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Though some time has passed, this story remains linked here because it is illustrative of some of the impact of our activities and the type of interactions that take place through the year - many of which are personal, or recognizable. In this case, Marti was happy to have her story recorded and shared.
Dear Friend,
It was at the height of Covid-19 in California.
Vaccines were still a hope away, lockdowns had come and gone, and local color-code guidelines had taken their place. Fear of the unknown was still rampant.
But Chanukah was here, and Chanukah had to be celebrated—together, if at all possible.
The restaurants, back to operating at full-steam outdoors, had overtaken our regular space at the plaza over the lake, so we searched for a new, large, open-spaced location that could allow for a safe gathering.
Thank G-d we found a perfect place: The Grand Terrace at Central Park, right in front of City Hall and the Bell Tower. We packaged Chanukah goodies in individual bags to distribute to the children, and prepared for a distanced, masked, small but happy crowd.
But then, just a few days before Chanukah, the statewide numbers spiked. The county tier was elevated, and strong recommendations were issued. For us, it was the first time in the 10 months of the pandemic that we actually knew people in our immediate community—three families and a developing fourth—who were quarantining and trying to recover after having tested positive for the virus.
The prudent choice seemed to be to take all Chanukah services and events into virtual space, and that’s what we did: we offered three separate zoom events—a lighting, a musical performance, and a Moroccan doughnut-making show—on three nights of Chanukah.
But what to do with all the kids’ bags, packed with love, party favors, and freshly-baked dreidel cookies? And what about all those people at home who were craving some real, non-virtual, connection?
We decided to dedicate a few nights to driving around to visit individual homes to deliver the “party bags” and bring Chanukah joy from the outside. As Chanukah comes from the word “Chinuch” – education – we decided to try and prioritize families with children and then visit others as time allowed.
We knocked on the doors, delivered the party bags, sang and danced from afar, and brought many smiles. Additionally, both of our cars now had electrical menorahs on the roofs, so this created a great photo-op for the kids and a car-menorah parade of sorts.
Little did we know what those car menorahs would do.
As this project was more of a “let’s grab the opportunity” type of thing, we didn’t have a major route planned. As we left each location, my wife (Rochel) and I consulted about where to go next.
I couldn’t understand why she kept mentioning Esther. Esther was a grandmother whose children were long grown, and from past experience I knew that her prime “visiting hours” usually waned by early evening. Yes, she had grandchildren with whom she could share the Chanukah bags, but why not drop them by sometime in the day? Why not use the precious evening hours to instead bring our Chanukah procession to someone whose kids would actually be there to see the menorah parade and have possible life-long memories created by the visit?
Nevertheless, on the second night of our procession, after Rochel asked about Esther again, that’s where we went.
I rang Esther’s bell and left the bags at the door. True to my prediction, Esther wasn’t up for visitors. She waved from the second-story window and confirmed by text that she would collect the bags later.
But apparently G-d had better plans in store, that somehow my wife had sensed.
As we were parked in front of the house, I stood on the road outside the car waiting for the text back-and-forth with Esther to be completed. A woman, out walking her dog, passed by and said, “Happy Chanukah!”
I responded in kind, and then, knowing that a friendly Chanukah greeting doesn’t necessarily mean Jewish, I followed up with, “Do you celebrate Chanukah?”
When she said yes, I asked, “Do you have candles?”
She didn’t.
But I did.
Bingo.
Maybe that’s why G-d brought us here now.
I was delighted to share a box from the stock that we try to keep in the car during Chanukah in case of such opportunities, and she was delighted to receive it.
We exchanged a few words, but the time or mood didn’t seem ripe for much further discussion so we just noted her house number—she lived right across the street from Esther—and planned a future visit.
A few days later, on Friday afternoon, Rochel stopped by with a welcome package of a fresh home-baked challah for Shabbos, one of her trademark dips, and Shabbat candles with local candle-lighting time. The woman wasn’t home, so Rochel left it with a note at the front door.
It took about a week or two, but finally we received an acknowledgement email: Marti had been pleased to meet us on Chanukah and to receive the Shabbos package, but she wasn’t up to socializing much yet—her husband had passed away just a few months earlier.
An email like that can be taken at face value—perhaps she is asking for a bit of time to heal first?—but Rochel in her wisdom saw this sad news as all the more reason for trying to reach out immediately, and now at least we had Marti’s name and contact information.
Rochel visited her, spoke, and invited her for an outdoor Shabbos meal. She was delighted to take up the offer, even as the rain drove us indoors.
Here, for the first time, I heard her side of the story:
When she and her late husband, Michael, had moved from the Valley to Rancho S. Margarita some eight years prior, they had a certain sense of doubt and discomfort in this new town so distant from the Jewish surroundings they had been used to.
And then they saw the Menorah on the corner.
While the Menorah didn’t inspire an interest in them to look for an active Jewish community—for inexplicable reasons, we may not even have had a sign up in those first years—it did bring a sense of belonging and comfort and it settled all doubt: Rancho was a place to call home*.
Eight pleasant years passed, then suddenly, without much warning, Michael passed away.
Every day without Michael was difficult, and Chanukah was no different.
No matter that they had never actually lit the menorah before. It was a Jewish holiday, and they knew all the Yiddish foods and phrases that cultural Jews know, and the lacking of her life’s partner on this special holiday was deeply felt.
Marti’s friend from the Valley encouraged her to get a menorah and to light the candles.
“But it’s already deep into Chanukah and where will I find a menorah?” Marti asked.
Her friend persisted, so Marti went searching. Finally she found one at TJ Max, but there were no candles to be had anywhere.
“Order candles on Amazon,” instructed her friend.
“But tonight’s already the sixth night, and they won’t come until after Chanukah?”
“Order them anyway,” said the friend.
So Marti left the comfort of her front room couch and went to her late husband’s home office at the back of the house.
As soon as she had made her order, she walked back to her front room, but from this angle something caught her eye through the blinds: there was a strange white light** coming from outside, and she knew it hadn’t been there before.
She opened the blinds, and to her pleasant shock, there she saw two Menorah cars, right across the street, and a rabbi standing right there!
She got the leash on Hanky and quickly walked outside. Mustering all her strength and excitement she shouted gleefully, “Happy Chanukah!”
The rabbi responded in kind, and asked if she celebrated Chanukah, and did she need candles.
Talk about the fastest Amazon delivery in the history of mankind!
She went inside and lit the candles, warmed by the special, Heaven-sent encounter.
A few days later, Marti was out walking her dog, feeling down and dejected. She was also hungry, but just didn’t feel up to having to prepare herself food. When she got home, there, at her front doorstep, was Chabad RSM’s Challah welcome package that Rochel had delivered.
As she lit the Shabbat candles for the first time in many years, tears of joy streamed down her face. At a time when she had needed it most, G-d had sent her a local family.
Ever since that time, Marti has been involved in the community – coming to events, joining us at our Shabbat table, volunteering for various holiday deliveries (she might have delivered your Passover shmurah matzah or Purim package, if it wasn’t me or Simcha) and even discovering a new friend in her across-the-street neighbor. The blessing is mutual.
This Chanukah-Covid miracle was a small peek into G-d’s own constant Divine Providence, over the entire universe, over each individual, and down to the minutest of specks of His creation.
The ways of G-d are mysterious and beyond our understanding, but G-d is good and kind. Our job as humans is to do our best at practicing and sharing His goodness and kindness in the best way we know (since her own discovery, Marti herself has connected several of her unaffiliated friends to their local Chabad communities).
May G-d finally reveal His plan and remove the pain and challenge and darkness, for so many, on so many levels, and reveal His goodness and kindness and presence to the world at large, bringing back the lights of the Menorah in His Bais-Hamikdash rebuilt, the Third Temple, and brightness and blessing to entire world.
***
Wishing you much blessing and success, and a good Shabbos, and a bright and happy Chanukah!
ברכה והצלחה - שבת שלום ומבורך!
*This part of the story brought me particular joy. The Menorah on the corner of Fundadores and RSM Parkway is a beautiful opportunity and project that we are thankful for, and that we know brings light to the community in a broad way. But hearing the personal impact it made on someone’s life gives extra meaning to all the effort involved in putting it up, storing it, and “babysitting” it—making sure that a bulb hasn’t gone out, that the electricity is working properly after a rain, that the dreidel sign is still standing after a ferocious wind storm, etc. Miraculously, of all years, last year was possibly the first year that everything worked perfectly, from the time the Menorah went up until the day it was taken down. Thank G-d, and to the many volunteers over the years, including Morris, Gary, Tomer, Scott & Alexa, and Doug and whoever else I am forgetting now.
**The strange white light was from the new LED powered car menorah. That in itself is a story: Our other car menorah is years old, made of warm-light incandescent bulbs that have more of a candle or flame-like feel to them. For years I have tried to get another one like it for our second vehicle. Every year another story happened – once I forgot to order until it was too late, another year they were sold out especially early, another time they took my order then canceled it last minute because they had chosen not to make them that year – but I couldn’t bring myself to buy the Vegas-taxi-like lit menorah-box that was available, a menorah shape with no individual branches and an artificial white light that I didn’t go for. This past year, apparently due to Covid, the market was flooded with versions that had branches but still used white LED. With excitement, but some sense of resignation, I bought that new version—the type that is used all over Israel by Chabad Youth Organization—and mounted it on my car.
After this story I have new insight into the whole history of this purchase: Had I succeeded in buying the candle-like version, Marti may never have noticed the lights through the slats. Perhaps, year-after-year, Hashem specifically made sure I would not be successful in buying the incandescent one, so that eventually I would just buy a white-lighted one, and this way Marti would see it from the window and be able to find some comfort and much-needed connection – all at the right time.