On the darkest dark night of winter, one small light marks the start of the festival.

This darkest night is the longest night, too. In winter, in Maine, daylight can last maybe eight hours—if you’re lucky. And as the moon of the month of Kislev wanes from quarter, to sliver, to new, the Chanukah festival begins.

A funeral is an elementary school gym. The same gym where, in the evenings, you memorize the faded lines that mark the borders of the volleyball court, the gym that you and your ten-year-old teammates sneak away from to peek into the boys bathroom, to see if it really is bigger than the girls (“It is!” you squeal, waving over the other girls to see for themselves). The gym where your P.E. teacher sets out little black X’s on the floor to mark each kid’s spot. “Don’t move from your place,” she says, so you sit criss-cross-apple-sauce, even on the day that you sob all through class because you got in trouble for forgetting to write your name at the top of your multiplication test.

I came home to wisps of white paper blowing through the screened-in porch like feathers in a chicken coop. Rosie, the rescue puppy, was sitting on haunches with head bowed and tail wagging sheepishly, white exclamation points in the black spots of her scruffy fur. The trail of paper led from the porch, through the dog door, to the living room floor, to the black leather cover of my grandmother’s Bible, her name in gold on the lower corner.

The sidewalks in West Philadelphia are notoriously uneven. Cracks splinter across a cement landscape of protruding roots and gnarled knots, a battleground of nature’s rebellion against the cages built by mankind. Litter adorns small patches of grass like jewelry, reflecting the sun’s rays as it pierces through thin layers of clouds.

Reb Nachman of Bratislav, the 18th century sage, wrote:

כל העולם כולו גשר צר מאוד והעיקר לא לפחד כלל

Kol ha’olam kulo gesher tsar m’od v’ha-ikar lo l’pakhad k’lal

The whole entire world is a very narrow bridge and the important thing is to not be afraid.

Hasbun Allahi wa nimal wakeel. These words had become my mantra. “God alone is sufficient for us, and He alone can rectify our affairs.” These were the words that I would recite thousands of times a day that winter. I would repeat this phrase in the early morning hours when I couldn’t sleep. As I heard myself murmur the words, my own voice seemed to lull me into a trance-like state, as if I floated out of my body.

whited sepulchres which appear beautiful outward

but are within full of dead men’s bones and of all uncleanness

For my Lutheran confirmation, my sister gave me a copy of Our Bodies, Our Selves. Inside the book’s front cover, she wrote, “I hope you find this book useful as a woman and a growing person.”

I met Dennis when he was in high school, I was in college, and we were both teaching English at a religious summer camp in Croatia. He came with a group from Oklahoma, including the team leadership. I signed up with a friend from college. We had a few days of training in Chicago before flying. The all-White male leadership set the tone for us, as we sat in a stuffy hotel meeting room, on the third floor, with closed windows on a windy day. There they asked us to write what we thought our lives would have been like if we had not found Christianity. Was it a trick question?

Dear Teenage Deb,

Coming of age in the 1970s, you sometimes marvel at the inconceivable notion of one day living in the twenty-first century, of being forty-three (ancient!), when chimes clang and horns blare, welcoming a fresh numeral on humanity’s odometer. However, you also doubt the probability of living to the year 2000, since the Rapture is bound to occur at any moment.

I’d waited an eternity, but I’m finally holding my brand-new Deutsch Reisepass. It’s stiff and unyielding, unlike my mother’s and grandparents’, which are worn, faded, and pliable. If I handle those old passports too roughly, the prominent swastika and red J on the cover may turn to dust in my hands. From dust to dust.

Praying during the first grief-soaked month following my father’s death felt rote to me. Awkward. I had taken on the obligation of saying the Mourner’s Kaddish every day for at least a month before realizing I had forgotten how to pray. A professor in college who gave me a C on a paper about James Joyce’s Ulysses said I was like a blind woman trying to describe a painting in front of her. That’s how it felt saying the Kaddish.

We held our hands in prayer. “Te lo pido, señor.” That week, it was my turn to visit Marco at the Elizabeth Detention Center, a contract detention facility in New Jersey used by Immigrations and Customs Enforcement to detain immigrants determined to be “suspicious” or “illegal.”