Keeping the Chanukah Spirit Alive

*This essay was originally written in December 2020, during COVID.

The coroner pulled up to the house directly behind mine. Two men in masks and Hazmat gowns jumped out of the van and walked, unannounced, through an unlocked side door, the same door I watched various cops and paramedics enter and exit over the past two hours. The distraught husband compulsively ran his hands through his hair as he alternately spoke with the police officers and feverishly punched numbers on his cell phone. A teenage boy and girl wandered aimlessly around their pool with cell phones attached to their ears. I was horrified. Update: I watch this scene on repeat every time I look out my kitchen window at their frozen backyard.

It was a dismal afternoon in early December and as I boiled a pot of homemade chicken soup, I caught a glimpse of flashing lights through my kitchen window. Seeing the local ambulance and several police cars, I called my spouse, as I often do in these circumstances. As a fireman, he usually hears over the scanner just enough to wake or calm my paranoid nerves. Luckily, there was no fire or hostage standoff, but there was a 50-year-old unresponsive female inside. Update: She never returned to the house.

Expertly, they removed the middle-aged wife and mother from her home on what looked like an ordinary piece of plywood. I felt like I would throw up. I looked away with my eyes but not with my heart, which hurt for a family I did not even know. I was eavesdropping on someone else’s grief. We shared a fence, and now we shared something else: the gut-wrenching feeling of losing a parent around the holidays. I lost two. Update: Still two.

It’s the bittersweet reminder that no matter what I do, the holidays in all their glory, sneak up on me, not just reminding me how many days are left to buy presents, but how many years have gone by without, first my father, then my mother, to celebrate with. Although it has become part of our family’s normal, it remains a monumental crack in our foundation, along with the superficial quest to fill in the gaping hole. I could not replace, but I have learned to  patch, with extended family, new significant others, loud chatter, piles of presents, and an abundance of food. This year, the void seems even deeper. A rift, leaving a family member - the one that always made us laugh - on the uninvited list for even a virtual holiday, sadly shrinks our family size once again. Update: The rift remains with said member now removed from family events. A bittersweet remedy but certainly not a cure.

“Next year!” I keep saying, in an upbeat manner. “Next year, we will be together. Next year, I’m making bigger and better holiday dinners. Next year, I’m inviting more people. Next year, I’m making a larger brisket, baking more decadent desserts, and trying new versions of our traditional family recipes. Next year, I’m buying a new menorah! Next year, I will try to make the house more festive. Next year…” Update: I still have not bought the new menorah, however,  I may make Martha Stewart’s coconut cake. Maybe.

“Stop wishing away your time,” my smarter, more resolute best friend says. “Life is now.”

She is right. Update: She is still always right.

For us, there will be no traditional Chanukah celebration this year. “Umm, are we still getting presents?” comes from my twenty-seven-year-old son. At least his priorities haven’t changed. Presents. Latkes. Family. We can shuffle them around like a shell game, but the message is clear: we can compensate, rationalize, make alternate plans, and make excuses, but the holidays must go on, just not in a physical manner. I must, however, salvage the holiday spirit in the name of all those who may not make it to my giant celebration next year when I’ll be hosting dreidel games for thirty and needing ten pounds of sour cream to accompany the latkes. Update: Both kids are married now. They still expect presents. Just bigger. My guest list has not hit thirty, or twenty,  for that matter, but there is still time.

When she was alive, my great Aunt Sunny added a ‘God willing, I should be there’ to every invitation she received, even if the proposed event was a small family gathering a mere three days away. Living through the sinking of the Titanic and the 1918 pandemic, as well as watching three of her younger siblings’ deaths, prepared her not to take anything for granted. Perhaps what I considered silly Jewish doubt was her toast to mortality with a shot of reality mixed in. I’ve recently become aware of my habit of doing the same when presented with the planning of a future event. Maybe it is a simple way not to jinx the joy of planning. Whether subconsciously or superstitiously, I suppose I can ward away any evil mishaps by prefacing them with a simple ‘God willing.’  Update: Health situations have added a new layer to the term ‘God willing.’ Aunt Sunny knew a few things about hope.

This year, like most people, we will not observe Chanukah with a house full of people. I will not be able to challenge my sister to an in-person contest of who can make the crispiest latkes or who can eat the most of them. Instead, we will resort to Facebook Live or Zoom. We will sing Rock of Ages, and recite the blessings, still off-key but in unison, as we light the menorah. We will have all the kids open their shipped presents in their own houses and accept a virtual hug and kiss for thanks. We will be wearing pajamas as we spin the dreidels with our pets. We can and we will find a way to capture the holiday spirit because, after all, Neshama, the soul, the non-physical spirit, is really what matters most. Update: I have a new frying pan, so the crispiest latke contest is on. Get the oil ready, Susan.

I do not know how the woman who lived behind me died. I just know that their family will have one less present to buy and one less seat to fill at their holiday table. That heartbreak, even after several decades, is still fresh to me. To their family, as well as all families with missing pieces, I wish you Shalom (Peace) on what will be a sorrowful holiday. I wish I could tell them it gets better. Update: It does not get better. It just gets different. I never did find out how the woman died, and the family has since moved away.

The Shehecheyanu expresses gratitude for keeping us alive, sustaining us, and bringing us to this season. Said to commemorate every special occasion, it serves as a constant reminder not to take anything for granted. As we recite this blessing on the first night of Chanukah, hopefully, we can discover new and different ways to celebrate the holiday and honor the people we are most grateful for while never forgetting those who are absent. Update: They are never forgotten. And a special blessing for those who are not free seems to be more important than ever.

Chag Sameach. May your Chanukah be joyful, your blessings be many, your memories be beautiful, filled with light and love, and may we continue to look towards bright and festive holiday gatherings in the future. God willing. Update: Chag Sameach. May your Chanukah be joyful, your blessings be many, your memories be beautiful, filled with light and love, and may we continue to look towards bright and festive holiday gatherings in the future. God willing.