We’re walking up the steep hill to the stone built church, sitting atop Mount Lebanon. It’s the first day of the year and we are heading to the evening Catholic mass. This time of year the mountain is scarcely populated, but the families that do remain make their way up the hill to pray with the rest. Just below the entrance sits a military Humvee seating 5 to 6 uniformed soldiers, all carrying semi-automatic weapons. I am told that the government orders the soldiers to act as security outside of all places of prayer and for all religions. At the top of the hill the adults enter the church to find seats while the young ones congregate in the courtyard to make small talk. My cousin looks at me and smiles, “we will wait here and ring the bell” he says to me. I get excited at the thought and wait willingly. The kids laugh and joke around, discussing their activities from the night before. As the priest enters the church, Patrick and I make our way over to the church bell tower. We gripped the thick worn out rope, letting it support all of our combined weight. Eventually the rope pulls back and we jump, letting the bell swing freely. It begins to pick up great momentum and as hard as I try to stay grounded, they begin to lift me off the surface of the stone courtyard. “Clang, Clang, Clang” the rumble of the large bell roars throughout the mountain ridges. We stand there, gasping to catch our breath in the brisk evening air, listening to the echo as the sound seeps through the valleys nooks. The church and surrounding buildings are cut from stone. Each block is different from the next; each made by hand. The inside is small and cold, and the prayer echoes loudly off the thick uninsulated walls. The church pews are made from solid wood, loud and creaky, visibly older than I can put a date to. After mass we walk back down the hill for dinner, I look over and see the armed soldiers preparing to leave. All ends well on this night.