Sunday night, we lit all the candles. With any luck, we were surrounded by friends and family. We shared pictures online, shared good food and good times. The previous days may have been filled with parties, dinners, presents, songs—perhaps even a little bit of painting, accompanied by a lot of latkes, with our Temple Beth David family.
Family can provide the light we need in dark times.
For some, the candles didn’t shine quite as brightly as in past years, as thoughts turned to those who weren’t there to share them. Maybe this Hanukkah was a time of loss, a time of worry, a time of frustration at the bitter cold. Perhaps you were missing family—or wishing you didn’t have to spend quite so much time with yours.
As much light as families bring, there are moments when they cannot protect us from the deepest darkness. Sometimes, they may even be part of it. Families, we know, are complicated. They can cause the wound and, at times, also be the ones to provide the salve.
Very few of us, I hope, have experienced anything like what Joseph endured at the hands of his brothers. In this week’s Torah portion, Vayigash, Jacob’s sons are desperate and hungry, searching for help. Joseph—the brother they sold into slavery, the one they betrayed—now holds their fate in his hands. He could punish them. He could turn them away. Instead, the Torah tells us that he “kissed all his brothers and wept with them.”
It’s hard to imagine responding that way. Joseph does not pretend nothing happened. He doesn’t erase the past or excuse the pain. But he chooses not to let it have the final word. He sees the possibility of God’s presence even in a story marked by human failure, and he allows himself to respond with compassion rather than revenge.
That choice doesn’t suddenly make his family perfect. It doesn’t undo the years of loss. But it lets light back in. Joseph feeds his brothers. He protects them. He gives them a way forward. It is not an easy or effortless light—it is the quiet, stubborn light that appears after long darkness. Like the Hanukkah candles, it reminds us that light doesn’t mean everything is fixed. It means choosing, again and again, to kindle something hopeful anyway.
In families, where love and hurt often live side by side, we are reminded that healing often begins not with erasing the past, but with choosing compassion over bitterness, relationship over rupture, hope over despair, light over darkness. It may take time, separation, reparation, and hard work to light the spark, but when it comes, even a small flame can be breathtaking.
Shabbat Shalom!
Rebecca Abbate
