Chanukah.
First light.
The story of our people
alive in our hearts.
Small army, big army.
War.
Warriors.
Victory.
The shadows of our enemies within sight inside our kingdom, inside our walls, on our altars.
A small jug of pure oil, stamped with a holy seal.
Enough to rededicate our temple.
Reclaim what is ours.
Up-rise
Rise up.
Wash away the darkness that defiled us.
It held flame for eight nights.
A miracle.
A testament to our victory for the rest of time.
I mean, you couldn’t ask for better timing.
It’s dark out there.
And.
In this space, next to the light of the Chanukah candles, in the comfort of our home, it is peaceful.
There is warmth.
There is hope.
There is a continuum of experience.
There is precedence.
It feels like a new chapter of an age-old narrative.
It feels right.
Strong.
It feels like it matters.
Light a flame, friends.
So that we may
Know our light.
Embrace our light.
Embody our light.
Share our light.
Rejoice in our light.