The Light We Share: A Holiday Reflection
By Tim Carl
NAPA VALLEY, Calif. — The candles cast a soft glow, flickering across the room as conversation filled the Steen family’s home on a crisp December evening in 1980. Hoping no one noticed, I quietly slipped under the dining room table. A second earlier my pet hamster, Max, had wriggled out of my pocket and disappeared beneath the furniture.
“Tim, what are you doing under there? You might knock over the menorah!” Mrs. Steen’s voice rang out with a mix of curiosity and concern.
Startled, I scrambled out and bumped my head on the table’s edge. Laughter erupted. Charlene Steen, Sarah’s mother, swooped in to steady the menorah. Her eyes twinkled with amusement as she gently adjusted it.
“Careful with this,” she said warmly. “It’s been in our family for generations, passed down from long before the war.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Steen,” I mumbled, my cheeks burning as I felt the weight of my clumsiness.
But Charlene waved it off with a smile and handed me a plate stacked high with golden-brown latkes.
“Here. Eat,” she said. “You’re too skinny.”
This year Christmas and Hanukkah fall on the same day — a rare alignment that feels like more than coincidence. It’s a moment to pause and remember that no matter how different our traditions may seem on the surface, they are all lit by the same desire to gather, to give and to hope.
The plate warmed my hands with the enticing aroma of fried potatoes and applesauce. I hesitated for a moment, feeling like an outsider in this bustling room filled with people I barely knew. But as I took a bite, the latke’s crisp exterior gave way to something tender and comforting. It was delicious — strange but wonderful.
The room buzzed with life. A few guests sang “Ma’oz Tzur” with theatrical vibrato while Sarah’s sister, Eva, rolled her eyes as she dusted powdered sugar over sufganiyot. The jelly-filled doughnuts gleamed like small treasures on a platter. In the kitchen, Charlene chopped herbs while her husband, Alan, recounted the story of the Maccabees with sweeping gestures, his calm voice punctuated by the sizzle of brisket in the oven.
Growing up in Napa Valley was nothing like it is today. In 1980, the valley was just beginning to take on the identity for which it is now famous. Back then it was a patchwork of prunes, walnuts, vineyards, plums and dairy farms. Cattle ranches dotted the hillsides, and middle-class families like mine lived by shared routines, patterns and traditions. But change was on the horizon. Wineries were multiplying, bringing an influx of new people and ideas. Those shifts gradually reshaped our community, bringing growth and opportunities but also altering the patterns and pace many had known.
The world outside our small town was changing too. Just two days earlier, John Lennon had been killed, a tragedy that reverberated across generations. The headlines were dominated by Cold War tensions, the Iran-Iraq War and fears of nuclear conflict. These anxieties also fueled debates about diplomacy and the need for global cooperation. Ronald Reagan’s election marked a sharp national shift toward conservatism, contrasting starkly with the progressive ideals of Jimmy Carter’s previous term. Yet amidst these seismic global shifts, quieter milestones emerged: CNN debuted as the first 24-hour news channel, Post-it notes became an everyday staple and nearly everyone was engrossed in the challenge of solving Rubik’s Cubes. There were bright spots, too: The U.S. hockey team’s unexpected victory over the Soviet team in the “Miracle on Ice” brought a surge of national pride, and the World Health Organization declared the eradication of smallpox, a monumental triumph in global health.
Just the year earlier, Sarah’s family had moved to St. Helena, and we became fast friends. Before meeting her, I realized I hadn’t met anyone who was Jewish — or at least no one who had openly shared that part of their identity. Beyond the basics from history class, I didn’t have much understanding of what that really meant. Spending time with the Steens introduced me to new foods, stories and traditions, expanding my world in ways I hadn’t anticipated. They welcomed me with open arms, graciously accepting my awkward attempts to navigate their customs.
“So,” Sarah asked suddenly, breaking my reverie as she held out a sufganiyot dusted with powdered sugar. “What do you think?”
“About what?” I asked cautiously as I wiped my hands on my jeans, scanning the room for Max.
“Hanukkah,” she said expectantly.
I hesitated.
“It’s … different,” I said, finally.
Her face fell into an exaggerated pout.
“Different bad or good?” she asked.
“Different amazing,” I said quickly and truthfully as I bit into the doughnut.
The sweetness hit my tongue unexpectedly. It felt like a burst of happiness, and I couldn’t help but grin.
“What do you even do for Christmas?” someone called from across the room with playful curiosity. “Sing about reindeer? Eat marshmallows on your yams?”
“Sing? No,” I replied with mock seriousness. “Marshmallows on yams? Yes.”
Just then, a sudden squeak silenced the room as Max darted across the floor like a tiny bolt of lightning. Eva let out a sharp shriek, leaping back as he narrowly avoided her feet and vanished under a chair.
“Max!” I shouted, diving after him. My face burned with embarrassment as I crawled on all fours, trying to catch him. After a few failed attempts and some stifled gasps from the guests, I finally scooped him up and stood, holding him aloft like a prize.
The room fell silent, all eyes on me and the squirming little troublemaker in my hands.
“Everyone, this is Max, my pet hamster,” I said. “He’s a bit dramatic, but he just wanted to join the party.”
The room erupted in laughter — real, hearty laughter that filled every corner. In that moment, I wasn’t just the awkward kid crashing someone else’s celebration. I was part of it, swept up in the noise and joy surrounding me.
Later that evening, the last night of Hanukkah, the Steens gathered around their menorah for the final lighting ceremony. All the candles burned brightly, their flames steady in the darkened room. Alan led a prayer while Charlene handed out small trinkets.
As we sat together afterward, enjoying one last round of sufganiyot and tea by candlelight, Charlene turned to me with her warm smile once again.
“You know,” she said softly as she placed a hand on mine, “this Hanukkah is special because it reminds us that even when things seem darkest, whether it’s war, loss or uncertainty, there is always light to be found.”
We sat for a moment in quiet reflection, the murmur of voices and the occasional burst of laughter weaving through the air. The gentle warmth of the room and the weight of her words seemed to settle deep within me. The flicker of light, the lingering aromas and the rhythm of the evening wrapped me in a sense of peace.
After a while, she rose and quietly made her way to the kitchen, but her words lingered with me long after that night ended.
A few days later, Christmas arrived in my home with its own rituals: our family’s food traditions of stuffed flank steak, French string beans, mashed potatoes with gravy, yams and maybe a few marshmallows. Laughter and the comforting scent of mulled wine filled the air. After dinner, we eagerly turned to our gifts, wrapping paper flying as they were exchanged, my brothers debating who had gotten the best presents and our tree glowing warmly beneath its mismatched ornaments — tiny relics of shared moments over time. Amid the cheerful commotion, Max peered out from his cage, his small paws gripping a morsel of food, his bright eyes tracking the flurry of activity as if yearning to be part of the celebration.
But my thoughts lingered on Hanukkah. The moments at the Steens’ table, filled with their kindness and traditions, stayed with me long after the evening had passed.
Years later, when I read Maya Angelou’s “Amazing Peace,” her words gave shape to what I’d felt that December: “We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas … We beckon this good season to wait a while with us.” Her poem spoke of traditions transcending boundaries and the shared light uniting us all.
This year Christmas and Hanukkah fall on the same day — a rare alignment that feels like more than coincidence. It’s a moment to pause and remember that no matter how different our traditions may seem on the surface, they are all lit by the same desire to gather, to give and to hope.
Here’s to love and unity this holiday season, and to the shared light that connects us all.
If today’s story captured your interest, explore these related articles:
‘We Can Change the World: Tales From a Generation’s Quest for Peace and Justice’
The Enduring Legacy of Napa Valley's Inspirational Educators
Tim Carl is a Napa Valley-based photojournalist.
Tim, what a lovely story. I will try very hard to remember that there is always light to be found amid dark times. Thank you!
Great story with your beautiful images! Peace on earth...