red velvet robe and wore a red velvet stocking cap on his fat, balding head. At first glance, he resembled the Santa Claus at Boston's department store on the square in downtown Wilkes-Barre, except for his hooked nose and cold, unsmiling eyes.

'What take you so long, Jhidius?' Abouna Jabir rasped in his unjolly voice. 'I wait hour for you come.'

Pop bowed humbly before the priest, 'Blease, forgive, Abouna. I no escuz. We come helb. What you need?'

'Is freezing in house. I need wood for fire. Maroon say too cold for her go out. She call you. Went to bed. Too cold for me sleep. Need wood on fire. You bring,' the priest ordered.

Pop bowed. I bit my tongue holding back the anger I felt as I watched this fat cleric humiliate my Pop. Why couldn't he be like the priest at St. Mary's--always laughing and joking with the school children, congratulating me on my fine grades at school, handing out candy canes when school recessed for the Christmas holidays. Fr. Hughie was what a priest should be--someone who passed on the true Christ spirit to all around him.

We went outside. Out into the frigid air. Into the blizzard. I staggered through the blinding snow, following closely in Pop's footprints--actually, deep leg prints that were too far apart for me to hold my balance. Several times, I miscalculated and the dizzying snow swallowed me as we trudged to the rear of the house. It took forever to clear the snow from the stack of wood piled against the Rectory's back wall. Pop put several huge logs in a tin box and together we dragged the container up the back steps, through the rear door, into the kitchen.

Pop carried log after log to the fireplace in Abouna Jabir's bedroom while I returned to the wood pile and filled the box again. I dragged it to the back door. Too heavy to lift, I carried two logs at a time up the steps and into the kitchen until I stacked a large pile neatly beside the stove.

We were finished. The fire in Abouna Jabir's bedroom would blaze for hours. Pop had also started a second fire in the living room. The house was toasty warm. Exhausted, I was ready to go home. Ya, Allah dakhleek.

Abouna Jabir lumbered out from his bedroom in his scarlet outfit. To thank us? To offer us a warm drink?

'Jhidius, clean snow from porch and steps. Make path to church. I say Mass at six o'clock. Must be ready. I no want fall.'

'Pop,' I whispered. 'It's still snowing. If we clean it now, it'll be covered by morn.'

Pop bowed before Abouna Jabir. 'I do now and come back early. Clear more.'

Abouna Jabir grunted. 'Make sure you get back in time.' He slammed shut the door.

Pop handed me a shovel. My teeth chattered as we cleared the porch and steps, then made a wide path to the church. Soon, I was drenched beneath my huge black coat.

Finally, we finished. The clock had struck twelve as we laid down our shovels and began to plod, in silence, up the hill toward home, more tired than I'd ever been in my life. The only noise was the near-silent clicking of the rosary beads as they passed through Pop's nimble fingers.

'Pop, why do you do this? How can you let him push you around like that? Not even a word of thanks. Don't you have any pride?'

'Abouna Jabir is briest of God,' Pop said. 'Many long years ago, before even you sister, Miriam, God rest her soul, and Zachary were born, old Abouna Butrus bless our church with his presence. He great man. Give to poor. Love God, love beople. He teach me, still a young man, many thing. I love him like my own Pop. He die, 1907. We have no briest care for our souls. No briest sing our Maronite Mass. No briest hear confessions in our language. My heart broken. All beople in barish want new Abouna from old country.

'I send letter Mom's sister, Zarifa. Still live in our village, Hardine. She beg Batriarch send new briest. Abouna Jabir just ordain. Patriarch send him. Abouna Jabir not happy. Think he smart enough to be Patriarch someday, Zarifa say. But he say he stay for year, be in Batriarch good grace.

'After year, Abouna homesick, want go home Lebanon. He not briest like Abouna Butrus, but he say Maronite Mass, what our beople need. I beg him stay. I bledge I care for him and church as long I live. I beg God keeb briest here. Abouna stay. God answer brayer. I do what Abouna ask. I do because I love God--have no bride when I serve God. Bride cause devil fall. Good lesson you learn. If bride fill heart, no room for love. All these year, I carry out my duty for love of God. Ask God, you love Him. You be habby. That only thing imbortantÑlove God. When you love God, easy carry out duty. Love God, Khalil. Love God. My good friend, the man I name you for, Khalil Gibran, write: Work is love made visible. That what I do when I serve God. I show God I love Him, no matter what the work.'

I asked no more questions. DUTY: another curse of Lebanese families! It was the men's duty to provide for the family, carry out the various vendettas mandated from generations past, make sure there was always a spiritual leader in the tight-knit community, and above all, sacrifice everything for God, family, and heritage.

Lebanese women's duties were simple: cook, clean, bear children, and please their husbands. It wasn't until years later that the men who believed this realized how foolish they had been. In actuality, the women ran the house and were behind the scenes in all business transactions. They raised their daughters to be independent, feisty, free thinkers. They raised their sons to be merchants and to believe that women did what they were told to do. Only after they married did they learn the truth. Because of all the women in our household, I learned at an early age that Mom held the purse strings in our house and that she and my seven older sisters wrapped Pop (as well as their own husbands) around their little fingers.

This Duty was a miserable curse to have done what it did to Pop, to keep him pressed under this priest's thumb for almost half a century. Could God really expect that extreme commitment from His children on earth? Could God expect Pop to carry out a promise that caused him to be constantly humiliated and subjugated by an arrogant, loveless minister of God? This was truly beyond my grasp.

Silently, I followed in Pop's footsteps as we crunched home through the blinding blizzard. As soon as we were home, I crawled into the bed I shared with him. I pulled the warm covers over my head. I planned to sleep till noon.

I had barely closed my eyes when I heard Pop stirring. I didn't want to open my eyes, but peeked from beneath the covers. I heard a clock chime the half-hour note. Half past what? The room was black. My eyes finally adjusted. I saw Pop sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on his tattered boots.

Silently, I rose, put on my shoes, covered them with brown paper sacks, pulled on my huge black coat and tightened my hand-knit hat over my ears. It was my Duty to help Pop... and God.

The blizzard was over. Two feet of snow blanketed the ground.

Together, Pop and I hiked back to St. Anthony's through the silent night to clear the walkways. As every other morning, we stayed to assist Abouna Jabir at the six o'clock daily Mass which was packed with parishioners. Not this icy day, nor even the plague, would keep these devoted souls from giving homage to God.

As I knelt beside Pop at the altar of God, a deep resentment choked the words of praise that rose from my throat as we intoned, in Aramaic, the mystical body of Christ. How could Abouna Jabir misuse--abuse--the authority entrusted to him? How could he mistreat Pop because of the vow Pop had pledged? How could he, our pastor, who had taken a vow of poverty, live in a palatial rectory, drive the best car, and always have plenty of food on his plate? Worst of all, how could I respect Pop for taking this abuse?

We had nothing. Mom stretched her meager budget to ensure we always had enough to eat. Yet, Pop thanked God every moment. If we have God's love we have everything anyone could need. Each Tuesday--devoted to St. Anthony--Pop gave his entire day's earnings to those in need. Everyone said Pop was a saint. No one ever said that about Abouna Jabir.

After Mass, Pop invited Abouna Jabir to our house for dinner Sunday afternoon. I was mortified. What could we possibly offer this priest who had everything and we had nothing?

* * * *

Saturday afternoon. Our entire Maronite community trooped into St. Anthony's to confess their sins. I hated this humiliating rite, but since my classmates and I received First Communion, the Mercy nuns (or merciless, as we called them) at St. Mary's School drummed it into our heads it was our duty to confess and repent every single week. If we didn't go to confession, we were called into the principal's office and severely reprimanded. How she ever knew whether we went or not, I'll never know--nor did I want to find out.

This week was especially hard for me. I had committed a mortal sin for which I needed to beg God's forgiveness. I had questioned the authority of the priest, but greater still, I had been embarrassed by my Pop, ashamed of him--the greatest of all sins in a Lebanese family.

I was so ashamed of myself that I felt others could clearly see my treacherous sin. All eyes were upon me as I squirmed in the line that moved like molasses in January. Sweat beaded on my face and made my palms stick together. I left the line and hid in the shadows and watched and waited while the queue of pious parishioners snaked endlessly around both sides of the church, ultimately reaching the confessional at the back of the church. Finally, the last in line left the confessional and I slipped behind the ruby velvet curtain. I held my hot face between my folded hands and prayed to God I would have the courage to speak this terrible truth. How could I even say these words out loud? I squirmed and grew hotter waiting for the grate to creak open.

I jumped when the grate slid open and I could see Father Jabir's fat face through the wooden slats. I must not let this priest know who I was. I breathed deeply and lowered my voice as I began: 'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned...' My voice acquired a Lebanese accent as the words spilled out, a torrent of unleashed water rushing through a collapsed dam. Only when finished, did I notice the reeking smell of whiskey on the other side. Could he possibly have brought his silver flask into the confessional? I froze awaiting the words that would condemn me to Hell for all eternity.

'You sorry you sin?' Father Jabir asked.

'Yes, Father,' I said, lowering my voice another octave.

'Good. You remember commandment: Honor thy Father and Mother. For penance, say three Hail Mary, three Our Father. Now, say act of contrition.'

I breathed deeply and forced my voice into the most low-pitched I could muster as I recited the pro forma words. The grate snapped shut. Ending with a huge sigh, I rejoiced in making it through without revealing my identity.

I rose to leave. I was halfway through the heavy ruby tapestry when Father Jabir again slid open the grate and boomed: 'Khalil, I finish. Tell you Pop I want see him right away.'

I felt ridiculous as I scurried to the sacristy where Pop was arranging the white linens for Sunday Mass and pointed to the confessional. I was acting just like Pop. Bowing and running to do this priest's every bid. I cringed when Father Jabir thundered: 'Jhidius, I no like...' It didn't matter to me what he didn't like. It was just one more way to exercise his power over Pop. Of all the heads bent in repentance, none raised to look at Pop. The scene had been repeated too many times to cause a stir.

I knelt and prayed for God's forgiveness. Most of all, I prayed I wouldn't turn out like Pop, a submissive pawn of the parish priest.

* * * *

Saturday night, Mom took out our best dishes and linens, all items from her Hope Chest, her legacy from Lebanon. She used these precious possessions only on the rarest occasions. Like tomorrow, when, as Mom said, Abouna Jabir would 'honor' us with his presence. Mom polished the handcrafted copper coffee pot that her oldest sister, Tante Zarifa, had sent her from Lebanon when she married Pop thirty-seven years before. Used for making Arabic coffee, it had been handed down through the family for four generations. She brought out the fragile, hand-painted demitasse cups, also from Lebanon, that Aunt Catherine, her second sister, had given her as a wedding gift.

Sunday, I awoke to the smell of fresh pita bread baking. And spices--cumin, allspice, cinnamon, mint--mixed to create kibbe, kousa, and stuffed grape leaves. The pungent smell of garlic and lemon, used for tabouli, hummus, and baba ganoose, filled the house.

Mom, helped by my oldest sisters, Miriam, thirty-one, and Esther, twenty-nine, both spinsters fifteen years past their prime, had been preparing food since before dawn. Even before I rose, I knew the three tables, placed end to end to accommodate the forty family members invited for this auspicious occasion, had already been set. It was always so.

Tonight was New Year's Eve. A night when the family gathered to thank God they were in America, free from the Turks who had driven them from their centuries old village high in the mountains in Lebanon. Their village, Hardine, was one of the first in Lebanon to follow the teachings of Christ. It was still disputed whether Jesus had actually spent time in Hardine just before surrendering Himself for His crucifixion and death. Family tradition held that it was a young lad from Hardine who offered the loaves and fishes to Jesus to feed the multitudes after the Sermon on the Mount. Their village had been blessed from that time on with an abundance of fine priests and saintly people, many in our direct lineage. Our family name, Khoury, meant 'priest.' Pop's grandfather, his father, and his grandfather's father were all married priests as were several great uncles on Mom's side of the family. A blessing on our family. Why God had allowed the Turks to force half the villagers to desert their homeland was a mystery to me. Pop said it was God's will: Entshullah. How God's will ordained these things had always been a puzzle to me. But I seemed to be the only one who felt that way. The rest of the family, much older and thus wiser than me, threw up their hands when I asked 'Why?' and said 'Entshullah.'

As usual, Pop and I walked to St. Anthony's to arrive early enough to set up the altar and light the candles. Zachary picked up Mom, Miriam, and Esther in his '38 Plymouth and dropped them off in plenty of time to light a candle or two before kneeling in the first pew in front of the Blessed Virgin's altar.

As usual, Pop sang the Maronite liturgy, half in Arabic, half in Aramaic. I served on the altar, a place where I could easily watch the oft-amusing quirks of our varied parishioners, many recent arrivals from the 'old country.' Others, like Mom and Pop had been in Wilkes-Barre for over forty years. In this tight-knit community, it didn't matter how long they had been in America. They still spoke their original language, prepared their food the same way, never married or even socialized outside of their community. Even business was mostly transacted within the community, though their wares--produce, jams, baked goods--were sold to wholesalers as far away as Hazleton and Scranton. Of course, this was the same of all ethnic groups in Wilkes-Barre: a German section, Polish, Lithuanian, Irish, Italian--each with its own culture, language, and church. The only thing our 'Arab Hill' section didn't provide was a Catholic school. Then, it was okay for my nieces, nephews and me to go to St. Mary's School--a melting pot of mostly Irish--in the center of Wilkes-Barre run by the Mercy nuns.

And so it was, that at church, families socialized and gained their spiritual renewal for the coming week. From my place on the altar as bell-ringer, a duty which I did not mind taking on because it brought me even closed to the Blessed Eucharist, I liked to guess what kind of news families wanted to share with their neighbors by watching their movements before and during Mass. Zachary was busy spreading the news of the six-year old 'near-perfect' truck--an International--he picked up for a song. Sixteen-year old Terese Mir blushed intently every time she felt Ziad Roman's eyes burn into her lovely neck. Old Tante Helene nodded furiously as she passed some gossip to the 'Black Widows--as my friends and I referred to the old biddies who wore black to mourn the dead, theirs or anyone else's--encircling her like a band of Indians in the back of the church. All this murmuring stopped immediately when I rang the bells announcing that Mass was beginning. Father Jabir, resplendent in his gold brocade white vestments, marched onto the altar still decorated with the Christmas creche and a profusion of poinsettia. Besides me, the bell ringer, he was attended by my nephews, Anthony, the seminarian, and his brother, Jude, the college student.

The Mass began as usual with Father Jabir mumbling the Maronite liturgy, Pop chanting the responses in his ethereal voice, and me nodding on my knees to the left of the altar. How was I to know that the Pastor would offer anything but the routine Sunday morning Mass?

It began to unfold just after the Gospel. Father Jabir began his sermon: 'I want to thank all for generous donation to Christmas collection. We raise seven hundred dollar. Some, we use for church roof. Some, for flowers...'

I was quick to spot some rustling and muttering among the Black Widows. Like dominos, their words spread in each direction, finally coming to rest in Zachary's ear. Even I, a naive lad of nine, knew church, especially in the middle of Mass, was not a forum for a debate. But that didn't stop Zachary from exploding from his seat, his face redder than rhubarb pie, to redress Abouna Jabir.

'How much went to the church?' Zachary demanded. 'Where did the rest go?'

All eyes were riveted on the Abouna. They knew, thanks to Tante Helene and her Black Widows, what the charge was. They just wanted to hear it from his own thick lips. I looked to the statue of the Blessed Virgin. Her eyes, too, seemed set on the enraged priest.

'I tell you. I you bastor and I do what imbortant for church. I know some beoble not happy I have new car. But I you bastor and I need car for visit my beoble in barish.' His fat cheeks grew redder as he offered excuses to justify his dishonorable action.

Every time he said 'bastor' I scanned the crowd to see if they thought it was as funny as I did. Only the younger ones of us who didn't speak English with a heavy Arabic accent were enjoying his unmindful phrase. Everyone knew his 'old' car was only two years old and was rarely driven to visit parishioners. Everyone knew he loved to drive into New York City during the week and sit in on various pinochle games where he frittered away his salary and the numerous 'gifts' his parishioners paid him for the many services he provided: baptisms, weddings, funerals. Now, everyone also knew he had done the unthinkable: used parish funds to buy a top of the line Buick Roadmaster, a car most in the parish could only drool over from the outside of the showroom window.

The parishioners, with the exception of a few wealthy families, were extremely poor. It was wartime. Many sons who had been breadwinners were now overseas. Daughters worked in factories in Rochester or for the government in Washington replacing the men who had been sent to the Pacific or European fronts. My own brother, James, had been plucked up and sent to London as an Army cook. For anyone to buy a new car in these trying times was sacrilegious. Every extra penny was set aside for those in need. Zachary's 'new' truck was vital to his produce distribution business. His old truck had died just before Christmas on the hills near Hazleton. No amount of spare parts was able to get it running again. Fortunately, he had been able to buy a truck from an Italian family whose son, God rest his soul, had been killed in the war. They were desperate for the money and were willing to take small payments over a couple of years with the promise of fresh fruits and vegetables thrown in from time to time.

I had never witnessed such a hullabaloo. From the second pew, Zachary let fly a barrage of Arabic phrases the likes of which I had heard frequently from him, but never, I swear, on my blessed sister's grave, would I expect to hear them in church. My mouth dropped open. My eyes shut in prayerful disbelief as I prayed for the salvation of his soul. Zachary was going to Hell, no doubt about it. No matter what the priest did, this was wrong. Even I knew that.

From the pulpit, Abouna Jabir was turning purple. He could no longer spit out anything but 'I am you Bastor' again and again.

'Quiet.' A hush fell over the congregation. A thin, wiry man appearing much taller than his five-foot-eight stature had risen from the chair behind the pulpit and raised his hand to silence the bleating flock. 'Zachary, I ashame you. Sit now. Abouna, forgive my son. Blease, finish Mass.'

Without another word, Zachary sat, Abouna returned to the altar, and Pop began to chant softly in Syriac:

Chubho lhaw qolo

dahwo guchmo

Walme lat romo

dahwo fagro

Chma'oy of edneh

hzayoy 'ayneh

Mochoy of ideh

wakhleh fumo.

Glory to the Word

Our God made man.

God's most wondrous

work has been achieved.

Him our eyes have seen

Our ears have heard

Him our hands have touched'

And mouths received.

With both mind and heart

Praise Christ our Lord

To redeem mankind

Our savior came.

The Mass proceeded as if nothing had happened. Those gathered to celebrate the Holy Mass joined the chant as Pop's voice reverberated through the church. My glorious soprano voice joined harmoniously with his. I could even hear Zachary beating out the rhythm with his deep bass.

Abouna, still shaking, raised the host above his head for all to worship the Body of Christ. I jangled the bells until he arose from his deep genuflection. I rang the bells again as he raised the chalice containing the Blood of Christ.

At communion, as I let Father Jabir place the wafer on my tongue, I prayed that God would clear the confusion from my mind. I knew Zachary was improper for attacking Abouna in church, but I knew how wrong the priest was to misuse church funds that were so desperately needed within the parish. How could a man chosen to do God's work do such a despicable thing? God did not answer me. Nor did Pop when I asked him the same question as we blew out the candles and put away the altar linens and ornate vestments.

I was bewildered when I saw Mom hobble up to Father Jabir as he greeted parishioners after Mass. 'Don't forget,' Mom reminded Abouna Jabir in Arabic, 'Come today. Four o'clock. We prepare nice meal for you.'

I was even further amazed when Zachary paused to shake Abouna's hand. 'Those Black Widows always get me upset. Enjoy your car,' he said gruffly.

Abouna Jabir nodded and passed on to the next parishioner, a wealthy merchant, Monsieur Mir, who had recently returned from Beirut. The French title Monsieur was a remnant, I learned, of the French occupation in the Middle East, a title used to show respect to those Lebanese who were especially wealthy and cultured.

Were these people crazy, or what? I shook my head and walked home silently beside Pop.

* * * *

At three o'clock, the family gathered awaiting the arrival of Abouna Jabir. I dressed in one of my nephew Anthony's old suits. To make it fit, Mom had turned under the cuffs and sleeves four inches. It still hung off my shoulders.

I was starving. When I tried to snatch a piece of bread from the table, Zachary slapped my hand. 'Wait for our guest like everyone else.' Like all his other outbursts, Zachary had forgotten his brutal assault as soon as he sat down in church. This trait always amazed me about my brother. He could carry a grudge forever against a declared enemy, yet, in a moment, he could dismiss his unruly outburst as if it had never occurred. Since I was a frequent recipient of his verbal attacks, I tried to stay out of his way as much as possible. This was not easy, for Pop had relegated his parental authority to my brother. Zachary had so harshly punished me over the years that if he told me not to touch the bread, I'd starve to death before taking even a morsel.

Four-o'clock. Pop placed bottles of whiskey and arak on each of the tables. Everything awaited Abouna Jabir. No one would be allowed to touch a morsel until Abouna Jabir blessed it. The tables, laden with every possible Lebanese dish, remained untouched as we awaited Abouna Jabir's coming.

Five o'clock. We all grew restless. The women buzzed around the kitchen polishing silver, wiping the already spotless surfaces, checking the icebox to make sure nothing had been forgotten. Aunt Catherine called me in to help her carry a heavy dish, or so she said for Zachary's benefit. Instead, she placed before me a plate filled with a delicious assortment of the mezza to be set on the main table as soon as Abouna arrived. I loved Aunt Catherine. She always knew what a boy's heart--and stomach--was yearning for.

The men took out their tambourines and derbakkes, hollow drums covered with smooth lamb skin. To tighten the drums, they held them up to the heat of the electric bulbs hanging bare from the ceiling. Discretely, they pulled flasks of arak from their hip pockets and raised them to their lips. The liquor loosened their tongues and they laughed and joked with one another. Pairing into teams, they faced each other and began to sing in Arabic. Spontaneously, one team after another composed Athebas (pronounced A-teh-beh)--poems set to music.

Zachary, leader of the first team, started by creating a verse that poked fun at Uncle Tunoose's gambling escapades. Zachary's team took up the witty verse and produced a repetitive rhythm that mingled laughter with harmonies and puns.

Without hesitation, Uncle Tunoose fired back a verse that, through double entendres and innuendoes, disparaged Zachary's driving skills. Tunoose's team picked up his quick comeback and drummed out the humorous ditties to the delight of all. The arak now flowed freely. Not even Pop prevented his guests from enjoying a bit of the grape while spinning increasingly raunchy rhymes while waiting for the priest to arrive. Though my Arabic was limited, I too composed an Atheba, about Jabir's rear. But mine could not be sung out loud. Nevertheless, I laughed to myself as I created verse after verse of pun-ishing lyrics casting the priest in the least favorable light I could imagine.

Seven o'clock. Abouna Jabir arrived. He offered no apology for coming late. Mom acted as if he had arrived exactly on time, humbly bowing before him as he entered our modest house. Everyone, from oldest to youngest, gathered in a line in our living room to kiss his hand, welcoming him into our home. I, the youngest, would be last to greet him.

We had waited all day for this man--priest--to share our food, a meal fit for a king. A meal rarely seen in our house. A feast for this priest--man--who over the years had so mistreated Pop. This man, who even today had insulted Mom's gracious hospitality, had not had the decency to appear at the designated time, had denied a houseful of guests from eating the banquet prepared in his honor.

'Pthu-a-shitohn--Devil, I spit on you!' A phrase Pop cried out whenever evil permeated any situation. A cry I wanted to shout now as I tried to hide, to crush my slight frame between the corner wall and the breakfront.

How can I kiss this man's hand? How can I pretend to honor this person who purported to be Christ Himself in our midst, this man I despised for all the contemptuous things he had done to Pop, to the parishioners, and now to Mom?

My brother spied me.

'Khalil,' Zachary said in a tone that conveyed both authority and threat of serious reprisal if I disobeyed, 'Go honor Abouna Jabir for blessing our house with his presence.'

I backed further into the corner, wishing to melt through the wall, but Zachary took me by my collar and dragged me to the end of the line just as Zachary's oldest son--my nephew--Anthony, now a first-year seminarian, kissed Abouna Jabir's hand. I cringed as I was forced to kneel before this fraud of a priest. I glanced up momentarily and saw his smiling face, but his eyes were unloving, unkind.

'Khalil,' my brother hissed.

I forced my lips to dart at Abouna Jabir's opulent ring. Dizzy with shame and bitterness, I fled into the kitchen, out the back door. I hated Abouna Jabir. I hated Zachary for making me buckle under and kiss Abouna Jabir's obese hand. Most of all, I hated myself for not standing up for my beliefs. I threw up in the immaculate snow. I felt as corrupt as the now-defiled snow. Aiyah! Aiyah!

I was freezing, but couldn't go back inside. Who was there who cared about me? Mom slaved to please Zachary. Pop deferred to both Zachary and Abouna Jabir. I was a lost child, a child born too late, born into a world of adults whose lives had been lived before mine had begun. Still a child, I was uncle to a generation of young adults. Not a worthwhile role to play in life.

As I sat freezing on the back porch, I heard Abouna Jabir laughing his cruel laugh, saying good-bye. 'I must eat with Monsieur Mir,' Abouna Jabir said leaving the house. 'He insists. What can I do?' He left without partaking of the food Mom had prepared. Without offering a toast to my family. Without blessing the house. I heard his new Roadster crunch through the snow on Prospect street and head toward the Commons, the wealthy estate section along the Susquehanna River, in reality, only a few miles away, but in essence, a million miles from our poverty-stricken Arab Hill section in the Heights.

I thanked God he had not blessed our house. Pthu-a-shitohn.

I heard the door creak open behind me. I knew it would be Zachary ready to berate me for offending the priest. Since he'd made his peace with Abouna, it was time to chastise me. I wanted to run, to break through the crusted snow and leap over the back fence to escape the inevitable humiliation and sting of his course hand smacked across my face. The heaviness in my heart prevented me from moving. I didn't care. He could hit me as hard as he wanted. It would toughen me up for his next assault.

A bony hand touched my shoulder. I turned to see Pop. He was surrounded by the shimmering glow of the porch lamp. He looked like an angel. He sat beside me on the cold stone step.

'Khalil. You freeze out here. Come. Eat.'

'I can't Pop. I can't face Zachary. I was proud of him when he stood up to Father Jabir. But when he apologized and kissed his hand, I felt he was such a hypocrite. Then, he forced me to bow down too. How can anyone respect a priest who steals from the church and abuses you and Mom and everyone around him. Is that what it means to be a priest?'

'No one asked Abouna where he got the car.' Pop spoke not in his broken English, but the lyrical Arabic of his village. 'He didn't steal from the Christmas collection. Monsieur Mir give it to him as gift for helping his brother come to this country. Abouna did not tell the people at St. Anthony's because Monsieur Mir was embarrassed to have money during this war when others needed so much. Zachary listened to the gossip from the Black Widows. They spread false rumors. Zachary didn't think to ask if it was true. He exploded first. Asked later. Your brother thinks anger, force, is the way to solve problems. He's wrong. He never learned to find God inside himself. You must not make the same mistake. Learn to look for truth below the surface. It's not always easy to know what is truth, what is a lie. Search for truth, Khalil. Ask God to help you. You'll find it then.' His quiet voice hugged me like Mom's arms--soft, gentle, soothing.

We sat together in silence. I was confused, befuddled as Pop's words sank in. First a priest who dishonored God by his opulent life style being defended by his Pop. Then, a brother who seemed to attend church faithfully, but broke most every Commandment outside of church, was being criticized by his Pop--very unusual in any Lebanese family.

'I don't understand, Pop. Zachary always goes to Mass. He knows the Commandments. Why does he act the way he does?'

'He goes church. He receives the host. But he doesn't allow God to come inside him, to touch his heart. You are young. It's easy to hold God in your heart when you're young. When you get older, it's not so easy. Abouna knew that. He answered God's call many years ago. He tried be a good priest. He is responsible for many souls. That's a hard job, Khalil. It's not easy to hold such a big responsibility. He does his duty the best he can. But he's human, just like you. Just like me. I do what I can to help him. Is not my place to judge Zachary or Abouna. It's my duty to love and serve God, and love God in them--in everyone--no matter what they do.'

'You take care of people better than he does. You should have been a priest, Pop.'

Pop smiled and shook his head. 'When I was young, I wanted to be a priest. I even went to the monastery for a year. When I returned from my first year of studies, I saw your Mom, not as the girl I had left, but as the young woman she had become. I loved God above all, but loved your Mom too. I prayed for many months, not wanting to admit my love for her, but being consumed by it. Each time I asked God what to do, He answered: 'Fill your heart with love and you love Me.' God is so kind, so good to me. He blessed our marriage; sent us many children. Even sent me a beautiful son in my old age. Such a blessing. A blessing! You're a fine boy, Khalil. You make no trouble. Study hard. Work hard. Sing like an angel. But you must also love God above all else. Let His love consume you. Then you will be truly blessed.' Pop took my face in both his hands and kissed my forehead. 'You're a good son. I'm proud you're my son I love you. Ya, Allah dakhleek.

'Come. We'll eat. Tonight you'll sit next to me. Take your place at the table as my son.'

The violet gentle radiance surrounding his body seemed more intense than before, almost blinding. Could it have been caused by the mist that welled in my eyes? I didn't know then, nor now, years later. What I did know was I had left behind me the foolishness of the child who accepted rumors as truth. From that moment on, I pushed below the surface of murky water until I could filter out a crystal clear vision. It was a passage for me--one of many I would have over the next few years--that led me along the path from childhood, through adolescence, to manhood.

Brushing the tears from my eyes, I followed Pop into the kitchen. That was the longest and most intimate conversation Pop and I ever had. Though I had longed to ask him more, I basked in the warmth of those few moments. Only a few short days before, I had been ashamed of Pop because he served Abouna without question. Now, a lifetime later, I was ashamed of myself. I was not worthy to sit at the same table with this holy man. I wanted to hide my unworthy face from the family and friends gathered to celebrate the New Year. But Pop put his arm around me and led me to the place of honor next to him at the head of the table.

Pop began the chant and everyone joined in:

Arrubu yuhyina

Arrubu yafdina

Arrubu yo'tina

Kulla ma nasal.

Let us glorify Him

With our thanks and praise

Let us bless the Lord

Through the eternal days.

Head bowed, I stood closer to Pop to feel the warmth of his love as he blessed our house. Blessed our feast. I wanted to be like him, a saint, a true Christ figure.

'Eat. Eat,' Pop urged his guests as the women loaded the table, first with the mezza, then the main courses. Arak flowed freely. Song and laughter filled the tiny house. Where all this abundance had come from, mystified me.

No longer seeing life through the eyes of a child, I raised a glass of milky Arak to toast the New Year. Imitating the rest of the men, I took a gulp. I didn't even wince as the abrasive alcohol singed my throat, accepting the burning as part of my initiation into manhood. Though still confused about Pop's duties and responsibilities to God, the Church, and Abouna Jabir, in particular, I was proud to sit at the right hand of my father, proud to be his son.

Ya, Allah dakhleek.