It was a typical Tuesday in suburbia—not an election day, not a recycling day, and not any other Tuesday of great significance.

Or so I thought.

I had driven over to Miriam’s house, a warm and wonderful place to go for a cup of tea and some lively conversation. We were doing what we often did on a weekday, standing in her hallway chatting, with our children hard at play nearby, when in walked her husband, wearing a kapoteh (chassidic frock coat) and a very lit-up smile. He continued up the steps, greeting us with a hearty, joy-filled, sing-song: “Gut Yom Tov, gut Yom Tov! (Good holiday!)” What could have gotten into this rabbi now?

This was the rabbi whose overly inspired voice I heard each evening as I picked up the phone during what my friend Nechami calls “happy hour”—when children are busy with all the creative and wondrous things they do before tiring out themselves and everything around them What could have gotten into this rabbi now?for the evening. He would ask with such joy-filled enthusiasm, “Can your husband make the minyan (quorum of ten men for prayer)?” You would have thought he was inviting my husband to a party for a king.

As far as it being a Yom Tov? I may not have been aware of all the details of living as a religious Jew back then, but I was pretty sure that if it were Yom Tov, I would have known about it. Miriam and I paused our conversation, returned the rabbi’s curious greeting—Miriam looking a little apologetic—and watched in silence as the lit-up rabbi disappeared down the hallway. I couldn’t help but think, Man . . . he is so over the top! Of course it’s Yom Tov on his planet today. In fact, I bet it’s always Yom Tov on his planet. This rabbi should not be let out of the house unless under proper supervision.

And this was not the only rabbi we had met from the over-the-top rabbi department.

There was another wonderful, although slightly distracted, rabbi that we became close with at the time. With that same look of joy and selfless love in his eyes, this rabbi would build this fantastically oversized menorah at a gas station that looked out onto a major intersection where three towns met. It was truly awe-inspiring.

We would bring our children after dark on Chanukah to the Shell gas station to watch. Up and down the ladder went the determined rabbi, with a blowtorch in hand, lighting large oil lanterns, in spite of rain, wind, or anything else G‑d would send his way. We stood nearby—his wife and their children, us and our children, our necks craned, mouths open, noses running—the perfect rent-a-crowd. Up and down the ladder to the enormous menorah he went, hoping to reach out to any Jew who happened to drive by. What a sight. After finally getting the torches to stay lit, he would recite the prayers in a calm and splendidly beautiful voice. Then, while still on the ladder and holding his torch, he would prepare to sing. We stood by with great anticipation as he opened his mouth to sing the first line of “Maoz Tzur” (“Rock of Ages”), when he belted out in a hardy voice, “Haneirot Halalu.”

Now, any rabbi worth his weight in chocolate coins knows that everyone sings “Rock of Ages” after lighting the menorah! And if you are not going to sing “Rock of Ages,” how about “Hatikvah,” or a little “Havah Nagilah”? We looked up at him, singing with such heartfelt sincerity after all his hard work up and down the ladder, using his remaining strength on this odd, little tune, and thought, Where in the world did the rabbi get this song from? If he wants to start drawing a crowd out here, he’s going to have to learn the traditional tunes.

After years of watching these and other animated, enthusiastic rabbis, with their interesting and industrious ways of approaching holidays—and every day, for that matter—I have learned that sometimes it’s me who is missing a tune.

As it turns out, the odd little song the rabbi insisted on singing after lighting his majestic menorah, “Haneirot Halalu,” is a beautifully powerful and traditional song that tells us why we light the candles, their meaning, and all about the miracle of the lights. I have learned to sing “Haneirot Halalu” as heartily as any rabbi on a ladder, hitting its low, low notes and all, but even more wonderful is that my family now sings it with great, joyful chaos by the light of their own menorahs and lit-up smiles.

I have also learned that Miriam’s husband actually was inviting my husband to a party for a king each night—our King, G‑d, who rejoices in hearing from us three times a day with extra pleasure when we call with a group of ten men.

And about that random Tuesday . . . it turns out that it was not so random after all. It was Yud-Tes Kislev, the day that Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, known as the Alter Rebbe, was released from prison in a string of miraculous events that allowed him to continue spreading the wellsprings of Chassidut and preparing the world for Moshiach’s coming. Not only was it a Yom Tov, but it was a truly great and important one! Who knew?

But now I’ve got it. Turns out it was not so random after allIn fact, I’ve got it so bad that I also walk around on Yud-Tes Kislev wishing heartfelt “Good Yom Tov”s and talking to complete strangers about doing mitzvahs and bringing light into the world.

I am grateful to Miriam’s husband, the Shell gas station rabbi, and the many over-the-top rabbis who wear kapotehs on random Tuesdays and sing odd little songs while standing on ladders with torches while it rains—rabbis who welcome every Jew with warmth and an open heart, no matter how little we yet know or do, and despite how awfully know-it-all we can be.

A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, but being a little “lit-up” can dispel a lot of darkness.