Tracht gut vet zein gut.

תחשוב טוב יהיה טוב

“Tracht gut vet zein gut”—think good, and it will be good.”

Rooted in Jewish wisdom, this phrase resonates deeply with me. It shows how thought, ritual, and intention can transform us — a concept I have come to appreciate through my journey across faiths and spiritual practices.

I was raised Catholic and although I long ago moved away from Catholic dogma, I still find comfort in the ritual of the Mass. My spiritual path has taken me through many traditions: serving as a Deacon in the Presbyterian Church, where I found a friendlier, less dogmatic atmosphere; attending Quaker services, where the absence of a minister allows for spontaneous, spirit-inspired contributions; and retreats at the Zen Mountain Monastery in New York, where I found a stillness that mirrors the Quaker service but with an added layer of formality (robes, bowing, gongs, cushions, etc.). I have attended Jewish services during High Holy Days and regular Shabbat, and I have meditated in front of the many deities at the Hindu temple in Robbinsville, NJ.

These varied experiences shaped my understanding that belief is not binary; it exists on a spectrum. It shifts and evolves, shaped by experience, curiosity, and an openness to possibilities once considered unthinkable. Discussions on the nature of belief and the Catholic religion between my father and me were rare, brief, and frustrating. Invariably, vexed by my lack of doctrinal belief and intransigence, he would abruptly end the discussion by saying: “For those who believe, no explanation is necessary, for those who don’t believe, no explanation is possible.”

His words annoyed me — they felt like an easy exit from uncomfortable discussions. But over time, I have come to appreciate their deeper meaning. They reflect not just the nature of faith, but how people engage with deeply held beliefs, whether religious, ideological, or political. "You'll never understand," becomes the default stance, as people retreat to their respective corners. But beliefs thrive in the spaces in between — in the rituals and symbols that connect us across boundaries. When I seek to understand the symbols and rituals that others practice, my personal beliefs are enhanced.

One such symbol for me is the menorah. Though I am not Jewish, I was drawn to its significance and some years ago decided to include the Chanukah tradition with my Christmas activities for myself at home. I light the candles and recite the blessings on each of the eight Chanukah nights, believing that such rituals, even those borrowed from other traditions, hold the power to comfort, heal, and connect. Some might consider this magical thinking — the idea that lighting candles and saying ancient words can summon blessings or spirits. But isn’t that the essence of all rituals? A hopeful act, performed with the belief that our intentions matter, that light can indeed push back the darkness.

Of course, I understand that this may be viewed as cultural appropriation — adopting a tradition that is not originally part of one’s culture. And for others, this practice may feel uncomfortable. But my intent is not to dilute or redefine, but to stand in reverence, recognizing the resilience of a people whose faith and traditions have endured against all odds.

In honoring the spirits who came before, my connection to the menorah deepened after several visits to the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., where I received three "identity cards" detailing the lives of individuals who perished in the Holocaust: Yakob, Alida, and Jeno. Over the years, I began to imagine their spirits joining me in the lighting of the menorah. I do not claim to see or hear them in any physical sense, but their presence is felt in the act of remembrance. As Elie Wiesel stated in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech: “No one may speak for the dead, no one may interpret their mutilated dreams and visions.” In lighting the menorah, I do not summon ghosts, but echoes—lives that deserve honor, stories that must not fade.

That first year, I invited Yakob Braun to the Chanukah celebration. Born in Poland, Yakob lived in Lodz and was immensely proud of his Jewish identity. As an observant Jew, he practiced tzedakah (צְדָקָה), the religious obligation to engage in charitable activity. In 1938, when the Nazis expelled Polish Jews from Germany, Yakob risked his welfare and that of his family by establishing a relief organization in Lodz to provide subsidized medical care for refugees. Yakob was deported in the fall of 1944 to the Buchenwald concentration camp and later died at Bergen-Belsen.

When I light the menorah, I envision Yakob standing beside me, his hands marked by years of tailoring, his eyes reflecting both the weariness of a man who lived in fear and the warmth provided by his faith. I hear the laughter of his three daughters mingle with the flicker of the candles—a sound stolen by history, but revived, if only briefly, in my home.

Two years later, I invited Alida Wijnberg to join us. Born in Vries, Netherlands, Alida was, like me, one of eight children. Her family owned a textile business, and as a teenager, she helped sell goods, carrying textiles in a suitcase attached to her bicycle handlebars. She arrives at the Chanukah celebration with her husband, Samuel, and their three sons and daughter. Samuel died in 1941, and Alida and her sons perished in Auschwitz.

Her daughter, Selma, survived. Deported to Sobibor in 1943, she met Chaim Engel, who had been sent there in 1942. In October 1943, a group of prisoners revolted. Amid the chaos, Chaim stabbed his Nazi guard to death, grabbed Selma, and together they escaped into the surrounding woods. After the war, they married and settled in the United States in 1957.

Finally, this past year, we welcomed Jeno Katz, a fellow Hungarian. Also, one of eight children, Jeno was born in Buj and became a skilled cabinet maker. He joins our celebration with his wife, Eloise, and their two children, Ersika and Zali. Their voices are a welcome addition to the prayers, and they bring the "Maoz Tzur," a traditional Chanukah song, to our festivities. Jeno and his family perished in Auschwitz.

To an onlooker, my quiet Chanukah evenings appear as an older gentile standing alone, praying aloud with shamash candle in hand and a Christmas tree in the background. But appearances can deceive, and judgments based only on what we see can prevent us from perceiving what lies beyond. And beyond the visible, from vastly different worlds and vastly contrasting times, there is a space where belief, memory, and spirit coexist. Tracht gut vet zein gut. Think good, and it will be good.

For me, it’s more than a ritual; it is a defiant act of remembering stories of people that history sought to extinguish. It reminds me that memory itself is a form of resistance and endures; that voices once silenced continue to speak. In that sacred moment, we are not bound by faith or time, but by the enduring power of human connection.

As it is said: “More than those who kept tradition, tradition kept them.”