On the second night of Hanukah, I drove an hour to my parent’s house. My mother greeted me with a bevy of spare Hanukiahs, extra boxes of candles, and a care package of blue-and-white cookies. We celebrated together as a family, and I drove home.
And as the sun set on the third night of Hanukah, I again found myself alone in my apartment. I took out my little set-up and prepared the candles, with a placemat beneath the Hanukiah to prevent wax from dripping on the table, as my Mother taught me.
Then, in Hebrew I sang the Hanukah prayers. My singular voice at first quivery, but gaining confidence as I sang on, about how we were commanded to light the candles to remember what our ancestors went through in their time to ensure the survival of the Jewish identity. About what we go through still.
Hanukah came early this year, and I was unprepared. It was as if I forgot I had invited over a houseguest, only to find myself standing in my bathrobe, unkempt, when the doorbell rang.
Hanukah came early this year, and I was reminded that this holiday, like my spirituality, like continuing my religious learning into adulthood, is not going to happen on its own.
Like lighting the Hanukah candles, it us up to me to strike the match.
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