My perfect Hannakah present
It seemed so complicated back then.
The December Dilemma, folks called it.
Being a Gentile, my only December dilemma had been whether to put up a live Christmas tree or an artificial one for me and my daughter.
Then I met the Jewish man who became my husband after a friend fixed us up. We had to figure out how to navigate the December holidays.
How do you celebrate the holidays when half of the couple grew up Jewish and the other half grew up Catholic?
Do you put up a Christmas tree? Light a menorah? Exchange gifts on Christmas or for eight days during Chanukah? Do you make Chanukah bigger than it is to compete with Christmas or give that honor to Passover, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, holy days unfamiliar to me back then.
Playing Christmas music was fine. Bruce loved it and owned a ton of CDs. Could I put up my nativity set, or would that be the last straw? Did it help or hurt that it was carved in Israel?
When we first put up a Christmas tree, he said, “It’s your tree, not mine.” When a strand of holiday lights ended up on the outside of the house, he freaked out. In his mind, it marked to the world that the people living in our home weren’t Jewish.
I think he feared his Jewish identity would get lost in my Gentile world. I could see why. I loved to immerse myself in Christmas decorations and carols and Hallmark movies the whole month of December. I attended every church event during the Holy Week of Easter.
But love knows no religion. Maybe love IS our religion, because Judaism didn’t just survive in our family. It thrived.
The more I came to love Bruce and his two sons, the more I came to celebrate all of what it meant to be Jewish, and to be family.
While we dated, I finished my master’s degree in religious studies at John Carroll University. Because I was dating a Jewish man, his faith intrigued me so much I took a course on the Psalms at the College of Jewish Studies and a class on Jewish mysticism.
When I attended his youngest son’s bar mitzvah as the new girlfriend, it was awkward and uncomfortable for everyone. But gradually, I fit into his life and he into mine. My daughter and his sons became a beautiful blended family.
When we went to Israel for our honeymoon, I was blown away by Jerusalem, the Sea of Galilee and Tzfat, a mystical town that deeply touched my soul. Bruce was touched by the star mosaic on the floor of the church basement during our side trip to Bethlehem.
A few years ago, I became a columnist for the Cleveland Jewish News, which leads people to think I’m Jewish. I smile every time it pops up on Google that I’m Jewish. According to DNA tests, I am. A mere 1 percent, but I’m proud of it.
Sharing December holidays and negotiating our faiths and families transformed all of us. We make our sons’ Grammy’s noodle kugel recipe at Thanksgiving. We decorate dreidels and Jewish stars along with snowmen and gingerbread cookies. At least one night, our oldest son lights the menorah and tells the story of Chanukah to the three grandkids, who are mesmerized by the power of that story of survival.
They know their Papa and two uncles are Jewish. Our grandson went to his first bar mitzvah last month. When someone asked if he was going to the ceremony or just the party, he said both, that it would be rude not to go to the service. We were both kvelling over that.
Papa helped him get ready, adjust his new belt over new slacks, a dress shirt and sport coat and gave him a pep talk about what to expect at a bar mitzvah.
Our three kids are all grown and learned to love and respect each other’s traditions and heritage. None of us lost our identities; we found ways to explore them, expand them and strengthen them.
My husband and I always celebrate the day we met as our true anniversary, not the day we were married. He calls us b’shert, meant to be. Our whole family was meant to be.
It could because I met Bruce on Saturday, December 19, in 1992.
It turns out, that was the first day of Chanukah.
He was my Chanukah present, that year and forever.