The Auction Chair wakes early to ponder the Hanukkah miracle, and the first meeting of the Spring Auction Team.

It's 3:30 am.

Katie crawls into bed, crooning "Didi, I had a bad dream."

I know what comes next.

"Didi, I need my water", then the cat hears us and starts mewling.

By the time the cat is fed and Katie is back to sleep, my brain has booted up and I'm contemplating the Spring Benefit with Circus theme. What to call it?  Cirque de Black Pine?  Cirque de Soiree? Black Pine Circus?  All I know is that I've taken a stand to raise money for the school's priorities by chairing the auction, and now I can't get back to sleep.

In 6 hours I'll be in Romina's colorful classroom, ladling applesauce onto latkes (thanks to Sandy B. and Trader Joe's) for Mila and Maya, Zakai and Grace, et al.  I'm not a practicing Jew but I am a practicing parent and this is how I roll.  I'm trained in mindfulness-based stress reduction so I should be able to handle half an hour of shrieking and inexpertly whirled dreidels.  And I'm storyteller, and Hanukkah has a story worth telling. I'll keep it brief:

An extended family called the Maccabees had stood up, refusing to exchange the traditions of their ancestors for the fast-spreading Hellenic worship of Jupiter and Bacchus.  King Antiochus had not undergone diversity training, so it was, not for the first time, a pretty rough period for the Jews. Through pluck, assymetric warfare, and g-d knows what else, they prevailed, and on reclaiming their singular and holy site, the Temple of Jerusalem, they discovered it had been defiled in every way imaginable.  A few weeks ago, I had to collect my sick daughter in a car with a just-broken-window, after losing my laptop, and I felt pretty darn unsettled, so I can't come close to imagining the anguish of my G-d-fearing tribal ancestors.

Well, someone had to clean up the mess, and they needed light to do so.  But it was a tradition to only burn the first drops of oil pressed from the best olives, and there wasn't enough.  One can imagine an argument ensuing about expedience and burning whatever oil could be found while they cleared away the pig and horse droppings and remains of their burned library of painstakingly hand-copied texts. But somehow it was decided that they would burn the scant oil that been prepared mindfully and with devotion.  We know what happens next.

Grace, the story might suggest, is given not for believing in miracles but in defending noble intentions, sticking together for a higher purpose.
I can't change the situation of the poor and desperate in Berkeley. I can't even stop my kids from picking their noses.  But I can do something to support the school community that's taking shared responsibility for raising my kids to be open-minded, reflective, plucky, and empathetic beings who will meet the myriad challenges of our times.

The nine of us who met last night, and those others who stand with us, are pledging to harness the goodwill of this community of parents and teachers, and our collective resources, to bridge that gap between tuition and what it costs to deliver this miraculous and abundant learning context to our kids.  I am honored to stand with you.