As Jews celebrate Chanukah, they recount the ancient miracles that befell our ancestors. And I will recount the miracle of the 961.

In 1993 my husband and I honeymooned in Israel. After several days touring the Beit-Shean Valley we decided to return to Jerusalem. We boarded the 961 Bus, dragging our knapsacks down the narrow aisle crowded with soldiers heading home for the weekend. Weary from touring a Roman amphitheater under the blazing sun, we sank into our seats and tried to rest.

But the driver interrupted our nap, announcing that we were stopping at a roadside kiosk near the West Bank Mehola settlement, so we could disembark if we wished.

I was too tired to move, but my husband coaxed me off the bus with promises of ice cream. Approaching the counter I ordered an "Artik" ice cream bar. The young Arab man behind the counter handed it over and I reached for my wallet. But I never got the chance to pay him.

An earsplitting blast froze me in my place and the ground vibrated from an explosion. Terrified screams and a haze of smoke filled the air, and soldiers ran in all directions.

My husband pulled me to the ground and I buried my head in his neck. I attempted to recite the Shema, the prayer Jews throughout the ages have said when endangered. But the words disappeared in my mouth and I couldn't hear my voice over the din.

I lifted my head to peek at our bus, which was about 15 feet away from where we had stood, but was gone. In its place a giant ball of fire spewed clouds of black smoke.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the noise dissolved and the soldiers led us to an open field behind the kiosk to join our fellow passengers.

All looked dazed. Some had blood running down their faces or wounds on their limbs while others had burn marks on their clothing. I spied two soldiers crying in each others' arms.

I shuddered as we passed the dead body of the kiosk Arab worker.

Gradually, we learned what had occurred. A Hamas terrorist had loaded his car with cooking gas canisters wired to explode and crashed it into our bus. When the car detonated, shrapnel flew over the kiosk, missing us but striking the Arab worker, who was standing further from the bomb than we were.

Had the bomb ignited a few moments earlier when we were still on the bus, or had it gone off after we reboarded, the fatalities would have been numerous. Instead, only several passengers suffered minor injuries.

The passengers, onlookers and reporting journalists, all agreed that the passengers of 961 were very lucky that day.

Though my husband and I emerged from the attack physically unscathed, the emotional aftermath of the incident was wrenching. In the following days, loud noises jarred me, leaving me shaking. I tried, without success, to block out the images that kept invading my mind of the fire, the dead body and the charred bus.

There were other bus bombings in the following months. Feeling a kinship with the victims, I studied the news intently. When I learned that American tourists were among those killed, I felt a pit in my stomach.

Why did they die when we had been spared? I examined their obituaries for clues, but discovered instead that their lives had been far more productive than mine.

I'm not sure what lessons to take with me from the wreckage. When friends and family inquired, I tried to make light out of it. I quipped that we had started our marriage with a blast. They wanted to know if the experience changed me and my beliefs. "Do you believe differently about the peace process?" people asked. I shrugged and had no answer.

A close encounter with death should have left me feeling enlivened, but the guilt of survival weighed heavily on my shoulders. I buried my collection of newspaper clippings about the bombing in a filing cabinet and counted my blessings in silence.

Then came Chanukah. Kindling the lights, I chanted the blessing, thanking G-d for the miracles he performed in biblical times and the ones He continues in our day. It is a blessing I have found troubling since my youth. In ancient times G-d's grandiose acts were as vivid as a pillar of salt or a splitting sea. But who today sees a burning bush?

Staring at the glowing candles, I thought about how my own flame was almost extinguished. Maybe a miracle need not be a dramatic lightning bolt descending from on high. Instead, a miracle is a simple but fortuitous turn of events occurring at the right place and time to ordinary individuals who shed their cynicism long enough to realize that some things defy logical explanation.

Some would refer to such events as coincidences, flukes or quirks of fate. But I see them as celestial nudges that reassure us that we are not alone, beacons of light in a dark and frenzied world, offering us a glimpse of G-d's presence. To see them, we need to open our eyes. A photo caption in the secular Israeli Maariv described the 961 bombing as a "nes," a miracle.

As I sing about the ancient Chanukah miracles and the miracles of today, I celebrate the routine wonders around me that I never saw before. They are the unanticipated joys that creep up on us when we expect them least, and need them most. They are the delightful surprises that keep us hopeful in a painful world in which we have come to expect tragedy.

They can be found in the recovery of an illness, the discovery of love, the conception of life and whenever good triumphs over evil against the odds.

Deena Yellin is a reporter for “The Record” in Bergen County, NJ.