Love and Dolly Shots

Our Lady of Lebanon

Previously:

Joseph drove us into an unexplored part of Beirut with a distinct atmosphere. The Muslim call to prayer echoed through the streets, reminding me of Morocco. As we delved deeper, the call to prayer faded, revealing children begging on the highway, dividing the Christian and Muslim sides of the city. Joseph called this "The Seam Line." We reached a roundabout with willow trees and a UN banner. Joseph parked and said, "Welcome to Mar Elias." He explained its history as we navigated narrow corridors. Yasser Arafat's stencils unsettled me. Children ran towards me, eager to meet The Questioneers. Joseph’s translations put me at ease, and I felt a deep connection with the kids. A little girl gave me a bracelet, and the kids shouted, "Thank you, April, for coming." As night fell and the Beirut skyline appeared, Joseph’s phone rang three times. He looked at me with concern and started speeding down the highway.

We arrived back at the camp, Joseph was absolutely silent the whole way. His quiet demeanor was so unlike him, that a sense of foreboding settled over me. Something was clearly wrong, but he wasn’t sharing, and I knew better than to push. 

When he dropped me off, he simply said, "I’ll see you in the morning," I was exhausted, the weight of the day pressing heavily on me, and I collapsed onto the small bed that had become surprisingly comfortable over the last week. The narrowness of the camp meant I could hear everything—his car turning around and speeding off into the night, a sound that lingered as I drifted into an uneasy sleep. 

The next morning, I woke to the sound of Joseph's car returning. I hadn't heard him come back the previous night, which had added to my growing worry. I had slept with one ear open, waiting to hear the familiar engine of his Jimmy. As he approached, I noticed an unusual solemnity in his eyes.

"I need to go up to Harissa," he said, his voice lacking the warmth I was used to. "Do you want to come with me, or would you rather stay here? I’ll probably be gone for most of the day."

Of course, I wanted to come and see Harissa, but more importantly, I wanted to stay close to him. I was concerned. "I’ll come with you," I replied, hoping my presence might offer some support.

His quietness was unsettling. This was a man whose presence usually filled any space with energy and light, now reduced to a dark shadow of himself. I wanted to ask what had happened, but something told me to wait, to give him the space he needed. 

As we drove through the twisting roads leading up to Harissa, the scenic beauty did actually calm my nerves. The stunning vistas of the Mediterranean below contrasted sharply with the tension that filled the car. Joseph’s silence was heavy, each passing minute amplifying the mystery of his mood. 

We finally reached Harissa, the imposing statue of Our Lady of Lebanon towering above us, offering a silent vigil over the country. Joseph parked the car and turned to me, his eyes finally meeting mine with a depth that took my breath away. 

"Something happened last night," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I need a little time to process it, and this is the place I like to do that."

I thought about where I go when things get tough—usually the woods by the ocean. La Push was my favorite spot, even before the Twilight movie phenomenon overtook the reservation and made it a crazy destination. It was where I went to clear my head.

I nodded, my heart thumping. We got out of the car and began to walk toward Harissa. The statue towered overhead, surrounded by cedars and old-growth trees. The floor was a pristine travertine stone that hushed your footsteps as you approached. Immediately, I was struck by the calm and peace that washed over me, like being cleansed by the ocean's waves, enveloped in the healing wisdom of salt and sea.

I turned toward Joseph to look at his face, and his whole demeanor had changed, almost like a shapeshifter. He seemed to be at ease, as if the silent mystery of the previous night had never happened.

I looked at him and whispered, "Wow," shaking my head in disbelief. I never wanted to leave this place, ever.

There were about 20 or so people walking around the base of Harissa’s feet, in quiet meditation and prayer. Joseph looked at me, and whispered, do you want to walk up to the top?
"Of course," I replied, my voice a little too eager and high pitched. A few passersby glanced over at me, and I smiled apologetically. This often happens to me in places of worship or where quiet is required—my joy overtakes me, and I forget where I am for a moment, becoming quite loud.

I did the same thing at one of my best friend's weddings. It was on top of a beautiful peak in Ojai called Meditation Mount, a spot I frequented often, so I knew the rules of conduct well. I was thrilled that my friend was getting married there. When I arrived, I cried out, "Today is the day! Look at this beautiful place!" as I bonged the prayer bell a little too loudly and a little too hard.

Joseph and I began to walk up the winding staircase that wrapped around Harissa like the seam of a beautifully crafted robe. The marble steps, worn smooth as a baby’s skin, bore the marks of countless hands and feet that had caressed and trodden them over the years. Each step held the history of pilgrims and visitors, their devotion etched into the stone.

As we ascended, the Mediterranean and Beirut stretched out beneath us, flickering like a distant daydream from an old songbook of lullabies from Aladdin’s lamp. The sea shimmered in the sunlight, and the city, with its mix of ancient and modern architecture, seemed to breathe with life. The view was mesmerizing, a perfect blend of blue sea and shining metal.

We reached the top, and I held my breath. The sight before me was breathtaking. Harissa, towering and majestic, her fingers seemed to touch the sky like Michelangelo's Hand of God. Only this was a her, reaching toward the heavens over the Fertile Crescent. Her presence was both commanding and serene. The air was filled with a profound sense of hushness.

I stood there for what seemed like hours, taking it all in. The world below felt distant, almost unreal, as if I had stepped into a different realm. The city's sounds faded, replaced by the soft rustle of the wind and the gentle murmur of prayers. The scent of cedar, incense, and the salty tang of the sea grounded me in the moment. Beside me, Joseph was silent, his earlier tension replaced by zen. It felt as if the worries of the world had melted away, leaving only the pure essence of this sacred place. I felt a deep connection to everything around me—the earth beneath my feet, the sky above, and the history that had shaped this land.

In that moment, standing at the top of Harissa, I felt a sense of belonging and peace that I had never experienced before. It was a feeling that would stay with me, a reminder of the beauty and serenity that could be found even in the midst of life’s chaos.
At that moment, I couldn't yet grasp what Harissa would come to mean to me. Her robe, her stairs, her presence—sheltering me halfway around the world from my known home. To find such a mothering presence of acceptance and kindness in a statue was profound. But she was more than that. It was the people, the faith, the life that unfolded beneath her feet, and perhaps a bit of spiritual magic, that infused her stone with so much power.

I knew I would do anything in the years to come to reach Harissa again. It quickly became one of my favorite places in the world. She would hear my silent cries of loss and my battles for my dreams.

I sought solace in Harissa during the most challenging times: losing our company after six years of hard work for a pittance, living in a haunted house, and questioning our career choices. After losing four babies to miscarriages, COVID leaving us jobless and without direction, not being able to visit Joseph’s family after nearly 12 years, my grandma passing away while I was in Lebanon during my first round of IVF, Joseph’s brother getting married, losing close friends to death. 

Joseph’s dad even drove like a madman, siphoning gas and taking back roads to avoid protests, just so we could sit with Harissa and soak in her calmness. The statue stood as a silent witness to my joys, sorrows, and prayers, becoming my refuge and constant in an ever-changing, unpredictable world.

I then heard someone say, "You must be the American."

I turned around and smiled quizzically. It was some of Joseph’s friends, which wasn't surprising given how beloved Harissa is. Instead of the Statue of Liberty, the Eiffel Tower, or the Taj Mahal, people from all over the world come here to experience her beauty and catch a ray of peace.

They were super friendly, and we chit-chatted for a bit. Like I said, I never wanted to leave Harissa, especially standing at the top. Night had already descended upon us, and I couldn’t believe how time had flown by. Despite being so high in the mountains, I wasn’t feeling the cold. It was as if the December chill didn't matter. The warmth that enveloped me felt like being wrapped in a cocoon of warm sheets in the heart of winter.

Rony asked if I knew why Harissa was so important to the Lebanese people. I said no.

He began to tell me that she wasn’t always facing this way. During the first civil war, people prayed so hard for help that she actually turned directions.

"No way! How?" I asked, incredulous.

"Well," he said, "they just woke up one day, and she was facing towards the Mediterranean."

"So she wasn’t built like this? How was she built?" I pressed.

"She was built back in 1907 funded by some mysterious lady from France, and she was constructed in stages, originally facing toward the mountains, away from the sea," Rony explained, pointing in the direction she had originally faced.

Normally, I would never have believed something so impossible. It sounded like, well, a miracle. But this place was different, magical even. I half-expected Gandalf to appear near one of the cedar trees with his staff. So yeah, I believed.

Joseph said he wanted to make a small offering and light a prayer candle in the church. He asked if I wanted to do the same and maybe grab a souvenir bracelet for some family from the gift shop.

"Yes, I would like that!" I replied.

We descended the stairs, and I noticed all the locks at the top, which I had missed on the way in. They symbolized a romantic gesture, to keep all the broken hearts protected while they healed.

Upon entering the gift shop, I was immediately struck by the variety of items on display. There were little stone Harissas, bracelets, large Harissa altars like the one Joseph’s family had in the camp, candles, wine (from a vineyard that claimed to have been making wine since Jesus’s time), prayer beads, rosaries, and flowers. It was a treasure trove of chotchkies. 

I wandered around, feeling a bit dazzled by the choices. I finally settled on some string bracelets that reminded me of the friendship bracelets I used to make and wear in grade school. I also browsed near the books (which I obviously couldn't read) and postcards. Then, I saw a DVD about the history of Harissa. "Oh cool," I thought. "This will be great."

At the checkout stand, Joseph laughed when he saw what I was buying.

“What’s so funny? I like these bracelets; they will be perfect for my goddaughter and my cousins!”

“No, I’m laughing about the DVD. You can put it back. I have a few at my house. You can just have one.”

“You do?” I asked, confused.

“Yeah, I shot and edited it.”

“You did?!”

Rony chuckled. “You should tell her about the filming incident.”

Joseph grinned. “I will, just not here.”

“Let’s go get some food at the Cliff House,” suggested Rony.

I realized I was famished. “Yes!” I replied eagerly.

We made our exit out of the gift shop, and I couldn’t help but giggle to myself. I had come all this way and ended up buying something Joseph had made. The thought of him filming and editing the only filmed history of Harissa added another layer to his fascinating persona.

As we drove down the winding roads with no barriers toward the Cliff House, the lights of Harissa twinkled behind us like distant stars. The promise of good food and more stories filled me with a sense of contentment and anticipation.

Joseph began to tell me about the filming. “It was an interesting project,” he said, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. “You wouldn’t believe the number of times we had to stop and start because of all the people coming for blessings or healing from Harissa.”

“Really?” I asked. “So people come from all over to get healed? Like that place in France—I can’t remember the name—where they see the Virgin Mary.”

“Oh yeah,” he nodded. “They come from all over, and many do get healed. You're thinking of Lourdes in France. It’s very similar. I mean, didn’t you see the Virgin Mary’s tears when I took you into the chapel? That’s wood. There’s no way her eyes could really be crying, but they do. And I’m telling you, because I filmed there, there’s no trick or gimmick. It’s real.”

The road twisted and turned, and luckily, I don't get car sick. The night air carried the scent of cedar and the sea.

Suddenly, Joseph pulled into a place perched right off the cliff. If you didn’t know this road by heart, you would have sailed right past it, only to have to turn around at the bottom and come back up. The whole drive up to Harissa took about 45 minutes. 

The cliff house reminded me of the Case Study House off Laurel Canyon, seeming to float in the air. But this was a restaurant. I wondered where they made the food, as it seemed to have just enough space for a few tables, chairs, and a fireplace in the middle, which was very inviting and warm. The place smelled fantastic, and I felt like I was hovering above Beirut on the Goodyear blimp as we looked out over the people and city below.

Joseph looked at me and asked, “What do you feel like eating?”

“I don’t care, order whatever. It all smells so good,” I replied.

As we began to sip our wine and nibble on some nuts and olives, Rony asked, “Did you tell her about filming up there?”

I turned to Joseph, intrigued. “So what happened when you were up there?”

Joseph smiled, sensing my patience. “Well, first, it took me forever to land the gig. Then, when I finally started filming on the roof of the church, I didn’t have much to work with. It was one of my first big jobs, and I was borrowing my uncle’s camera equipment.”

His uncle, a war correspondent, had a significant influence on Joseph’s life, steering him toward his career. He had taken Joseph under his wing, handing him a camera and teaching him to film when he was very young.

Joseph’s stories flowed like an old, cherished melody, filling the surprisingly empty restaurant with warmth and laughter. The cliff house, though small, was inviting with its cozy fireplace in the middle. The smell of grilled meats, fresh herbs, and spices filled the air, making my mouth water. Plates of mezze began to arrive—hummus, baba ghanoush, tabbouleh, and freshly baked bread.

As I savored each bite, Joseph continued his tale. "Filming on that roof was challenging. The wind was strong, and I had to be careful not to damage the borrowed equipment. But it was also exhilarating, capturing the beauty of Harissa from such a unique perspective."

I could imagine a younger Joseph, determined and passionate, battling the elements to create something special.

“I also really wanted to get this dolly shot of the church entrance,” he said, chuckling. “But I obviously didn’t have a dolly. Then I spotted a wheelchair near the entrance. So, I grabbed it and had my assistant push me around, up and down, to get the shot I wanted."

He paused, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I finally got the shot and handed the camera to my assistant. I was sitting in the wheelchair in front of the church, empty-handed, lost in thought about my next shot. When I got up from the wheelchair and started to walk away, I heard cheering, screams of hallelujahs, and gasps. Men and women were making the sign of the cross, praying, and looking at me with sheer shock and awe. I didn’t realize what was happening at first. Then it hit me—they thought I got healed. I had forgotten I was rolling around in the wheelchair!"

I laughed so hard I sprayed my wine across the table. "What did you do?!"

“I went with it, I just waved with a big smile and calmly walked away.” Joseph replied with a big grin.

The evening was filled with good food, great wine, and stories that made me feel like I had been part of this journey all along. The city lights of Beirut twinkled below, adding a magical backdrop to another night I would never forget. Rony said that he had to leave and left Joseph and I alone. I looked at Joseph only to find him looking deep into my eyes.

“Thank you for an amazing day.” I said quietly. 

“The day was amazing, especially because I was able to share Harissa with you.” He replied.

He grabbed his wine glass and raised it saying: “Here’s to you American, Ibn Battuta got nothing on you.”
“Ibn who?” I questioned.

“Ibn Battuta obviously” He answered while laughing “You need to look him up.”

The wine was ever sweet and our eyes were twinkling in joy and peace. Then I stopped for a moment and asked him: “So, are you gonna tell me where you went last night?”