The wind blows against my sweaty shirt and I get an instant chill. My cheeks that were flushed from four hours of dancing at Mike's Bar are now flushed with the cold night air that runs through Jerusalem's deserted streets. I pull my sweatshirt tight around my neck and start the long walk home. After a few blocks I notice two guys. They're talking in hushed voices a little ways behind me. My pulse beats a little harder. My legs, already shaky from dancing, feel a little weaker. But I speed up. Without turning around, I strain to hear them. Even on my best days my Hebrew isn't good, but eavesdropping at two a.m., with my heart beating loudly in my ears, I don't have a chance. Are they getting closer? If I scream, will anybody hear? Will anybody care?

I'm frozen, scared, silent Up ahead is a bus stop. I stand next to the bench as nonchalantly as I can. But on the inside I'm frozen, scared, silent. I stand at the bus stop knowing that no bus runs this late. I stand at the bus stop and do nothing.

Two bright lights appear on the road. Two angels sent by G‑d? No. Two headlights on a bus. I have no idea where it's going. I don't have my bus card. I don't care. The bus slows down; I go out to the curb as it stops for me. The bus driver opens the door. He smiles at me and his ebony skin shines as brightly as his white teeth. He says something in Hebrew but I am too tired to translate. He tries again, but this time in English.

"Where are you going?"

"Yemin Moshe."

"This isn't your bus."

"I know."

"This isn't your bus stop."

"I know."

"This isn't even my bus stop."

"I know."

"Have a seat."

I don't look back. I sit down. Only then do I notice someone else on the bus, the driver's friend. I listen to their quiet conversation, not understanding a word. It was like music.

The bus drives past my usual stop that leaves me a block from my home, and pulls right up to the entrance of my building. He pulls over and smiles at me again. I just look at him, completely overwhelmed. I can't say thank you. I can't even say goodnight. I just stumble off the bus and go home.

Ask almost any Jewish child what Chanukah is and you'll hear the word miracle. The miracle of the oil, the miracle of the war. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles. But why is it that G‑d only made miracles in the past? The splitting of the Red Sea, water from a rock, prophets living in the belly of a whale, the list goes on. But what about today? Why has He turned off the miracle tap that used to run so freely?

Completely overwhelmed, I can't even say thank you Here's one theory.

When Abraham began worshipping G‑d, he did so amidst a world of idolaters. The question wasn't "should I be religious?" Rather, it was "which god should I worship?" Abraham found the true G‑d. But at that same time, and throughout the years of history, people have worshipped a multitude of gods and idols. They turned to priests and prophets, magicians and sorcerers. Moses threw down his staff and it became a snake. Pharoah's magicians threw down their staffs and the same thing happened. There are many examples of this. And this is what enables free will to exist. If only those who worshipped G‑d experienced miracles, then there would be no choice but to choose Him. Choosing differently would be contrary to logic. And logic is something we can all relate to. Logic is graspable, tangible, understandable. There is no faith in logic.

But this is where society went. Our world has turned from faith to science. Modern medicine, particle physics, applied math theory, nano technology- these are the new religions. Science can actually explain how there could be certain conditions that would cause a bank of dry land to appear in the middle of the Red Sea. In a world like this, a miracle would certainly be out of place. And it would leave little room for free will.

In the story above I was seventeen-years-old. I was also a little tipsy. I can't really remember if it was twelve or two in the morning. I don't know if the two guys were actually following me or if they were just walking behind me. The details aren't that clear to me now. But I know that even if the two headlights weren't angels, I still met two angels that night. Out of the blurry memory I can recall with perfect clarity the fear I felt. And in the comfort of the bus, G‑d sent me my own miracle. A miracle that could be explained as nothing out of the ordinary. But that's where free will comes in. I choose to believe that I experienced a true miracle.

When the Jews reclaimed the fallen Temple they found only enough oil to burn in the menorah for one day. A miracle happened and it lasted for eight. And so we celebrate eight days of Chanukah. But why eight days? There was enough oil to last for one day. So technically, only seven days were miraculous. Why the eighth day? Perhaps it was a miracle that they found any oil at all? Perhaps the mundane is miraculous? Maybe the eighth day is to celebrate the miracles in our own lives, miracles that are happening everyday. With enough light in our hearts, we can start to see miracles everywhere we look. Happy Chanukah.