We often saw her, frail and weak, wondering the streets of town. Finally one day my wife came to me, the Scriptures open in her hands. "Greg," she said, "I’ve been feeling convicted for some time now, and this verse just hits home really hard."

"I thought I married a convicted woman," I said, my lips twitching a little bit with amusement. "And now you say you’ve just become convicted?"

"Greg, I’m serious," Daleen persisted.

"OK, go ahead."

She began to read: "She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth out her hands to the needy."

"Well?" I asked, not sure where she was going with this.

"You know, the old lady in town," she replied.

"Oh." I didn’t look at her for a moment. I knew my wife had a kind heart, and I tried to have a kind one too, but some things were just a little too much. What could we do for that woman? We were of absolutely no relation to her. Wouldn’t she think it was odd if we were to suddenly "reach out our hands to her", as Daleen had read? Or were we related to her? Suddenly a myriad of verses came storming into my head with a rush: "... and hath made of one blood all nations of men...." ".... she should be the mother of all living....." "Have we not all one father? Hath not one Elohim created us all?" "In as much as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto me." "....pure religion and undefiled..... to visit the fatherless and the widows in their affliction...." My dear Daleen wisely stayed quiet all of this time. Later on a vote was taken, at my suggestion, and everyone, from 5-year-old Lenny to 13-year-old Andrea enthusiastically voted "pro" to the idea of the elderly woman taking refuge under our roof.

To start with I was pretty enthusiastic myself. By the time it actually came down to doing something however.... when it came to actually approaching the woman.... I was so nervous that my hands were shaking and I could hardly swallow. Daleen, however, seemed perfectly relaxed. I don’t even remember what she said to the lady. I only know she was very gracious, and her very manner, expressions, and voice spoke nothing but the volumes of love, mercy, and kindness that characterize my wife. The result? We were soon headed home, and "Tikvah", as the woman identified herself, was with us.

In the weeks that followed, Tikvah settled into our home pretty well. She was quiet and gentle, and meekly accepting of us all, of our schedule, and of our way of doing things. The only problem was that she never smiled. She didn’t speak with any especial sorrow, but I’m just not used to living with someone who never smiles, never laughs.

Tikvah always retired early at night. One time Daleen asked her if she wanted us to stay up for family Scripture, but she gently declined. When Daleen offered that we could have Scripture time earlier if Tikvah would like, she quickly said, "Oh no. Oh no. It’s kind enough of you to have me here. I don’t mean to make you adjust your schedule at all. You just do things the way you’re used to." Then she kissed Daleen on the cheek and went off to bed.

It was the same on Sabbaths. When Tikvah discovered that we kept the Sabbath, her eyes took on a slight glow, though I thought there was a shimmer of tears mixed with that glow. "Are you.... are you....?" She hesitated.

"We are Messianic Israelites," I answered.

Then she turned slowly away, and always on Sabbaths she stayed home.

With Winter’s approach, the landscape took on the gray of overshadowing clouds and blustery winds. Chanukah was drawing near.

One day, Tikvah approached my oldest daughter, that blessed little music box of the family who pounded out a song for us every morning on her piano. "Andrea," Tikvah said a bit timidly, "Would it bother you... would you mind.... if I would play on your piano sometimes?"

Once consent had been given, Tikvah could be found every day at the piano, sometimes for an hour or more. Her songs were slow and beautiful, the kind that, though wordless, call forth the deepest emotions and put one in a meditative and somber mood. Her melodies spoke volumes, volumes that were untold, volumes that were hiding behind Tikvah’s quietude and the glint of possible tears in her eyes.

On a late afternoon, the day before Chanukah, I arrived home from work very tired. Entering the house I could hear the music of Tikvah’s songs. "What are her songs about?" Daleen asked me. "It makes one sad to hear them."

I shook my head. The message was there. We could all read it. But it was vague and indistinct, a whispered saga of the past whose words our ears were not sharp enough to define.

I took my shoes off and left them by the door. Then I went quietly into the livingroom and sat down on the sofa, and leaned back my head to relax.

The notes of a song faded slowly away. Then Tikvah turned. I could hear the piano bench squeak as she turned to face me. I opened my eyes, and she spoke. "You are a young man, and you know nothing of sorrow, do you?" she asked.

A young man? At forty-three years of age I did not feel young. I know nothing of sorrow? Tikvah saw four beautiful children within the walls of this house. I knew eight beautiful children within the walls of my heart. One had died three months into the pregnancy, another seven months into the pregnancy, another two hours after birth, another at age six when he was struck with diphtheria. I know nothing of sorrow? Tikvah saw my beautiful wife and supposed these children were all birthed by her. I knew another woman, my first love, the mother of our precious Andrea and David, the mother who died of diphtheria along with the six-year-old. These were the kinds of things which I could forget most of the time, but which were brought fresh to my mind when I heard Tikvah play the piano.

I was taking too long to answer. Now Tikvah spoke again. "Tonight is the first night of Chanukah," she said.

I nodded.

"You know?"

"Yes, we keep Chanukah," I answered.

Tikvah turned away, her eyes gazing through the open door to where a bay window looked out over a bleak, recently harvested soybean field. "Sixty-one years ago," she said, "It was almost Chanukah. That was in Germany. I was seventeen years old." Tikvah was seventy-eight years old now then? I hadn’t known she was that old. But I remained quiet, and she continued to speak. "The Nazis took my father, my three brothers, my mother, my two sisters. I never saw them again." Behind her voice I seemed to hear the notes of her songs, but the keys of the piano lay deathly still. "The only one left was my three-year-old brother. Him and I had been visiting some relatives for the day, and we escaped the capturing. But when we returned home it was desolate." Tikvah paused a long moment. Then her voice quavered as she said, "The only other relatives we had in the city had already been taken several months before. We were alone. Time stretched on fearfully, frigidly, and then we too were captured and separated. Where Gabriel was taken I didn’t know. All I knew was that he was alone, and I was alone, and I was headed for a concentration camp. Somehow I escaped..... in the dead of very black night. But I escaped alone. Alone is empty, and so is Chanukah ever since that fateful Winter." Suddenly her voice rose, ever so slightly, but with a determination that I had not heard during any of the weeks that she had been with us. "There is no light," she said. "The world is filled with hate. It is filled with wrong, with inhumanity, with insensitivity, with cruelty. There is no light anymore, anywhere."

I didn’t know what to say. Tikvah fell silent. Her wrinkled fingers reached out and touched the piano keys, taking up a pose on them as if to begin playing another chronicle of sorrow. But silence reigned. It was my turn to speak. Speak of my sorrows, my losses? They suddenly seemed insignificant. Finally I asked, "Even here?"

"What?" She turned towards me again.

"Is there no light here?"

Tikvah’s eyes held that uncertain mistiness. Was it tears, or was it just a veil, drawn in an effort to cover over her deeply felt anguish? "You are good people," she said. "But you are not Jewish. All of my family is lost. All of my hope is lost."

"So said Naomi," I replied. "Would you allow me to read you something from the Tanak?"

She nodded ever so slightly as I pulled down the Scriptures. I opened to Ruth 2:20-21 and read ~ "And she said unto them, ‘Call me not Naomi; call me Mara. For the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me. I went out full, and the Master hath brought me home again empty. Why then call ye me Naomi, seeing the Master hath testified against me, and the Almighty hath afflicted me?’ " I looked up at Tikvah. "Even then, though, there still was light," I said. "Ruth, a Moabitess, an adopted daughter from another country, a country not her own, brought hope to her life." I paused. Were my words too forward? Was I saying too much? But she motioned to me to continue. Turning to chapter four and verses thirteen to fifteen I read, "So Boaz took Ruth, and she was his wife. And when he went in unto her, the Master gave her conception, and she bare a son. And the women said unto Naomi, ‘Blessed be the Master, which hath not left thee this day without a kinsman, that his name may be famous in Israel. And he shall be unto thee a renewer of thy life, and a supporter of thine old age. For thy daughter-in-law which loveth thee, which is better to thee than seven sons, hath born him.’ " I stopped. "Do you know who Ruth’s descendant was?" I asked.

"David," Tikvah answered.

"Do you know who David’s descendant was?" I asked.

She studied me closely. Then ever so quietly, ever so gently, ever so kindly, she said, "I’m afraid we differ on that, Greg."

"But He is the Light," I said. "You asked if I have known sorrow. I have not known it to the extent that you have, but five very precious people ~ my first wife, and four of my children ~ have stepped out of my life through death. When it has been very dark, the Son of David has been my Light."

Tikvah rose and walked towards the stairs. "I’m sorry," I said. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."

"You didn’t," she replied, and disappeared up the stairs.

That night, Tikvah joined us as we lit the Chanukiyah, as we read of the Maccabees, and as we read of the Light of the world. She listened as Andrea played the piano, and as we sang songs which spoke of the grief of a suffering people, but of the hope that is offered through dedication of our lives to the Light. Every night of Chanukah, while we celebrated the triumph of Light over darkness, the triumph of hope over despair, and the triumph of joy even in the midst of a dark and cruel world, she joined us.

On the last night of Chanukah Tikvah came to me. Her eyes shimmered. No longer was it a hazy kind of shimmering. No longer was it a volume hiding behind years of sorrow and loneliness. This time I could see genuine tears, but in those tears, I saw light. "Can you come to the piano?" she asked me.

I nodded, and wordlessly followed her to the livingroom. She took her seat at the piano. Ever so softly she began to play, and ever so earnestly she began to sing: