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One year ago, my children lost their father unexpectedly to a heart attack. As with any death, especially the ones that shock us, they/we experienced a lot of chaos and disruption as we made plans to head down to Florida for his funeral.

After the meetings with funeral home and cemetery, we made our way back to our hotel. It was Chanukah and we had brought a Chanukiah with us to light while we were away. Sarah, Hannah, Hannah’s boyfriend Matthew and I perched the Chanukiah on the hotel dresser and sang the blessings. My kids’ voices trembled as this was the very first holiday they would experience without their dad.

And then, we sat in the dark room lit only by the candles, the clicking of Hannah’s keyboard as she wrote her eulogy, the only sound in the room. We could hear each other breathing. We all gazed at the candles until they burned out and didn’t speak again for the rest of the evening. We tearily hugged each other and went to sleep knowing we had a very hard day ahead of us.

The light of the candles have meant so much to me over the years. When I was growing up, we lit a Chanukiah at our temple that was made in a concentration camp out of nails-those were lights of resilience. When the kids were little, they showed off the menorahs made with popsicle sticks and nuts. At times when the world seemed to be in a state of strife, they were the lights of hope that good could triumph over evil. But on that particular night a year ago, they were lights of comfort and strength. Even when life sent us a pretty severe blow, the burning candles cradled us in their light and kept my kids from plunging completely into darkness.

May this Chanukah bring you warmth, hope and comfort as well, and may we all know joy in this beautiful and connective season of light.

Shabbat Shalom,

Beth