They say that Chanukah is a children’s holiday. It’s not, of course. We know that Chanukah, with its core concepts of freedom from tyranny and right over might, has a wellspring of spiritual nuance and significance that is difficult even for the mature mind to fully grasp.

Nevertheless, ask any adult about their Chanukah memories and you’ll find that deep down, the images we carry of this wintry eight day holiday are inevitably linked to our childhood.

My own memories of Chanukah are inextricably and forever associated with my father’s singing of “Maoz Tzur” (Rock of Ages).

My father, he should live and be well, didn’t sing Maoz Tzur the shortened way it is taught in today’s Hebrew schools. He sang the original, uncut version which is much longer and sums up nearly 5,000 years of Jewish history.

He also sang it to a splendid melody which he learned from his father who learned it from his father who heard it from the Bluzhiver Rav, a chassidic leader in Galicia. We believe it has come down to our family, authentically and accurately from Eastern Europe, circa 1850.

My father taught the melody to his children and it became as beloved to us, as it was to him. The highlight of our Chanukah, growing up in Brooklyn, was gathering around the Menorah as my father recited the blessings and then joining in as he masterfully sang ‘his’ Maoz Tzur. My six brothers and one sister are all blessed with good singing voices and the resulting chorus was beautiful indeed.

As the eldest in the family, I was the first to get married and move away from home. That first Chanukah in Detroit, I was homesick for my father’s Maoz Tzur. I called my mother, she should live and be well, and was told to hold the phone and listen in – my father was about to light the Menorah.

And so a tradition was born. Every Chanukah, usually on the fifth night, I would call ‘home’ on the speaker- phone and my family and I would listen in as my father and my siblings sang Maoz Tzur.

Years went by and thank G-d, grandchildren and great grandchildren spent Chanukah with zaydie and bubbie. They too, would join in the singing and the chorus continued.

During the past several years, my father’s health has sadly and steadily declined and I know that when I make that phone call on the fifth night, some things will be the same, but some things will be different.

My father will have to be pushed in his wheel chair to the tall silver Menorah. A grandson will guide his hand as he lights the wick in the oil cylinder and gently prod him as he haltingly recites the blessings.

And when the flames are kindled and illuminating the room, someone will say “Zeide, let’s sing Maoz Tzur.”

My father will look momentarily perplexed, and then he will furrow his brow in concentration, remembering a time that we know little about. Everyone will watch as he draws out the memory that is imprinted on his psyche and in a low, faltering voice, he will begin to sing.

“Maoz tzur yeshuosi lecha naaeh l’shabeach...”

They will let him sing alone for a few moments and then his children and grandchildren and great-children will add their voices, softly at first, but growing ever louder.

And when the final crescendo dies out and the last melody has been sung, there will be tears in my father’s eyes..... and he will smile.

This year we pray for a Chanukah miracle. We pray that the holy words and beloved refrains of my father’s songs will bring him healing and happiness.