Sing for Me One More Time

By Adele Mourad

Heartfelt, brave and true this is a stirring love story of a good and humble man of the Middle East who meets the love of his life during an era of unromantic love. Follow their spiritual journey and learn from their experiences. This is a pleasurable read for those who wish to travel to a time and place of interest and charm. Visit the people of Lebanon in the 1940s and experience their food, dress, geography, culture and politics through the eyes of an exemplary couple.
Theresa Rosenthal

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496938145

Adele Mourad

In ‘ Sing For Me One More Time’, Adele G. Mourad opens up for us the lives of two lovers that lived in the early part of the past century in the ancient Mediterranean country of Lebanon. Ms. Mourad who was born and raised in Beirut, Lebanon was exposed to the life of the novel’s main characters, and to the regions where the story took place, which gives the content of the book its delightful authentic flavor. Ms. Mourad moved into the United States towards the beginning of the civil war to start her collegiate studies. She graduated in Political Sciences from the University of Akron, Ohio and pursued a career in sales and marketing/consulting in the United states. Her services extend beyond sales to motivational and inspiring workshops for today’s workforce. Adele G. Mourad is also the author of Echo Of Humanity. A book of thought-provoking themes that discuss our spiritual journey in a complex and evolving life. [e-mail]

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© 2015 Adele Mourad. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/13/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3815-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3816-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3814-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014916002

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Introduction:    Beyond The Joy Of Reading

1    Memories

2    A Simply Interesting Child

3    The Childhood

4    Irice

5    The Pursuit Of Irice

6    Inside The Seminary

7    The Character Formation

8    Theresa

9    Encounter On New Year’s Eve

10    Farewell Entanios

11    Between Beirut And The Bekaa

12    Uncertainties

13    A Serendipitous Encounter

14    The Second Engagement

15    Reflections

16    Almaas

17    Distances From One Another

18    Bell Toll And Choir Chants

19    The Tough Years

20    The Worries

21    Tripoli

Afterword:    The Soul Knows Its Way Home

About The Book

INTRODUCTION

Beyond the Joy of Reading

T he story is about the Lieutenant and his lovely Irice. Being privy to their story has been the highlight of my life. They have touched me and the lives of many others in amazing ways.

The main subject of the story, is a romance which took place in Beirut, it is the crux of the entire novel. The charm and elation of romance define the relationship of two lovers from beginning to end. The book intends to help the reader view this classic love story unfold in a setting essentially derived from true events. It is a novel of suspense and a story that derives its distinct character from the authentic portrayal of the era in which the events unfolded.

T he journey of Irice and the Lieutenant does not end with this book. It invites us to take time to reflect, to dig deep into our soul, to rethink and search for the meaning of our lives in an evolving world. You are about to go on a journey full of choices and consequences, a journey full of fairness and injustices, a journey full of quests, ambitions, faith and doubts, love and greed, a journey full of romance, passion and controversies, a journey that can be characterized as engaging and heart-throbbing. The story shows how different convictions can lead us to make different choices. This is the story of Irice and the Lieutenant, walk with them to touch their secret, to discover the elucidation of love, and to examine the true characteristics of romance. This is the journey of true passion.

CHAPTER ONE

MEMORIES

W ith every dusk, and with every sunrise and sundown, the magic of the Mediterranean revisited the mind of Irice though only for a short moment. The beloved spectacle of the sea over which she and the Lieutenant often mused was no longer within their reach. For now they reside a thousand miles away from their beloved Mediterranean. In the mainland of Northern America where snow falls five months of the year and where towns and cities are tucked seven and eight hours away from the nearest sea coast, they have settled nearby their children. Something special was happening tonight. Something was being celebrated, a golden jubilee perhaps. It is indeed a wedding anniversary. It was Irice and the Lieutenant’s fiftieth. Four grown-up children, one daughter-in-law and one guest, Hannan, Irice’s cousin, lingered around the dinner table for most of the night, after an elaborately cooked meal that was served in the spirit of the lovely occasion. Shortly after dinner the Lieutenant, took a walk towards the other end of the room, where Irice had placed her china cabinet that housed her special valuables from the homeland. He was walking slowly though his steps were measured as they have always been, the steps of a lifetime officer, his walk was heavy and decelerated by the effect of the years. Right next to the cabinet was the Lieutenant's old desk. He took a small miniature key from his pocket and unlocked the third drawer on the left and pulled what appeared to be a jewelry box and handed it to Irice. An anniversary gift, a set of twenty-four karat gold bracelets shimmered inside the ornate box an exact replica of what Irice had parted with decades ago. Legally blind, the Lieutenant asked Irice how they looked. He kept seeking confirmation from her as to whether they looked exactly like the ones he had given to her the night before their wedding. Yes, cherie (French word for darling) they do, motioned Irice. Finally the Lieutenant had replaced the last jewelry set of Irice’s collection. Finally he relieved himself of that burden. To interpret in words Irice’s emotions upon seeing the bracelets, would be a writer’s most formidable challenge. How could one express fifty years of true and classical love, fifty years of unwavering commitment and fifty good years of undying romance in any language? How can anyone describe a couple’s survival of fifty years of marriage? It was not the bracelets, nor the gold, nor the intricate hand carved work on each bracelet, it was the gesture of love, the Lieutenant’s rejuvenating touch that touched Irice. It was the Lieutenant’s unique and distinctive way of pronouncing his feelings for her. Irice was touched tonight. With all its testy and shocking surprises, with all the hardships and the doubts, with all the pain and the controversies that nearly devastated them, with all of this, life’s testiness indeed shook them but did not destroy them. What was it that made them triumph against the threats of time? Most say, the traditions of the past keep couples together. This however, is an untraditional couple. This is a couple that walked the journey of love through a modern and evolving path. To unravel their secret is a formidable challenge, for the reader. The Lieutenant excused himself to the bedroom for a nap, where instead of napping he closed his eyes and let his mind travel along the deep sea of memories, the memories of Tanios. There had not been any celebrated anniversary that did not ignite the memory of Tanios in the mind of the Lieutenant for many of their wedding anniversaries were celebrated with his parents-in-law. But one celebration stuck in his mind. One dinner that the Lieutenant could never forget was when his flamboyant father-in-law, stood-up, raised his glass and saluted his son-in-law, my grandchildren, will inherit from you and Irice treasures that no one could ever steal, take away, sell or boycott. They will be loved and envied for it. But that is ok for it is a small price to pay for virtue. Forever to your health. A few months later, Tanios died and with him a piece of Irice’s heart was gone. It was Tanios’ last anniversary dinner with them. Tonight as always with fondness in his heart, the Lieutenant remembered this dinner. Tonight however, he could not nap. He could not sleep even for just a few minutes. Tonight something had triggered the memories and took them beyond Tanios and beyond the anniversaries. The Lieutenant sunk into deep remembrances of the past. He closed his eyes and listened to the music.

N othing brings you closer to God than music. Music has that effect. It facilitates reflecting and engages the heart. So the young Lieutenant felt upon hearing the Ya Oum Allah (Lebanese for Oh Mother of God, an aria of equivalence to the Ave Maria) fifty-five years ago, while attending Sunday mass with his friends Cannon, Mia and their children. As usual, the Thomas’ preferred their seats in the front pews. The Lieutenant, on the other hand, favored seats in the back and reserved places for his friends right next to him.

Why not the front, Lieutenant, Mia complained.

I’ve never been inclined to sit where high officials and people of fame yearn to position themselves. Back or front, God will hear the prayer of his humble servants, this had always been the Lieutenant’s humorous rebuttal to Mia’s reproaches. Mia would smile and then shake her head. The church was in complete silence when the soloist started her preparatory chant, a chant that made the Lieutenant along with over half of the church instinctually look up toward the balcony searching for the lady with that distinct voice. It must have been a new soloist. Her rendition made noise! Murmurs and whispers were heard about how delightful her voice was, how especially angelic it sounded. Warm and soulful, thought the Lieutenant, as he was definitely stirred in an unprecedented way. Though he was not blessed with a singing voice, he had a profound love for music and had appreciated its immense effect on the soul. How many times had the Lieutenant been suffused by the effect of the ‘Oh Mother of God’? How often had he heard it and plunged into prayers and reflections? But today, it was different. There was an unusual feeling upon hearing the soloist’s high pitched aria. It was like an awakening of softness and strength that touched the soul of the listener. What a voice! He exclaimed to himself. What an effect, he thought. Yes, the aria of today had its special effect on the mind of the Lieutenant. It touched him. It shook him, it lifted his soul up to a new type of reflection, a heavenly reflection. It actually hoisted him into another world, a whole world of divinity beyond the church and even the soloist. He found himself back into a world he had left years ago, the awesome world of the monastery. Today, monastic jitters and seminarian thoughts were awakened after they had been dormant for years. A soloist's heavenly voice, a choir’s cherubic hymns, and a soulful musical accompaniment had taken the Lieutenant back in years to the melodic chanting of the monks that for all of his youthful years had relentlessly excited his passion for God. As soon as the priest gave his solemn blessing marking the end of mass the Lieutenant looked relentlessly for the soloist wanting to get a glance of her, just wanting to see what the lady behind the voice looked like.

Do you know anything about the soloist today? the Lieutenant asked his friend sitting beside him. Cannon (Mia’s husband) with pride glowing in his eyes said, that was Mia’s niece. Come let me introduce you before she leaves with her parents.

I t was the month of May which for Catholics is the month dedicated to the Blessed Mother of God, and the Maronites of Lebanon called it the Month of Roses. ( The Maronites are members of a Christian sect that originated by St. Maroun, a 4th century Syrian Monk whose followers fled into Lebanon where their beliefs gained wide acceptance amongst a great number of the Lebanese people. The Maronite Church is in communion with the Roman Catholic Church. Today the Maronite sect is spread over many nations worldwide.) This Sunday was a Marian celebration of the May Crowning. And in the spirit of such an occasion, the interior of the church was ladened with freshly stocked bouquets of blooming roses starting from the edges of the pews all the way to the statue of the Virgin Mary, positioned adjacent to the side of the altar. Heaps of roses, some in full bloom and others just in buds, adorned the exterior of the church, bushes of all incandescent colors emblazoned the entrance, lining up the staircases and decorating the rest of the building down to the main street. Cannon’s pregnant wife Mia, stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted while squinting from the dazzling sun of May: Lieutenant, Lieutenant, my brother had to get back home quickly on business. You missed them by a few seconds. We are expecting you for lunch, you will love what I have prepared, she said, then searched again for the Lieutenant and repeated, we’ll see you shortly, yes?

Yes, of course. Mia. Thank you, said the Lieutenant while courteously hastening his Sunday greetings to colleagues and friends so he would not be late for Mia’s lunch.

A s always the Thomas’ table exhibited an abundant display of home-cooked food tastefully prepared by Mia whose talent for cooking equaled her style for hospitality. A fine hand embroidered tablecloth laid on an overpowering walnut-wood dining room table that elegantly stretched all the way from one end of the room to the other, almost reaching the room entrance. But they were all right with that. Guests must be seated, esthetics come next. In the kitchen adjacent to the dining-room, there was a small round table with five seats where the Thomas’ children sat when they had company. On the dining room table laid an assortment of appetizers accompanied by Lebanon’s most popular alcoholic beverage; Arak. (Arak is an alcoholic beverage with a sweet aniseed flavor, popular in the Levant. Clear and transparent in color as water, but when diluted with water, as it should be done before serving, Arak automatically changes into a milky color.) The Thomas’ dining room was adorned with a large framed oil painting of the Last Supper. Though almost every Lebanese Christian household boasted a painting, picture or a replica of the Last Supper, the Thomas’ picture by far was the largest.

Eat Lieutenant, said Mia in her natural and sincere way, I have prepared this specially for you. We like to believe that we are your family here in the city.

The Lieutenant ate thankfully and openly asked her: Does your niece visit often?

You mean Irice? She visits on occasion. She travels all the way from the Bekaa, our home you know. (The Bekaa is a great fertile land in Lebanon, located about 20 miles east of Beirut, the capital city.) I must warn you Lieutenant, she is my brother’s only child and our little princess. We all spoil her.

A beauty, added Cannon proudly.

She just turned eighteen, said Mia to the Lieutenant, and my brother though very protective of her, has begun to allow her into the city. She enjoys shopping for new fashion and our city is full of the latest imports.

On this note, Mia ended her conversation about her niece and the Lieutenant went home wondering how this young Irice looked?

I t was not long before the Lieutenant heard the aria of Ya Oum Allah once more in his home town this time, sung by the village’s choir soloist. Up North, on a midsummer weekend, the Lieutenant stood Godfather to his childhood friend’s baby girl. It did not take long for his memory to quickly snap back to Mia’s niece and her own rendition of the aria and then quickly revert to the baptismal mass prodded by the screams of the four-month old baby whose voice almost overpowered the voice of the priests, the cantors, the soloist, the deacons and the entire choir. Up North was home for the Lieutenant and home meant a reunion with his childhood. The North meant comfort and beauty, relaxation, and quality time with his parents, something he missed growing up. Home however, also meant, a torrent of innocent harassment and playful pressure innocently brought about by the good will of the town’s people who were trying to match him up with the village’s single ladies. Being the most eligible bachelor in his hometown, he was invariably showered with a long list of names of all ages and backgrounds. To this the Lieutenant would kindly smile and amicably say: We’ll see. Thus after mass, when guests gathered for the celebration, the Lieutenant was once again prodded by good willers for an introduction by none other than the notorious Aunt Fay who was seated right next to her sister (the Lieutenant’s mother) she raised her glass and saluted the Godfather, then leaned closely towards him and whispered:

Son, I want you to meet somebody. Aunt Fay, it is not the appropriate time. Maybe next time I am home?

This is the appropriate time my dear nephew, insisted his aunt.

Before the Lieutenant had a chance to say anything, she turned around and called: Maha, come here honey, I want you to meet my nephew.

A tall, slender and graceful Maha got up from the other table and walked toward Fay. Straight jet black hair, thick, shiny and very long down to below her waist, parted on the side, her hair alone gave her a character and distinction. Round skinny face, large and prominent sable black eyes positioned below a well defined and noticeable set of eye brows, with a thin, painter’s brush nose and a tiny mouth beneath it, Maha was a classical Northern beauty, when she got up, the eyes of many young men followed her with great interest. She walked toward Fay and smiled instantly at the Lieutenant as she shook his hand. He quickly got up and pulled a chair for her next to Aunt Fay.

Are you from our town Maha, I have never seen you before?

Yes, I am. I teach full time in the neighboring village, but I do commute every day. My father was assistant Mayor for a while.

Yes, of course now I know who you are.

You know, said Fay, my nephew gave a few lectures at the very same school where you teach now.

Oh really. How come I never saw you there?

It was long before you started your teaching career, said the Lieutenant giving Aunt Fay a reproachful look for always saying too much. His lecturing days he preferred to keep to himself.

Oh what year were you there Lieutenant? asked Maha.

I lectured in a few schools. It is hard to remember. It has been a while, he courteously said.

My nephew was a friar when he lectured! Once again Aunt Fay over-talked.

T hey both took a walk around the ranch house of the Lieutenant’s friend. A fine country home artfully surrounded by vegetable and fruit gardens but not by the customary flower planters that typically surround most village cottages.

So from the ascetic life of a priest to the worldly life of a commander, said Maha playfully. As if the Lieutenant deliberately ignored her playful statement, he showed minimum reaction to her comment. While looking at the fruit blooming orchards stretching beneath the elevated house, he asked her:

Where did you finish your studies?

At the parochial school where I teach now, she answered.

Did you see any fellow countrywomen while there?

Of course not. I was the only one who was able to attend. I met the criteria of high grades and financial aptitude. She spoke proudly and quickly generating no further comments from the Lieutenant. He was thinking while walking with her. He knew her family very well but did not know Maha. Maha’s father was a farmer who owned a large piece of land and then was forced to sell it to one feudal lord after his sons got in trouble with the law a few years back. They had made illegal money some of which went for their trial and some went to educate their only sister. Their father paid for their freedom dearly. The Lieutenant had known this, because her father had sought his help when the incident took place. Pretty, moderately educated, a little unfashionably friendly and a little too proud, Maha was considered an eligible single lady who had gladly given the cold shoulder to many potential suitors for simply believing that she was better than them and that they all were simply beneath her. But for the Lieutenant she presented a friendly demeanor. He was the type of suitor she was looking for.

T he following week, the Lieutenant received a telegram from Cannon carrying the happy news of the birth of his baby girl: ‘We have a baby girl. On my way to the hospital to see Mia.’ The Lieutenant read the telegram and immediately contacted Cannon.

Congratulations my friend, said the Lieutenant while shaking Cannon’s hand. How are mother and child? Well, quite well, answered Cannon.

I am leaving this afternoon on duty for one month. I shall see you all when I come back. Please wish Mia my very best.

It was midday when the floor nurse walked into Mia’s hospital room carrying with both hands a cluster of freshly picked bananas, followed by a young grocer boy carrying an ornate wooden box loaded with packs of seasonal fruit. He placed the bulky box on the table across from Mia. These are from the Lieutenant, madam, the boy said politely and left. Yes, that is the Lieutenant’s touch, Mia mumbled smiling. It was the Lieutenant sending his best wishes, regretting that he couldn’t see Mia and the baby. A month later, he had another box of assorted fresh fruit delivered to the Thomas’ and shortly after, he showed up at Mia’s doorsteps struggling with a few candy boxes while trying to ring the door bell. Saved by Melina, one of the Thomas’ daughters, who happened to be playing outside, she helped him through the door with cheers, hugs and kisses. The Thomas’ little girls adored the Lieutenant and instantly gathered around him. Melina the oldest, level headed, sweet and quiet, was the Lieutenant’s beloved pupil. He tutored her in mathematics and other sciences. Sylvia on the other hand, was one year younger, feisty, goodhearted and extremely talkative, she entertained the Lieutenant with her excessive chattiness and good humor. Playfully he told them to quickly take the candy and hide it before their parents saw it. The girls burst into laughter, carried their younger brother in and called their parents. While Mia and Cannon appreciated the Lieutenant’s unique expressions of social courtesies, they were both always especially reproachful of his tendency to stretch the customs of gift giving over the limit. A friendly fight always ensued as it did today. But this time it was different! It was a congratulatory visit, the Lieutenant kept insisting.

Lieutenant, you’ve done it again, said Mia. You of all people who dislikes excess are doing exactly the opposite. Where is the moderation you always advocate? Said Mia seriously upset.

Moderation is always the enemy of those who advocate it, said the Lieutenant smiling then he asked, where is the baby, do I get to see her?

Yes, of course. I just put her to sleep. She should wake up shortly. You will stay for dinner.

No thank you I honestly cannot. I will be leaving in a few minutes. I need to catch up with a load of paper work.

You will stay for dinner! insisted Cannon and Mia. The Lieutenant smiled and asked Mia what did she name the baby?

Hannan, she answered.

"A name with an empowering meaning. Lovely!" exclaimed the Lieutenant. In fact the name Hannan carries the meaning of a quality that the Lieutenant respected; warmheartedness.

A mouthwatering aroma flowed throughout the house all the way to the outside patio where both men had just retreated for a cigarette break. It was Mia’s cooking!

Your planters, exclaimed the Lieutenant smiling, are always in full bloom! Does Mia feed them her cooking? They are lovely. He said humorously while still gazing at the blooming planters until the soft voice of Mia’s oldest daughter gently startled him.

Here she comes Lieutenant, said Melina, I would like you to meet our cousin Irice.

As he turned around to shake her hand, the Lieutenant was struck by an Irice who looked every bit as stunning as her voice sounded in the church four months before.

They shook hands and in his firm handshake she automatically felt confidence and strength. Not the least intimidated by her as many men usually were in her presence, he paid exclusive attention to her and she seemed undisturbed by it. Nevertheless, Irice was well accustomed to attention, but as it came from the Lieutenant, it did not annoy her as it usually did when it came from other men. Irice observed from the corner of her eye the Lieutenant’s interested gaze.

Irice, said Cannon, we were not expecting you until tomorrow morning. Who dropped you off?

Marie and Chakeeb.

I need to run after them, I want them to stay for dinner.

They’re still here. Chakeeb needed to drive tonight to Beirut for his meeting tomorrow morning. His plans have changed. So I am a day early.

That is even better, we will gain one extra day with you, Irice, said Cannon thrilled.

While Cannon was welcoming the Owens, the Lieutenant's piercing eyes did not leave Irice for a single instant. He was following her moves to and from the kitchen, while holding the baby, to and from the family room, from the dining room while carrying the dishes and back to the kitchen. He was affixed on her. ‘So this is Irice,’ he quietly thought, ‘a wait worth the while,’ he reflected quietly. Without any doubt Irice had noticed the Lieutenant eyeing her at Cannon’s house. What were her thoughts of him? Simply interesting, she exclaimed, in a causal conversation with her Aunt with no further comments.

CHAPTER TWO

A SIMPLY INTERESTING CHILD

L ighthearted and jolly the little boy started his walk while the words of his mother resonated, be aware of strangers. Don't wander off and get distracted. I know how curious you are about learning new things. Believe me this walk is not for knowledge. Go and have fun but be safe for me. You hear me? You follow the road your father and I always took. You hear me clearly? You understand?

Yes, of course I do, replied the boy.

On a hot summer day Lea sent one of her little boys, the second youngest, to visit with his oldest brother and lend him a helping hand in the land he had leased for planting. His oldest brother was seventeen years older, married with his oldest daughter almost the age of her uncle. The boy gladly obeyed for he loved to be sent away in the fields with no restrictions. It made him feel older. For him it was almost like a vacation by the standards of today. His mother rolled him a sandwich for the trip, at his request, it was homemade cheese with extra sweetened shredded apple jam and pure butter. But as soon as his mother got the cheese out from the sack, he exclaimed, no mother. It is awfully hot outside. I am not sure that I should carry cheese with me. My Father has warned about cheese spoiling in the heat. Just apple jam please. Lea smiled and conceded. The trip was estimated to take an hour and a half on foot. As he started to walk, a large luxurious car stopped for him midway. Those were the Maaloufs, city people, a wealthy couple that owned a car and a nice one and chose the North in which to spend their summers. Wealthy indeed, for families that owned cars back in the early 1900s in Lebanon were only a few. It was the first time the boy had laid eyes on a vehicle and stood this close to it. His fiery eyes examined the machine with great amazement. ‘The great invention of modern days’ he called it in his burgeoning vocabulary. Wow, he uttered, gazing at the car. Mules and donkeys crowded the sandy roads of the villages, horses and fancy carriages belonging to families of financial comfort roamed the rocky pathways of the towns but motor vehicles, were rarely heard of and never seen. The Maaloufs had been married for more than a few years and had not been blessed with children. They spent their summers in a luxurious villa on the outskirts of the boy’s village. Where are you going son? asked the lady.

El majd lellah (glory be to God) uttered the boy.

Dayman lellah (always to God) uttered the gentleman astounded by the manner in which the boy began his greetings. Invoking the glory of God, was a thing that is rarely done in our modern days he thought, the man smiled wholeheartedly.

I am going to my brother’s, one village down.

Going by yourself? he asked.

Yes, answered the boy. Then he went on saying: I am fine by myself. I know my way well. You see I am turning eight in a couple of months. I am preparing for my first communion.

Congratulations son. Would you like a ride, to escape this blazing heat? We will take you straight to your brother’s house. Do you know the way?

Yes, I do, he answered. See, he followed, I know how many farms we pass and I know their names and, I know which ones take me to my brother’s house. Once we pass the farms, I will tell you which direction to take. We will eventually reach a road where cars do not reach. Then I will have to walk, he jumped into the back seat gazing at the silk velveteen interior of the seats.

Thank you for your kindness. I sure appreciate it, he said. ‘Cute and manly’ thought the Maaloufs taken by the unusual disposition of the child, they affectionately smiled at him.

I love your car. You don't mind that I brought my zouedeh (meal) with me? Do you? See my mother packed it for me in case I get hungry. It is very clean. I will not eat in the car.

Not at all son, said the lady. We do not mind.

Oh thank you.

Who are your parents? asked Mr. Maalouf.

Entanios and Lea from el jird (the mountain).

Entanios the physician? asked the man.

Yes, my father is an old fashioned doctor. You know him? the boy asked excitedly.

You know young man, your father, saved my mother’s life? Mrs. Maalouf expressed to the boy.

Oh yeah?

Yes, he sure did. I do remember, interjected Mr. Maalouf, he even refused to charge us for his services. He said his services had been always free to the villagers that he wouldn't know what to charge. When we insisted, he asked us to make a donation to the church and just to remember his family in our prayers. How is he doing?

‘Oh fine, just fine."

Your father is an incredible physician.

Thank you sir, answered the boy with a youthful pride in his boyish voice.

You know when we took my mother back to the city to her doctor, he told us that had she been in town the time she got sick, she would have had to be hospitalized. Your father had given her a shot every day for about five days and she was fine.

Is this sandwich enough for you? Would you like us to buy you another one? Look at this restaurant, the food smells delicious, asked Mr. Maalouf.

No thank you. I like to eat what my mother packed for me. While he said that, they passed a church, the boy rushed his little fingers to do the sign of the cross and the husband who was driving saw him from the back mirror. He was just tickled by the boy’s mannerism.

Bravo son. Do you do the sign each time you pass a church?

Yes, I do it. One day I want to study Christ.

Really?

Oh yes. It is not a fantasy I mean it.

Why? asked Mr. Maalouf.

Because he is the Son of the living God. He is special. I am curious about him, quickly answered the boy without thinking.

Mr. Maalouf began to be engaged.

So you’re eager to learn more about the Son of the living God.

"Yes, aren’t you? I know I am, we all should be. My father has given me books to read about many important people in