The Woman You Walked Past Every Day
You probably encountered someone like Laurice Arab today without realizing it. The 90-year-old grandmother selecting vegetables at the grocery store. The woman setting extra places at her kitchen table. The neighbor whose home always seems to smell like something delicious is cooking.
But what you couldn’t see was the extraordinary story behind Laurice’s ordinary-seeming life—a story of love that stretched across three countries, grief transformed into grace, and one unbreakable rule that held a scattered family together for decades.
From the Mountains of Lebanon to Halifax, Nova Scotia
Laurice Arab (1935-2025) was born on May 23, 1935, in Diman, Lebanon, a mountainous village carved into the slopes of the great Lebanese Mountains. At 1,400 meters above sea level, Diman overlooks the sacred Kadisha Valley and serves as the summer residence of the Maronite Patriarch—a fitting birthplace for a woman who would become the spiritual anchor of her own family.
Laurice’s story begins with loss. At just nine years old, she experienced devastating grief when her only brother Youssef died at age twelve. For the next 81 years—every single day until she passed away—Laurice talked about Youssef, carrying his memory like a flame she refused to let extinguish.
Building a Life in the Lebanese Mountains
At nineteen, Laurice married Nasr Sleiman Arab, and together they built their life on those mountain slopes. They raised six children, instilling in them the values that mattered most: hard work, their Maronite Catholic faith, and the richness of their Lebanese heritage.
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But life in post-war Lebanon was challenging. Seeking better opportunities, four of their six children eventually left Diman—three heading to Canada and one to Australia. For Laurice, this meant sleepless nights wondering about children facing unknown challenges in foreign countries, speaking new languages, building new lives thousands of miles away.
The Widow Who Became a Bridge
In 1990, after 37 years of marriage, tragedy struck again. Nasr suddenly passed away at age 61, leaving Laurice a widow at 55. With her children scattered across continents and unreliable communication, many women might have withdrawn into grief.
Instead, Laurice did something remarkable. She became a bridge.
She started traveling—to Canada, to Australia, wherever her children had landed. Not to guilt them into returning home, but to watch their families grow, to meet grandchildren, to see with her own eyes that they were thriving. Eventually, she made the extraordinary decision to split her time between two countries, maintaining homes in both Halifax, Nova Scotia, and her beloved Diman.
The Kitchen That Held Everything Together
What made Laurice’s story truly extraordinary wasn’t just her geographical reach—it was what she did with the most ordinary space imaginable: her kitchen.
Laurice became renowned for her culinary abilities, regularly preparing traditional Lebanese cuisine that drew family, friends, and extended community to her tables in both Canada and Lebanon. But this wasn’t just about food. Every meal became an act of communion, every gathering a sacred space where people shared not just dishes, but their lives.
The Unbreakable Rule
Laurice established one non-negotiable principle that defined her approach to family: she would never eat alone.
This wasn’t merely a preference—it was a philosophy of love in action. Even on June 27, 2025, the morning she would pass away peacefully at age 90, Laurice woke early and prepared a meal of lentils and salad, expecting her sons to join her as they did every day.
Picture the power of that daily ritual: sons walking into their mother’s kitchen, shoulders relaxing as they encountered someone who had been taking care of them their whole lives and showed no signs of stopping. In a world where families scatter and people get busy, Laurice insisted on turning every meal into an act of belonging.
A Life of Devotion and Daily Prayer
Laurice’s faith anchored everything she did. As a devoted Maronite Catholic, she attended daily mass in Lebanon and, in her later years in Canada, watched mass multiple times a day in both Arabic and English. She maintained a special prayer for each of her children and their families, praying for them daily without fail.
Her deep devotion to the Virgin Mary included one specific, humble request: that she be granted a peaceful death. On that June morning, surrounded by her loving family, this prayer was graciously answered.
The Ripple Effects of One Woman’s Love
When Laurice passed away, she left behind a family that spans continents: six children, 23 grandchildren, 19 great-grandchildren, three sisters, and what her obituary describes as “a large extended family and community.”
But numbers don’t capture the true measure of her legacy. Each of those 42 direct descendants carries something of those Lebanese mountain slopes, something of those daily masses, something of those tables that were never meant for eating alone.
Why These Stories Matter: The Extraordinary Lives of Ordinary People
Laurice Arab’s story represents thousands of similar stories happening around us every day—the quiet heroism of people who hold families together, who transform ordinary spaces into sacred ones, who understand that love is a daily practice requiring intention and presence.
The Invisible Extraordinary
These are the people we walk past without noticing:
- The neighbor who always makes too much food and brings it over
- The grandmother who calls every Sunday without fail
- The parent who drives hours to attend every graduation, recital, and milestone
- The friend whose home becomes the place everyone naturally gathers
Laurice’s story reminds us that every person carries extraordinary stories within them. The question isn’t whether amazing people exist in our communities—it’s whether we stop long enough to notice them.
Lessons from a Lebanese Kitchen
What can we learn from Laurice Arab’s remarkable ordinary life?
Love is a daily choice. Laurice didn’t maintain family connections through grand gestures, but through consistent daily practices—cooking, praying, showing up, creating space for others.
Presence transcends distance. Even when separated by oceans, Laurice found ways to be present in her children’s lives, proving that geographic distance doesn’t have to mean emotional distance.
Ordinary spaces can hold extraordinary love. A kitchen table, a shared meal, a moment of gathering—these simple elements become sacred when infused with intention and care.
Grief can become grace. Rather than letting loss isolate her, Laurice transformed her grief into a fierce determination to hold her family together, creating meaning from pain.
Finding the Laurice Arab in Your Own Life
As you go about your day, consider the people around you who might be living their own version of Laurice’s story:
- Who creates spaces where people feel they belong?
- Who shows up consistently, day after day, without fanfare?
- Who holds families, communities, or friend groups together through their quiet presence?
- Who has transformed their own pain into service for others?
These people are everywhere, but they rarely make headlines. They’re the subject of obituary stories rather than front-page news. And yet, they’re the ones who hold the world together through their faithful, daily love.
The True Stories from the Obit Files Difference
Laurice Arab’s story comes to us through True Stories from the Obit Files, a podcast dedicated to honoring the extraordinary lives of ordinary people whose stories would otherwise go untold. Each episode takes a real, publicly published obituary and transforms it into an intimate audio portrait that reveals the quiet greatness surrounding us all.
These aren’t celebrity stories or headline-grabbing tales. They’re the stories of people like Laurice—teachers, mechanics, farmers, grandmothers, neighbors—who lived remarkable lives right under our noses. The podcast reminds us that every person we encounter carries a universe of stories, love, loss, and quiet heroism.
Real people. Real lives. Never ordinary.
Transcript
[0:00] Picture this. It’s early morning, June 27th, 2025.
[0:05] Halifax, Nova Scotia. The kitchen smells like simmering lentils and fresh herbs. A 90-year-old woman moves carefully through the space, setting the table, not just for herself, but for her sons, like she does every day. She’s been up since dawn cooking. We walk past people like this every day, The grandmother at the grocery store carefully selecting vegetables The woman praying quietly in the back pew The one whose kitchen always seems to have something delicious happening, But what if I told you this quiet morning ritual This simple act of preparing a meal and never eating alone Was the thread that held together a family scattered across three continents and six decades of unimaginable loss. I’m Steve Rode, and this is True Stories from the Obid Files. A few times every week, I share one real story from a real obituary about someone whose life you never knew about. These aren’t celebrities or headlines, just regular people who lived extraordinary lives right under our noses.
[1:22] Lorise Arab was 90 when she passed away on June 27, 2025. Surrounded by her loving family. Born in the mountains of Lebanon, she became the kind of woman who could stretch love across oceans. But here’s what I didn’t expect when I kept reading about this remarkable woman’s life. Lorise was born on May 23, 1935. in Dimon, Lebanon, a village carved into the slopes of the great Lebanese mountains. Picture stone houses climbing up hillsides, the air thin and clear, where families had lived for generations. At nine years old, she faced her first devastating loss. Her only brother, Youssef, died when he was just 12, And she talked about him every single day For the next 81 years Every single day, Until she passed I can imagine her as a young girl Carrying that grief But also carrying his memory like a flame She just refused to let it go out The kind of person who understood Even at nine That love doesn’t end just because someone is gone on.
[2:46] By 19, she had married Nasser Arab, and together they built their life on those mountain slopes, raising six children and instilling in them what mattered most, hard work, their Marianite Catholic faith, and the richness of their Lebanese heritage. But here’s where Lloris’ story becomes something that would test any mother’s heart. One by one, four of her six children left Lebanon, seeking better opportunities. Three heading to Canada, one to Australia.
[3:22] Picture this, it’s the 1980s, 1990s, no reliable internet, phone service that cuts in and out, and your children are scattered across the globe, facing whatever they’re facing in foreign countries, speaking new languages, and building new lives. Yeah, I wasn’t there, but I bet she lay awake at night wondering, are they eating enough? Are they safe? Do they still remember who they are? Then in 1990, after 37 years of marriage, her husband Nassar suddenly and tragically passed away. He was only 61. She was 55. And suddenly a widow. Still processing the distance from her children, still carrying the daily memory of her brother.
[4:10] But here’s what you couldn’t see if you’d walked past Lloris during those hardest years. Here’s what grief looked like when it was channeled into something life-giving rather than life-taking.
[4:23] She started traveling. Canada, Australia. Wherever her children had landed, she followed. Not to move them back home, not to guilt them into returning, but to watch their families grow. To meet grandchildren, to sit at their tables and say, yeah, they were okay. More than okay, they were thriving. In the end, Larisse didn’t just follow her children. She built a life that stretched across continents, a home in Dimon, a home in Halifax, and one heart anchoring both.
[5:02] What I love about her story is that Lloris found her superpower in the most ordinary place imaginable, her kitchen. She was renowned. That’s the word her family used, renowned, for her culinary abilities. Traditional Lebanese cuisine that filled tables in both Canada and Lebanon. Her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, extended family and friends would gather around those tables to share meals and share their lives with her. Picture the rhythm of it, the preparation, the anticipation, the gathering, the stories told over steaming plates, the way she used food not just to nourish bodies but to weave relationships, to create spaces where people wanted to linger.
[5:52] And here’s the detail that stopped me cold. Even on the day she passed away, She had awakened early that morning and prepared a meal of lentils and salad, expecting her sons to join her as they regularly did.
[6:09] Ninety years old, the day she would die, and she was still cooking for others. Because Lloris had made one unbreakable rule, she would never eat alone. I mean, think about that for a moment. in a world where families scatter, where people get busy, where it’s easier to grab something quick and eat in front of a screen. This woman insisted on turning every meal into an act of communion. I like to think that when her sons walked into her kitchen, something in their shoulders relaxed. Maybe they didn’t say much. Maybe they didn’t have to. Because in that kitchen, everything important had already been said. In the way she stirred the lentils and in the way she set the plates. People who knew Lloris also knew she was a deeply devoted Mary-Night Catholic. In Lebanon, she attended daily Mass. In her later years in Canada, she would watch Mass multiple times a day in both Arabic and English.
[7:14] She had a special prayer for each of her children and their families, which she prayed daily. But what moves me most is that she had a deep devotion to the Virgin Mary, and she prayed specifically for one thing, that she would pass into death peacefully, a prayer that was graciously granted.
[7:37] People like Lloris, they’re anchors in a world that’s always rushing somewhere else. They understand that love is a daily practice, that presence is a choice you make over and over, and that sometimes the most revolutionary thing you can do is to refuse to let anyone eat alone. Every person has a story like this. The grandmother who calls every Sunday, the neighbor who always makes too much food, the one whose house somehow becomes the place everyone gathers, each one carrying something beautiful, building something lasting, creating spaces where people remember they belong to each other. Maybe you know someone who has that same gift, the ability to turn an ordinary meal into a sacred space. Would you notice? Would you see that it’s not just food, it’s love and memory and belonging, all served on a plate?
[8:34] If stories like this matter to you, make sure you’re subscribed to share a new one every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Not everyone makes the front page, but everyone, and I mean everyone, has a story worth telling Real people, real lives, never ordinary, Thank you for letting me tell this one.