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My Menorah,
the Little Tree of Life
I can remember, as a little girl, always searching for
God. My childhood was lonely and filled with pain. I
rarely had a place to find security and love. My mother
was severely mentally ill and abusive, and my father barely
hung on, trying to support our family and stay sane
himself. I remember praying alone during my childhood,
crying softly on my bed, hoping God, if He was real, would
come to love and rescue me from my loneliness and fear.
At eighteen, I ran away from my unhappy family life,
from my past and my Judaic heritage. When a friend invited
me to a small church meeting, it was that night I first
heard men and women worshipping God, and I felt a peace I
had never known before. Soon after that experience I asked
the Lord Jesus to come live in my heart. Though I was born
and raised a Jew, I now had a new identity as a Christian.
My conversion to Christianity greatly angered my father,
who felt betrayed, and it deeply hurt my mother. In my
parent's eyes I was disloyal to my heritage. I felt very
confused about my roots as a Jew. Who and what was I? How could I reconcile my birth as a Jew and my new belief in
Jesus? How could I explain my new spiritual beliefs and
still cherish my rich ancient heritage?
At the age of twenty-one I married a quiet, loving,
Episcopalian young man with a nondescript name to match. I hid behind that name and used it as a mask that would
shield me for years.
One warm Sunday afternoon, my husband and I went for a
drive looking for an interesting way to spend the day
together without leaving Los Angeles. We decided to visit
The Museum of Tolerance. I became so anxious and afraid
that I almost asked my husband to turn the car around. He
sensed my uneasiness and took my hand as we descended into a dark underground parking lot. I felt a sense of
foreboding, of being captured in a dramatic life-changing
experience.
In order to enter the museum, each of us in line had
to step through an archway metal detector. As I passed
through, the alarm system went off. My large silver
earrings had triggered the detector. I felt shocked and
humiliated as the crowd behind me stared. Then the
security guard asked me to relinquish my purse for
inspection. He emptied the contents onto a large table
where everyone could see. He explained that spot
inspections were done to prevent any violent acts or
destruction of the Holocaust exhibition. In a strange way
I felt stripped and vulnerable.
To distract myself until the tour began, I went into
the museum's gift shop filled with many artistic and
religious items from Israel. I spotted a table with an
assortment of menorahs. Some were ceramic and painted with bright colors. Others were more traditional and made of
metals. My eye was drawn to a little menorah that looked
like a small silver tree. I picked it up and quietly held
it, remembering a distant time in my childhood. Although
raised in a non-religious Jewish home, I was carried back
to our celebration of Hanukkah and the small and simple
menorah my mother filled with colorful candles. My younger
sister and I were allowed to light a new candle each night
for eight nights. It was a rare and joyful time for our family.
Now I held the little silver menorah close to my chest
and warm tears trickled down my cheeks. I decided to buy
it - the first step in my repossession of my birth as a
Jew. It was an amazing moment for me.
As we toured the museum, we came to a case filled with
the personal belongings of an exterminated Jewish family
from Poland - baby photos, an infant's shoes, and a large
china platter with the lovely little girl's photographed
face in the center. I felt like an intruder sifting
through the precious remains of an unknown family.
Suddenly I realized that those Polish Jews were not
strangers at all - we were connected by our mutual
heritage. The little girl's face strongly resembled our
own older daughter, Sasha. As I looked into the face of
that innocent Jewish child, two opposing forces within me
met for the first time in my life. It was if the past and
the present were face to face, and I felt complete. I no
longer needed to struggle and hide, but I opened my heart
to integration and to peace.
As we continued on the tour we saw walls covered with
photos of many Gentile people who sacrificed their own
lives to help hide Jews from the Nazis. I learned a
powerful lesson about heroism that day. No longer will I
dismiss the events of the Holocaust or the many souls who
perished in vain. I will never again be ashamed to call
myself a Jew, a member of a strong, surviving people.
Now, twenty-seven years later, I am able to see that I
have not sold my heritage, but followed it to its prophetic
conclusion. This Hanukkah my husband and I will once again light the candles of our menorah, blending my Jewish
heritage and my Christian faith.
By Judith Hayes
On Hanukkah, the first dark night,
Light yourself a candle bright.
I'll you, if you will me invite
To dance within that gentle light.
-Unknown
In addition to the lighting of the menorah, other traditions include spinning the dreidel, eating oily foods, and giving gifts and Hanukkah gelt. The dreidel, a four-sided top with the Hebrew letters "nun," "gimel," "hey" and "shin," is spun by family members to determine how many nuts, raisins, tokens, or chips are won based on the value assigned to each letter. Nun is nothing, gimel is all, hey is half, and shin requires the player to add a token into the pot.
