Miracles and Light

I have been wanting to write about my father, as we come to the one year mark of the date that we lost him: his yarzheit.

I have been thinking a lot of this time of year in particular and how joyful it is for me in many ways. We are celebrating the birthday of Nicolas, our youngest, who turns 3 on December 11th, just 2 days before my father died one year ago. Nicolas was born in 2009 and December 11th fell on the first night of Channukah that year. We chose the Hebrew name Nissim for Nicolas, which means miracle. The miracle of the oil, which lasted 8 days, is an important part of the Channukah story, and is featured in the acronym of the dreiel: "A great miracle happened here." Nissim fit because Nicolas was born on the first night of Channukah and because we felt we had many miracles in our own lives - being blessed with 3 beautiful boys, and also my father living as long as he had with his cancer - much longer than the doctors had predicted.

December is a happy time for me because I celebrate and remember the birth of Nicolas, and it is also the time that Channukah tends to fall - a holiday that is full of light. Each child in our family has his own menorah, and Ramon and I light a menorah that was given to us when we were married. When we light our four menorahs each night, the boys like to make bets on which candle will sink the fastest. There is a radiance, a brightness in our house as we watch the candles burn down: the reflections on each child's face, the glow in their eyes.

So here we are, and it is that time again, surrounded by light, and joy, and miracles, and deep sadness as we remember and miss my father.

Yet, to be feeling all of these emotions is also much in accordance with my father's life (and of all our lives, really). My father's life was filled with much joy, many miracles, and also much sadness. His children and his work as a doctor and scholar brought him much joy; his strength and perseverance in the face of terminal cancer was nothing short of miraculous.

There was also much sadness in his life, as in all of our lives. He didn't hide his sadness from us. One of his favorite songs, which he shared with us when we were young, was "It's Alright to Cry" from the Free to Be You and Me album. When we visited him in his small Cambridge apartment after my parents were divorced and we lit the Shabbat candles together, he would often cry. Out of happiness that we were together, and sadness that he couldn't be with me and Daniel more often. There was light, there was joy, and there was sadness.

Tomorrow night we will light our menorahs together as a family, and watch the candles melt down - basking in the glow, making our predictions, watching, waiting, wondering. This Channukah, along with the colorful candles of the menorahs, my father's yarzheit candle will burn. Reminding us of it all as it comes together: the loss, the sorrow, the sweetness, and the light.