Jay Cranman’s Chanukah Message for 2025

When people talk about harmony and coexistence, I tend to picture something big and abstract. But in my house, it shows up in much smaller moments… usually in the kitchen.

I grew up Jewish in Atlanta. Chanukah meant the blessings I learned by heart, candle wax dripping onto the kitchen counter, and family bets on which candle would burn out last. And, of course, potato latkes that somehow tasted better every year my mom made them. The holiday felt familiar in all the right ways… the light, the laughter, and the simple ritual of gathering around the menorah together.

My wife grew up Catholic in Puerto Rico. Her family celebrates December with a rhythm I didn’t know as a kid… loud, late nights, full of cousins sitting on the back porch, passing around coquito. Different melodies, same feeling of warmth and belonging.

So, December in our house looks like two holidays running in parallel, and it works better than you’d think. The menorah sits right next to the tree. One minute, I’m singing the Chanukah blessings and frying latkes, the next we’re shaking up a batch of coquito. Our kids move between traditions like it’s totally normal. They know none of it competes. It just layers.

And then there are the traditions you definitely don’t see in Hallmark specials. In Puerto Rico, parrandas are a thing, which I now understand means a very enthusiastic group of friends showing up at your house well after midnight with instruments, zero warning, and the energy of a college marching band.

The first time it happened, I opened my in-laws’ front door half-asleep, wearing mismatched PJs, while friends and family poured in with percussion instruments, singing at full volume. My español es muy malo, so I still don’t know what the songs were. The menorah flickered politely in the background, doing its best to keep up with the chaos. It was loud, joyful, a little disorienting, and honestly the best kind of coexistence I could ask for.

As Chanukah draws closer, I keep thinking about how easy it is to assume that harmony means everyone shares one story or one way of celebrating. My life has taught me the opposite. Harmony is what you get when you stop trying to merge traditions and just let them coexist honestly. You don’t lose anything. You gain a deeper appreciation for what each one brings, and the confidence that two traditions can stand side by side and still feel whole.

Jay Cranman is the CEO at Jewish Family & Career Services.