“In mercy do You give light to the earth and to all who dwell upon it…”
It is early morning, a time of peace and tranquility. The quiet of the night blends into morning’s arrival, and all is still. White clouds drift by slowly in a sea of pale blue, treetops stand silently in mute observation.
On the windowsill, one red rose stands alone in a vase, nestled among the white dried flowers of a bouquet which surrounds her. Glowing with hopefulness, defiant in her cheerfulness, proud and glorious.
Was it only a few days ago that I filled the vase with a large bunch of red roses, in fresh clear water, surrounded by a delicate assortment of white petals of purity. And watched as throughout the following days the roses wilted, their petals falling onto the windowsill, mocking the beckoning beams of sunshine which caressed them each morning.
And now, there is only one. Radiantly glowing among the white stillness which surrounds her. Proudly, stubbornly proclaiming life and hope.
It is winter now, soon it will be spring. One season follows the next, as time goes forward, despite. Despite our feeling that time stopped, over a year ago. The hands of the clock paused, and we are waiting, for a miracle. Perhaps today.
It will soon be the Tenth of Tevet, the only fast day which is observed even on Erev Shabbat. On this date began the siege of Jerusalem, and a chain of events which led to the destruction of the First Temple and our exile from the Holy Land. According to tradition the fast also commemorates other calamities that occurred throughout Jewish history. It is a day of mourning, “Yom HaKaddish Haklali ”, on which we say Kaddish for those whose date or place of death is unknown, a day on which we say Kaddish for the victims of the Holocaust.
The month of Tevet was preceded by the month of Kislev, the month of darkness, of dreams and miracles. The holiday of Hanukkah. And somehow, the light of Hanukkah drifts onto the mourning of the Tenth of Tevet.
For eight days we lit the Menorah. In a time of pain and confusion, a time of grief mixed with hope, a time of surrealism. In which resilience has become a part of our daily lives. We continue to light the light of hope and faith in the belief that someday, one day, perhaps even today, peace and serenity will return to our Land of Promise.
On Hanukkah, each night we lit candles, only to watch the light go out after a short time, replaced again by darkness. For eight days, on each evening, we lit the lights anew, adding in number, building in intensity. Perhaps today.
For eight is the number of mystery, of magic, of the supernatural. The world was created in seven days. Perhaps it was on the eighth day that we, Man, became a partner to God in Creation.
Creation is an ongoing process. It is occurring each day, each minute, even now…Can you feel it?
And we too have a role in Creation. In enhancing the sacred, in making our days more beautiful, full of promise for ourselves, for our children and grandchildren, for the future.
But how, when we find ourselves surrounded by a world which sometimes seems to be one of darkness?
We each carry inside ourselves a flame. A light that must be kindled anew as darkness falls, so that we will remember.
As sorrow surrounds us, we discover once again the strength. Surrounded by darkness, we see the flicker of hope, of faith, of courage.
It is Hanukkah, and we are walking down the path of Mamilla in the holy city of Jerusalem. A musician is singing, loudly and resolutely proclaiming through the microphone:
“Esa einai el heharim…”
“I lift up my eyes to the hills, from where will come my help?
My help is from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth
He will not allow your foot to falter…” (Psalms 121:1-3).
Around him a small crowd had formed, enthusiastically.
We proceeded down the path.
And then I heard, softly but distinctly, the strains of a young girl on her guitar, singing to the night:
“Me and my head high
And my tears dry…
And I tread a troubled track
My odds are stacked
I’ll go back to black”
(Amy Winehouse, Back to Black)
Yes, it seemed quite appropriate to these days… We, the second and third generation of Holocaust Survivors, grew up with the belief that The War was an aberration. Mankind had learned its lesson, and never again could such evil befall our people, or any people. We held the creation of the State of Israel as a sign, as the rainbow after the flood, of Never Again.
But now, we were shocked to discover, that mankind has not changed. That it is apparently the destiny of our Nation to fight evil and our destruction again and again, as it is written in the Passover Haggadah, ”for in every generation there are those who rise to destroy us, but the Holy One, Blessed be He, saves us from their hands.”
I think sometimes I would like to just go to sleep until I can wake up and find the world is a better place. But have we that option?
Or perhaps, in the spirit of the Tenth of Tevet, in the name of those whose resting place is not known, we are somehow obliged to hold aloft the torch of faith, of hope of goodness. To continue to carry in our hearts the flame of light and hope kindled each night of Hanukkah. For eight is the number of the miraculous. The magic number which when put on its side is the symbol of eternity.
Each night, we watched the flames dwindle and darkness return. And yet. The brightness of the light still lingers.
Each night we lit the candles of faith and hope anew, with the knowledge that light will return to us in the morning as dawn breaks.
“Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard” (Isaiah 58:8)
Again, I think of my father (z’l), a Holocaust Survivor. The eternal optimist, always “looking towards a brighter future”. The resting place of his first wife and child, the resting place of his mother and sisters, of the many cousins, unknown. And yet…
From where is the strength?
It is morning, a time of peacefulness, a time of expectation. The sky is bright blue now in majestic serenity, tree tops swaying gently in the passing breeze.
Sunlight sparkles on the windowsill. The petals of a red rose glisten as sunlight bathes her in warmth. Silently, softly, persistently, the rose glows, surrounded by a bouquet of whiteness. One red rose, vibrant in her hopefulness.
A reminder. Of hope, of grace, of life’s beauty.
The lights of the candles we lit on Hanukkah will merge with the flames of Yizkor, for our heroes, for our beloved. May their memory be blessed.
We pray for a renewal of the miraculous. Our hearts yearn for the return of our hostages and soldiers, in safety. For a return to serenity and a time of rebuilding. For mercy, for deliverance, for Redemption.
Remember not the former things; nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? (Isaiah 41: 18-19)