Festival Of Lights

When I was ten years old, my family moved to a house with a patio between the garage and the kitchen, right on the front of the house. Sometimes, in the summertime, I'd sit on that porch swing with one foot tucked up underneath myself and the other stretched out long until my foot rested flat against the support pole in front of that swing. I'd gently push myself back and forth and watch as men with long curls instead of sideburns walked with their families to the orthodox synagogue at the end of our street.

On Wednesdays, during the school year, our school bus made an extra stop at Hebrew School where my friends would gather up their books and coats and scramble off the bus, hands reaching for the bobby pins they used to hold tiny cloth circles to the crowns of their heads.

In the evenings of December, on the way to the grocery store, I'd sit in the back seat as my mom drove past my friend's house where the electric menorah glowed blue in the bay window. I'd smile as I thought about the man inside that house who sent roses to his wife every Sunday, and that family of five who sat down for dinner together every single night.

Even then I felt a strange kinship with these men in prayer shawls and the women who ridded the home of yeast at least once each year. Some days I wished I could get off the bus at Hebrew School and wear a small circle of cloth on my head. Somehow I knew our histories held hands across years, or stories, or heritage, or something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

Now I know we are sisters and brothers, dancing out a rich story of mystery and grace and grit and loss and pain and redemption and life. Now I know we are richly bound by love and hope and light.

Last Sunday in church, as the congregation sang a hymn, a young man from India walked from the back of the church up to the altar in front. He bent low over the Advent candle - the one that represents hope - and with a steady hand, he touched the wick with fire and that candle glowed all morning; through the praying and preaching and singing. And when I closed my eyes and let my breath out slow, I smiled as I remembered an electric blue menorah in a bay window, years ago.

Linking to The High Calling's Advent Writing Project, hosted by Charity, at Wide Open Spaces.

Stop by and read more Advent stories like this one.

I am looking forward to 25 Days To A Smaller Christmas! 
It starts tomorrow, and you can get the 411 on that right here. 
Let's skip the mayhem this year, shall we?