When
I was 12 and
living in North Carolina, I wanted to send my grandparents
a Hannukah card.
I'd never
celebrated the holiday, since only half my family was Jewish
and that half - my mother - was a big Christmas decoration
fan.
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Above,
our 2010 Channuka-Cake
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But I'd decided
to make a Hannuka card. Only problem was, I didn't know how
to spell Channuka.
So I looked
in the phone book ... frankly, I don't remember what I looked
for, but somehow I found a number for the Rabbi's house, and
there was only one, because we were living in Winston-Salem,
North Carolina which didn't seem to have a huge Jewish population.
The Rabbi
wasn't home, but his wife was, so I asked if she could help
me.
And you know
how adults seize these moments - these rare moments when someone
actually wants to know a thing we know for sure?
She told me
- and I still remember the timbre and melody of her voice -
that it doesn't matter how you spell Chanukah. Every way
is right.
And I thanked
her, and I made the card. And I've never had to remember
how to spell Channuka since then. That, alone, was a huge
gift.
So
Chappy Channukkahh! Merry Christmas! Heri za Kwanzaa!
Every way
you spell it, every way you celebrate it ... it's right. .
See you
next week!
p.s. To
read about another holiday tradition from my life, see my blogpost, "The
Guessing Gift." |
