If you walked into my home right now, you would find this Arizona-dwelling Presbyterian girl up to her arms in shredded potato (ten pounds of it, to be precise), hands red and cracked, nose and eyes running from onion fumes, and stinking to high heaven from peanut oil. The menorah is on the table, with seven candles prepared to be lit, and my husband is out in a last minute search for gelt (or m&ms, if time is tight).

Why? Indulge me as I channel Zero Mostel and respond with a resounding "Tradition!".

Seriously.

I was born into a Reformed Jewish household (my mom converted shortly before her first marriage); named and confirmed in the temple. I wasn't bat mitzvah'ed...my parents divorce curtailed my Hebrew school attendance.

Then I got sidetracked by my mother's second marriage, to a devout Roman Catholic, which resulted in amass conversion (my mom, sisters, and I). I became a Christian at 18, but the love for the festivals never left my heart. The God of the Old Testament is the God of the New...the story has simply come to fruition.

One wit once quipped that the Jewish Holidays all boil down to this, "They tried to kill us. We survived. Let's eat". I think they are more aptly summed up. Our God is Faithful. He Saves.

The Lord who kept the lamp burning for eight nights on one night's worth of oil is the Lord who died to light a fire in this lost girl, wandering dead in her sin. The Lord who caused the angel of death to Passover the homes of the faithful; sacrificed his beloved Lamb so that I could stand before Him.

So, while the menorah will never replace the honored stations that the Nativity sets and Christmas tree take in our home each December; at least one night will find my children (and my godchildren) clamoring for latkes, gambling their gelt, and basking in the glow of the candles as we recount God's faithfulness to his people.

Happy Chanukkah.