Woefully Unprepared

I can recite a couple of prayers beginning with “Baruch atah Adonai” by the glow of the menorah candlelight. I also make a mean kugel.

I’m a little bit Jewish. Despite being raised in the Episcopal Church, my dad made sure to incorporate some of his family’s religious traditions into our childhood. Every Hanukkah we would light the menorah and get a bag of gelt, the gold-covered chocolate coins in a pinched net that hurt our fingers when we couldn’t wait for the scissors to open it up. My childhood playroom is filled with VHS tapes about the Maccabees.

Yet here I am, woefully unprepared to teach my own kids about this part of their family’s history and faith. This became evident this week when I took to the Holiday book box and the only Hanukkah books I found were two board books: Biscuit’s Hanukkah and Happy Hanukkah, Curious George! (Sorry, Bubbe! Just kidding, we called her Nana. But that would have been way better.)

Thankfully, Curious George gave us some good talking points. Especially the concept of mitzvah, which stopped me in my tracks while we were reading. It occurred to me while reading that my dad is a walking mitzvah — constantly in service to others. As children, he showed us that we don’t have to wait for the lighting of the menorah to be reminded to show love to others.

Self-awareness hit me that evening. Black Friday brings on this annual shift in which I become so focused on shopping and reliving my nostalgia through my children that I’m like this holiday-spinning Tasmanian Devil, until the moment we sing Silent Night by candlelight at church on Christmas Eve with the wax dripping onto my fingers. I often forget why we do this whole Christmas thing at all. 

Beckett and I brainstormed ways we could be of service. I suggested a beach clean-up or seeing if a neighbor needs us to pick up sticks in their yard. We live in a maritime forest, so he thought that idea was so ridiculous he heckled me for about five minutes. Otherwise, he was on board with getting our hands dirty helping others. Hopefully I can show him that, like his Papa, a mitzvah is a great way to celebrate what we believe, no matter where we light our candles.

Glowing All Along

I remember my father chanting over the menorah during Hanukkah, as my brother, sister and I passed the shammash around the table, our faces aglow from candlelight in the dark dining room.

I remember the matriarch of a family friend, the backs of her hands aglow from candlelight in their dark kitchen, as she covered her eyes and recited the benediction.

I remember standing around the same friend’s table, holding my days-old baby, as their friends joyously and reverently sang the Maoz Tzur, their bellies full of latkes, their faces aglow from candlelight.

Those experiences were on my mind this week as I read Beckett the book Oskar and the Eight Blessings by Richard Simon and Tanya Simon, about a boy whose parents send him from Nazi Germany to New York by himself to find his Aunt Esther. In desperation after Kristallnacht, presumably knowing the risk, they send their young child alone to a big city, knowing it was safer than keeping him with them.

His father’s last words to him were: “Oskar, even in bad times, people can be good. You have to look for the blessings.”

Oskar, a hungry, scared little boy….a refugee, journeyed from the ferry at Battery Park to 103rd street in Manhattan. Along the way he encounters eight “blessings,” people that help him with food, joy, protection, or motivation. With their help, Oskar makes it to his Aunt Esther’s in time for the candlelight of the menorah to glow on his face.

Although we could argue that it had been glowing all along.

I wasn’t raised an observant Jew, except for lighting the menorah each December and spinning the dreidel with my brother and sister for some chocolate coins. But it is a part of my family’s story, which means it’s part of my story. It is why, today, we have mezuzahs mounted in our doorways and a wooden menorah for our kids to play with as we tell the story of Hanukkah each year.

Because they have to know. They have to know what a blessing it is to come not just from power and privilege (which, as little white boys, they do) — but from hope. Hope, and maybe even a little faith, that the light will shine on you in surprising ways whether or not you actually light the candle.

#oskarandtheeightblessings

#hanukkah