OH MOZART!

I am rethinking the tree. Mozart managed to overcome his aversion to fake tree (you should have seen his shocked and horrified face when he realized it was fake), and I managed to save the glass ornaments-my very bad to have ever thought Mozart the fluttery, dangly, and now sparkly things lover would be able to stay away from a Christmas tree loaded with the stuff.

I thought I'd gone the smart route putting the tree on an end table. I was kidding myself.

So much for the idea of putting a little Christmas train around the base.

I'm thinking a big wreath on the wall with the ornaments-surely 'Zart can't jump that high, can he?

Goofy git!

The Christmas decorations lasted about an hour. The worst was him grabbing the Baby Jesus out of the manger and running down the hall with it in his mouth. I'm still looking for the little guy. Jesus, not the cat. After he stashed the Messiah he came back for Joseph and Mary, but I'd already returned the Holy Parents to the box.

Gee, if he likes Christmas, he is going to LOVE Chanukhah.

I finally bought a real menorah, and am planning to light up the candles beginning on the 4th. I've got a window that looks out to the front, and I'll be able to put the menorah on the window sill.

I'd already planned to sit quietly by the candles, but Mozart makes that an imperative, now. However I will not give up on the lighting.

Chanukhah commemorates freedom, religious freedom. Frankly I am surprised more Americans don't light a menorah at Chanukhah, I really am.

Every year I read about those Christian families who light menorahs after a Jewish neighbour has been targeted by anti-Semites for lighting a menorah during Chanukhah. Crusty was such an neo-nazi/kkk wannabe that I was afraid to suggest we light one, too.

He never knew Barbara, and he barely knew my sister, who'd converted early in her marriage. Crusty did not like Jews, so he refused to be around my sister.

Crusty didn't like black Americans, either.

He didn't like Southerners, or Mexicans, or poor people, or Brits, or the physically and/or mentally challenged.

I could on-Crusty didn't like anyone but himself.

I started lighting a menorah in '03 at the request of three young people dying of cancer, and a young woman who pretended to be a Methodist to avoid trouble in her small Southern town.

Her name was Deborah, and she was a prostitute, but as long as she pretended to be Methodist she was relatively safe in a town filled with Hate. Deborah died at the turn of the century, still young, and still pretending.

But not with me. She knew to me the greater problem was the selling of her body, and she died as a consequence of it. She faced Death bravely, but asked me to light the menorah, to remember her, to pray for her.

The children I wrote about in '05.

Rachel.

Rebbecca.

Benjamin, the would be rabbi.

Barbara never asked me to do anything including convert. I doubt I would be permitted, I do believe Yeshua bar Joseph was the Promised One.

But somewhere, every year I can feel her presence. I feel her, and Deborah, and the children; I hear them lead me through the steps of preparation.

I hear young Benjamin's voice quietly and confidently begin the proscribed prayers for the first lighting, and I hear little Rachel's eight year old forever voice join, then Rebbecca's, Deborah's, and finally Barbara's voices fill my ears and heart.

Freedom. Forever.

"As for me, and my house, we shall serve the Lord."