Snow falls outside my window, soft and unhurried – a couple of inches of real accumulation. With climate change grinding forward, I wondered if I’d ever see such a sight again. As I watch the gentle descent of flakes, I understand why people treasure snow globes. Something is calming, even mesmerizing, about falling snow.
My mother never shared this sentiment. She was a skittish driver, convinced that even a dusting of powder would send her car spinning into disaster. As I think of her now, gone fifteen years, my mind drifts to our Hanukkah celebrations. I have gauzy childhood memories: dreidels spinning on the floor, a simple silver-plated menorah. My three siblings and I only received modest gifts on the first night – we lived close to the bone.
Everything changed in May 1968 when my father died suddenly. My mother was 38, utterly lost and completely overwhelmed. After fifteen years as a traditional wife and mother, she was forced into the workforce, unprepared for the challenges of single parenthood.
For many months following his death, things in the Stern home were dark. In those days, no one talked about how important it would be for all of us to get some grief therapy. We each existed in our own bubble of loss and pain. I was 14, and my sisters were 12 and 7. And, of course, my mother, who grieved terribly. Holidays became grim reminders of our new reality. I felt wounded by my proximity to death at such a young age. Those first couple years after my father’s death passed in a blur I can barely recall.
It took three years for the Sterns to resurface. My dear high school buddies, Kerry and Hesh lived in their own kind of darkness – different from mine, but we all shared that feeling of loss and displacement. Somehow, we got to discussing Hanukkah, and it became painfully clear that the option to do nothing was unacceptable. The three of us needed some kind of light therapy.
Hanukkah 1970 proved transformative. It was as if we threw open the windows and pulled back the curtains. Lighting the menorah that year felt like reigniting a pilot light. Life remained turbulent – there was no “It’s A Wonderful Life” ending with a basket of cash and an angel – but I experienced grace and healing. I discovered there was goodness in the world, and I could claim my share.
I can still see my mother’s hazel eyes glistening with tears in the menorah’s light. Years later, Peter, Paul, and Mary’s “Light One Candle” would capture that moment perfectly: “Don’t let the light go out/Let it shine through our love and our tears.” The light demands tending, constant attention. No one carries it alone – the fuel we bring, the fuel of compassion and faith, makes it shine.
Watching the snowfall, I think of Kerry and Hesh. They helped reignite the flames that Hanukkah night, not by dwelling in nostalgia but by lighting the way forward. I owe them so much, and I am filled with gratitude. To them, my siblings, and you, I wish you a Happy Hanukkah. Don’t let the light go out.
Before Shabbat 