Tradition

Today, we picked out our Christmas tree, which stands tall and beautiful, warming our home and our hearts. But today, I find myself reflecting on love and forgiveness, grappling with guilt and the feeling of not fitting in. It's a kind of confession, a struggle to free the thoughts that have been weighing on my mind. When my dad passed away, my brother told me how devastated he was—how he asked Daniel about Hanukkah, and Daniel didn't know why we celebrate it. My father wept in front of him. He was a survivor of the Holocaust, having lost relatives and nearly losing his life. I broke his heart when I married a Christian, and he pleaded with me, "Don’t make me into Tevye," referencing the character from Fiddler on the Roof. When Tevye's daughter falls for a Christian, her father disowns her and considers her dead. As a child, I would pass by a synagogue and ask my father why he never went in to pray. He’d say that he could pray anywhere—God was everywhere, and he didn't believe he needed to go to a synagogue to connect. I grew up with tradition, but more as a spiritual person than a religious one, and I carried that philosophy forward. Yet, my brother's words pierced me deeply. My dad was everything to me. When he entered a room, I always felt safe. He’d kiss my eyelids and call me his little girl, even as I grew older and had children of my own. During Christmas, he would visit and see my decorated tree, full of ornaments I had collected over the years—marking special moments like my baby’s first Christmas, preschool crafts, or Josh's first year at Duke University. I’d linger happily as I placed each ornament on the tree. The story my brother shared tugged at my heart, especially now, as we lit Hanukkah candles. When I did, I thought of my dad—how I broke his heart, yet we found our way back to each other. He accepted me and never turned away, healing through love and forgiveness. I realize how difficult it was for him to accept my choices, but that's the true power of love and forgiveness.