In the Hands of the Refiner: A Story from Lebanon

Copyright © 2008 by Noor Ellias.

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Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Hindered by Divine Intervention

Chapter 2

Their Blood Cries Out

Chapter 3

Walking Down Memory Lane

Chapter 4

The Days of Wine and Roses

Chapter 5

Miracles Never Cease

Chapter 6

My Life in the Beqaa Valley

Chapter 7

The Gathering Storm

Chapter 8

The Tsunami Hits

Chapter 9

A Bright Light in the Horizon

Chapter 10

Shattered Dreams, Broken Lives

Chapter 11

A Breath of Fresh Air

Chapter 12

The Faith to Keep On

Chapter 13

The Pressure Mounts

Chapter 14

A Time to Reflect, a Time to Decide

Chapter 15

A People in Revival

Chapter 16

Victory in the Horizon

Epilogue

Foreword

Several years ago, I met Noor for the first time in church, and when I discovered she was Lebanese, I asked her how long her family had been Christians. She said, Oh about five hundred years. I was expecting maybe one or two generations but not centuries! That would be only the first of many experiences with this dear woman that has led me to believe there is no one category for Noor. She gloriously breaks the mold of man’s expectations.

Noor is first of all a passionate woman who loves her God, her family, and her heritage in a way that is fearless but also contagious. She is intelligent and strong-willed but also compassionate and witty. I have learned never to underestimate her—I have heard her pray the wallpaper right off the wall in a prayer meeting and then a moment later, be as tender as a mother with small children. In a fight, I would want her on my side; and if I was hurt, I would want her tending me.

This is a book that tells her story of walking through numbing personal pain and loss at the same time, experiencing first hand the difficult days of a war-torn Lebanon. Her rich family values give some insight to why she is a woman so well grounded even when all around her is at war.

The supernatural seems to be almost an ordinary experience for Noor. At pivotal points in her life, there always seems to be a miracle, a word from God, or an open door. When all appears to be lost, God comes through. Her story is deeply moving and tremendously exciting, and I believe it will help every reader find new hope and faith in God for their journey as well.

Pastor Dan Backens

New Life Providence

Dedication

In loving memory of my mother and father who are in a heavenly place. I say thank you with all my heart for being so faithful to God and for building in me a Christian foundation that continues to bear fruit.

And to all the Lebanese soldiers and civilians who lost life or limb throughout the years of strife that have plagued this tiny nation. May freedom and peace soon ring aloud from the steeple bells of the churches that crown the mountains of this fair land.

Acknowledgements

I would first like to acknowledge the one who inspired me to write this book and who, over the years, walked me through my personal trials and lifted me and Lebanon each time we fell—my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and his Holy Spirit.

I also wish to thank my husband for being so patient with me as I spent long hours each day on the computer, writing my story. He took over many of the household duties so that I could spend time working on my book.

I am so grateful to my son-in-law, John, who was my right-hand man on the computer. Each time I had a technical problem, he was there to save the day.

I can never thank Pastor Farid enough for his encouragement and prayers and for allowing me to reprint his letters.

Finally, I wish to acknowledge all the courageous people of Lebanon who touched my life with their graciousness, fortitude, and zeal. To them I will always be grateful.

Prologue

Lebanon, a tiny but breathtakingly beautiful country, located on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean between Syria to the north and Israel to the south, is no stranger to wars. Throughout its long history, the people of that nation have been ravaged repeatedly by invading armies.

Their ancestors and mine, the ancient Phoenicians (the biblical Canaanites), were excellent sailors and businessmen who traveled the length of the Mediterranean in ships they constructed. They also built settlements in many of the areas where their ships landed, but never did they conquer any people group or invade any land with brute force as did the Romans, the Persians, and the Medes. Instead, they simply adapted their culture to the new environment, living peacefully among the indigenous people with whom they traded. The island of Malta is a good example of a place where the ancient Phoenicians settled.

To this very day, you can find their descendants in nearly every country of the world where they have settled in to become vibrant citizens of a new land. Most of the time, they emigrated because an invader had struck and made life unbearable for them in their homeland. At other times, they were simply adventurers seeking a new life on a distant shore. Whatever the reason for their dispersal, these resilient people left their mark on civilization by giving the world the alphabet, purple die, and so much more.

One of the greatest military strategists of all time was a Phoenician by the name of Hannibal whose ancestors settled in North Africa and built the great commercial city of Carthage. To this day, they still study his strategies at military academies around the world.

The Bible records how Solomon’s Temple was built in Jerusalem by Phoenician craftsmen, whom King Hiram of Tyre sent along with the cedar wood that fortified the magnificent structure.

In addition to what the Bible says, most of what we know today about the Phoenicians comes from the historical records of their enemies. It seems odd that archaeologists have not been able to find anything scripted by the Phoenicians themselves, considering they gave the world the alphabet. Most likely, as the invading armies sacked their cities, they destroyed their libraries and writings as well.

Today, many citizens of this once thriving nation are again destitute and suffering the agony and aftermath of a new struggle. But I know that the God of history has a much better plan for this tiny nation that he mentions so many times in the Bible, and as we wait on him to fulfill Lebanon’s destiny, I share my story and the story of its people during these trying times.

He giveth power to the faint, and to them that have no might, he increaseth strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall: But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount with wings as eagles, they shall run and not be weary, and they shall walk and not faint.

(Isaiah 40:29-31)

They say that history repeats itself, and perhaps that is true in the case of Lebanon; for once again, it has become the target of invasions by armies far more powerful than its own. Through a series of events, I was personally destined to live in Lebanon through a horrendous civil war that began in the ’70s and claimed the lives of thousands of its citizens.

My life, however, did not begin in Lebanon. I was born in Akron, Ohio, to parents who were immigrants from that country. My dad had come to America in 1913 to build a new life for himself, and my mother arrived in 1937 after they were married in Beirut.

As I was growing up in the ’40s, life was relatively peaceful and quiet. During the years of World War II, the only disturbance we ever experienced was the sound of the sirens as they blew at night, announcing the blackout drills that were carried out by the city. I remember how everything went dark as my mother and I sat on the steps that led to our first-floor apartment, waiting for the electricity to come back. Akron at that time was the rubber capital of the world, and I was constantly reminded of that fact by the bruising scent that emanated from the smokestacks of the BF Goodrich tire and rubber company located only three blocks away from our house.

Akron was home to a typical and rather large Middle Eastern community, which was represented by three churches: Greek Orthodox, Maronite Catholic, and Melkite Catholic. Like all ethnic groups, the Lebanese loved mingling with each other; however, they never lived in ghettos. This made it easy for them to adapt to their new environment and build friendships outside their own community. But never did they leave their favorite Lebanese foods and traditions. Each church had its yearly picnic when all other churches and friends were invited to attend. Lebanese food, folkloric dance, and music were the order of the day; and it was wonderful. That first generation of immigrants was the glue that kept the unity among the Lebanese, with all of the beautiful traditions, alive in the hearts of their children and grandchildren.

I’ll never forget one summer day when, as a child of nine, something awesome happened to me. My parents, along with two other families, decided to go on a Sunday picnic after church at one of the municipal parks. Later on that evening, as the sun gently dipped below the horizon, the intense blue color of the northern sky suddenly captured my attention. I left the group and walked by myself toward a lovely green meadow a good distance away from our table. With my hands behind my head, I laid back on the grass and gazed at the stars that were shining like a million crystal chandeliers; an unusual sight for our city. I believe God gave me what I would later describe as a Davidic moment. Certainly many of his psalms were inspired by the wonders of that very same sky he also observed over three thousand years ago. As I stared in amazement, I felt the indescribable majesty and grandeur of a creator God rise up in me. I could no longer grasp the enormity of the universe and its maker compared to my own size. It was like comparing one grain of sand to all the oceans of the world. I began to shake uncontrollably as he revealed his wonder and glory to a nine-year-old girl. I remember so clearly what I said to him. Oh God, how big you are and how small I am. I know he wanted to tell me something that day even though I did not fully comprehend what it was then. I believe this was the evidence of one of the Psalms of David that I did not read until years later.

O Lord our Lord, how excellent is Thy name in all the earth! who hast set thy glory above the heavens. Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast Thou ordained strength . . . When I consider Thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained; What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that Thou visitest him. For Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honor. Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy hands; Thou hast put all things under his feet.

(Psalm 8:1-3)

I had also gone through grade school when teachers were able to punish students, if necessary, without fear of being slapped with a lawsuit by some irked parent or, at the very least, reprimanded by the principal. Each morning, we gladly recited the Lord’s Prayer in our classroom and the Pledge of Allegiance as we stood proudly before the American flag.

Our parents and mentors had successfully instilled in us a deep respect for authority, and it paid off. Student violence was practically nonexistent. To top it off, I had a typical Middle Eastern mama who was very protective. I never had to carry a house key because when I came home from school, she was always there at the door to greet me. I can never forget how she would place me on full alert every morning as I prepared to leave for school. Before she gave me a big hug and sent me on my way, she would say in a loving yet firm voice, Don’t you ever talk to strangers or believe anyone who might try to tell you that I sent them to bring you home. Understood?

I definitely understood at a very early age that there were some bad guys on the streets, and that I was to set my face like a flint and not blink an eye or talk to any stranger passing by, and it worked. However, this peaceful lifestyle was a sharp contrast to what I would be experiencing at a future-appointed time.

By the age of eleven, I learned about a promise Dad had made to his in-laws before his wedding that he would one day return with his wife to live permanently in Lebanon. After I was born, I automatically became a part of that promise. There certainly were times I felt that I was being uprooted although mother had very wisely taken me at the age of twelve for an extended trip to Lebanon where I became acquainted with a new culture. Several months after I graduated from the University of Akron in 1960, Dad retired and fulfilled his promise to return to his homeland in 1961—thus my life was changed forever.

In 1963, I fell in love and married Roy, a handsome young Lebanese Air Force officer. Little did I know I would soon be experiencing a personal struggle that would bring me to my knees, and several years later, be enduring the hardships of a long and tumultuous civil war.

By then, I had every reason to justify taking my family and leaving, but a deep love for Lebanon and its people that never diminished in spite of the chaos kept me there. I refused to entertain the thought of forsaking my home permanently. Under pressure, we soon discover that the greatest element in our survival kit is the gift of hope that keeps us going. It was a long wait, and finally in 1990, peace did return to the land.

By 1997, however, we were semiretired and living with our two daughters in America while they were finishing their graduate studies in Virginia. Nevertheless, my husband and I went back to our home in Beirut every summer and spent at least three months there. Only this time, the summer of 2006 was quite different, and I knew it was time to tell my story. However I did change the names of some of the people to protect their privacy.

Chapter 1

Hindered by Divine Intervention

The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord: and he delighteth in his way. Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the Lord upholdeth him with his hand.

—Psalm 37:23, 24

On Saturday July 8, Roy, his sister Fadwa, and I would have arrived in Beirut five days before the devastating Israeli air strikes on Southern Lebanon and Beirut began. However, something happened that hindered us from completing our trip. No sooner had we boarded the plane on the second part of our journey than Roy’s blood pressure flared up. As paramedics checked him out, it became apparent that it was wiser to delay our departure date. Thus Fadwa and I gathered our belongings and got off the plane.

Concern soon turned to frustration and disappointment as we discovered that all flights into Lebanon for that month were completely booked. Almost one hour and many attempts later, a valiant ticketing agent was able to reroute our itinerary and find us the only space available on a flight leaving for Beirut two weeks later.

It was nearing midnight, and as there were no flights that could get us back home that evening, the ground attendant accompanied us to where we took a shuttle to the motel. By then, we were utterly exhausted.

The next afternoon, Roy’s blood pressure had gone back to normal, and we returned to the airport, collected our luggage, and got on the only plane scheduled that day for Norfolk International Airport. A week later, our flight plans were interrupted once again, not by an unexpected health crisis, but by the thirty-three days of ceaseless Israeli ground and air assaults. This was when I knew in my spirit it had to be divine intervention that prevented us from completing our trip.

My sister-in-law, Fadwa, had been visiting us from Lebanon. Although in excellent health, she was nearly eighty years old and had never been out of her own country except for a few short visits to an Orthodox convent in Syria and a tour of Damascus. My daughter made Fadwa’s first real trip abroad possible as she would never have dreamed of traveling to a distant land so late in life. It was, therefore, no surprise that she considered her trip to America such a wonderful and unforgettable experience. However, her joy soon turned to sorrow as she watched on the news her country being ravaged. We could only pray for God to manifest his mercy over Lebanon and wait on that nation to again open its doors for us to return. It took two long and painful months before we were able to set foot in Lebanon.

After a ceasefire finally went into effect, I called the airlines and rebooked for September 12. We hoped that by then, the Beirut airport runways would be repaired; and our plane would not be forced to land in Amman, Jordan, to be searched by Israeli Special Forces. We began to pray fervently, and in less than a week, God answered our prayers. A Qatar Airways passenger plane coming into Beirut challenged the Israeli blockade by refusing to land in Jordan, and to everyone’s relief, the Israelis did not take it down as they had formerly threatened to do. This courageous but daring act by the pilot opened the door for other planes to land directly at Beirut International Airport.

It was during this long wait that God gave me the desire and inspiration to write this book. For the fire of the Holy Spirit had fused my soul even more deeply to that of Lebanon’s, compelling me to tell our story.

With our travel plans on hold, I began to witness once again the tragedy of human suffering and degradation on a much larger scale than ever before. I was helplessly watching—unable to do anything—unable to make a difference. The images on TV appeared like a replay of the devastated war zones of World War II, not on a continent, but in a tiny country no bigger than the size of Connecticut.

This new conflict brought back memories that took me in time to the fifteen years of a senseless struggle that began in 1975. It also included both a Syrian and Israeli occupation as well as two major Israeli invasions. But for the grace of God, we too could have become nameless casualties forgotten by the tides of time. However, we survived. Thus forever etched in my memory would be the events of those dark brutal years.

I cannot forget how the international media seemed indifferent to the plight of Lebanon’s people.