Nineteen sixty-six marked the beginning of a long-standing December tradition, when my parents packed themselves up, along with their five children, and fled the Minnesota cold for two glorious, sun-baked weeks in Miami Beach, Florida. It was over thirty years ago, but I still remember feeling the thick, humid air hit me as I walked off the plane in what any Minnesotan in December would call a tropical paradise. I marveled at the sight of my first palm tree as we left the airport. It was nothing short of miraculous to me that we could step out the back of the motel and walk on the beach. I was warm, amazed, and happy... until in the middle of our trip, I woke up on the morning of the fourth night of Chanukah.

Knowing Chanukah was coming, my parents had remembered to bring along a menorah and some gelt--no problem there. We were staying in a very modest motel with lots of red and green decorations and pictures of Jesus adorning the lobby. There in front of the Christmas tree, my oldest sister, Marilyn, lit the menorah on the first night of Chanukah. Sherry, who was the next oldest, got to light it the second night, and Joanne, being next in line, took her turn on the third night. The other motel guests seemed both curious and respectful of our evening rituals. It was an interesting, mellow scene.

The morning of the fourth night was when the fireworks started. It was then that I realized I was the fourth child, the fourth night was coming, and, unlike my sisters, I didn't know the candle blessings. I went berserk, as only a six-year-old can. I wanted my turn, and no amount of "Say-it-in-English" or "Repeat-after-me" appeasement would work. If it was good enough for my sisters, it was good enough for me, and I was perfectly prepared to keep crying until I got my way or suffered a brain hemorrhage--whichever came first.

Catching wind of my jealousy and angst, my father came to the rescue. He took me by the hand and led me to the beach. What followed was one of the simplest but most memorable events of my childhood. Two guys in baggy shorts, one six, one thirty-four, walked hand in hand up and down the beach, over and over and over again. While we walked along the hot sand and cooled our toes in the foamy surf, my dad kept saying the Chanukah candle blessings to me and having me say them back to him. It went on for at least four or five hours. Later that night, I took my turn at the menorah and felt proud. Thanks to my dad, I belonged.

Two thousand years ago, Jews had a choice to leave Judaism for the gymnasium: we have the same choice today. Back then, the battle for Jewish survival was fought by soldiers with swords; today by every Jewish parent through long walks and patient teaching. Blessings have to be repeated, and Judaism has to be lived to be learned: who will do this for children if not their parents?

Born about twenty-one centuries too late, I suppose my father wasn't exactly a Maccabee... but in December 1966, with my hand in his, he managed to quietly re-create their miracle and help fight their war. I hope the rest of us with children do, too.