Ritual Comforts
I am a stereotypical ultra-Reform Jew.
My parents dutifully schlepped my sister, brother and I to Sunday School at our synagogue. Afterward, we would come home to a late breakfast of eggs benedict, with regular bacon instead of Canadian and cheese sauce instead of Hollandaise. We always had a Passover seder, speeding through the Haggadah to get to the part where it says “dinner is served.” True once-a-year Jews, we only went to services on the High Holy Days and when my brother had his Bar Mitzvah.
But - like any self-respecting Reform Jews, we made a big deal about Chanukah. Surrounded by the goyim in our neighborhood, school and general community, we – like most of our ilk – glorified Chanukah far above the minor holiday that it is among the “They tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat” festivals that dominate the Jewish calendar. I excitedly awaited my mom getting out the box of decorations each year, helping her scotch tape the blue and white shiny streamers and cutouts of menorahs and dreidels to the living room walls and the bricks above the fireplace mantle.
I was envious of my friends who had a Christmas tree. So much so that our neighbors – with kids about my age with whom I’d occasionally play – invited me over every year to help decorate their tree.
Still, I was proud of our unassuming little family menorah. Mom would use a screwdriver to pry out the melted wax and old wick from the previous year, rinsing the holders in extra hot water to melt any stubborn bits so that we would start the holiday with the menorah clean and wax-free. Eventually to my delight she let me help, anxiously supervising as I clumsily wielded the screwdriver.
Next was choosing the candles for the first night. Which color? Such a dilemma. Candle varieties were limited in the 60’s and early 70’s. We bought the cheapest, the ones that were short and burned quickly. But I didn’t know and didn’t care, because the colors – though basic and primary (red, blue, yellow) were beautiful to my wide 5-year old eyes.
Mom would wondrously light a match and melt the end of the candle so it would stick in the holder. How marvelous – like making our very own glue.
When the first night finally arrived, our family (and sometimes an invited neighbor kid) ate latkes and applesauce, played spin-the-dreidel and feasted on chocolate gelt coins. We’d fight over who got to light the first candle. And we’d sing:
And while we are playing, the candles are burning low
One for each night, they shed a sweet light
To remind us of days long ago.
Most Jewish holidays begin with lighting candles. Why does this fairly common ritual speak to my soul so profoundly? Is it the warmth and glow in darkness and cold of December? Is it that need something to remind myself of the miracles – present and past – that define us? This year especially, with Covid raging around us, does the act of brightening the room a bit more each night provide a desperately needed sense of that light at the end of the tunnel?
I’m married now to an atheist now and observe even fewer Jewish holidays these days. But – no matter where I am in the world - I always, always light the Chanukah candles. They are a connection to my ancestors, the innocence of my childhood, and the hope for a brighter 2021.
