I was raised Jewish, and while I never fulfilled my youthful ambition of becoming a rabbi—long story best left for the memoir—and haven't been a member of a congregation for more than 40 years (another long tale), I try to remain observant. Truth be told, I fail more often than not, and though I hoped to have my grandkids light the first candles on Christmas eve, which was also the first night of the Festival of Lights, things got too busy and the candles went unlit. By the time I got around to using the Menorah, the grandkids were elsewhere, the house was empty, and it was just me to say the Blessing, celebrate the Chanukah freedom message and Miracle of the scant supply of sacred oil lasting for eight days, and do the candle-lighting banishment of the Darkness. The house glowed. So did I.