On the second night of Hanukkah, as we add another candle to the menorah, our hearts are heavy. Yesterday, a terrorist attack in Bondi Beach took innocent lives. Another unnecessary and painful reminder of how important our councils’ work is.
And yet, this is exactly why we light the candles. Not to ignore the grief, but to insist on hope in the face of hate. To honor those we’ve lost by continuing to build, love, and carry light forward.
We asked eight members of the Voice of the People Council to share a personal miracle from the past year, a spark of light that reminded them what matters most. Their reflections are shared here, in memory of the lives taken and with resolve to keep going, together.
Two years ago I found myself volunteering at an Israeli-owned retreat centre in Greece, following a dream to live a retreat lifestyle bringing spiritual Jewish content to the world. I had a vision of a place where I could be my spiritual Jewish self with community, nature and the Divine.
During my stay I met an Israeli activist from Tel Aviv who told me about the VOP Council. I was so excited and nervous that I completed my application at the last minute, filming my video from the retreat centre bathroom in the wee hours of the night. And then the first miracle happened! I was accepted and assigned to Group 9 focused on Jewish identity, culture and heritage! Coincidentally, I had a vision for a program that seemed to fit perfectly within this group. I pitched this idea at the outset and despite the high ranking it received overall, my team decided to go in a different direction, so I abandoned my passion project to go with the will of the group.
To my surprise, just a short time before the pitch submission deadline, my team members joined other projects that called to them, and I was left on my own to start from scratch. Inspired by my facilitator’s encouragement to just go for it and follow my passion, I prepared everything as fast as possible and two weeks later found myself pitching the project of my dreams to the VIP panel with the full support of my group behind me. It felt like a miracle!
From my dream in Canada, to a dream in Greece, to a dream in Israel, and now a dream in the world.
Thank you VOP for making my miracle this Chanukah!
My personal miracle this year is tied to our national one.
In the past two years, I have witnessed extraordinary courage and resilience among the soldiers of Israel, who stand in a direct line with the bravery of the Maccabees.
My 570 days of reserve service since October 7 showed me the strength, responsibility, and unity of our generation.
I also saw the unity and support of Jewish communities around the world, standing with us with remarkable strength.
And out of the great darkness of October 7 came a beam of light, reminding me, as it always does, that even a little light can drive away much darkness.
This is the miracle I carry with me this Hanukkah.
One miracle this year has been establishing a model that has been effective in reaching disengaged Jews and bringing them back into Jewish life – by pairing big-org resources with the high-touch work of grassroots Jewish superconnectors.
This year taught me why I do this work: because Jewish unity is our lifeline. Every day I get to serve the Jewish nation and take part in strangers become a community. I came from a construction background with barely any connection to my Judaism since I was 10, and now I live in Tel Aviv building a global organization for the Jewish people, which proves what can happen when you trust your intuition and choose the life that calls you.
Chanukah is about resilience, about pushing light into the world. It’s the same fire it takes to build something from nothing. And in the middle of all this, I got engaged to the love of my life after dating for just 4 months, because our relationship is built on shared values and purpose. Purpose to build a strong Jewish family and show others what it possible with a 4 shoulders instead of 2. Our relationship is rooted in the same “why” that drives this entire journey: a belief that when we show up for each other, we can actually change the world.
When you know, you know and this year showed me exactly why.
I used to think miracles were rare. Big. Dramatic. The kind of things that appear in history books or stories, not in ordinary life: the splitting of the sea, hostages coming home. Then I became a mother.
One year ago, on the first night of Chanukah, my daughter cries for the first time as sirens and rockets whizzed over me. In that moment, I saw my first true miracle: life itself. But it did not feel miraculous. It felt like fear, like resentment, like something had been stolen from me. What had I done? In creating life, had I given up my own?
I wish I could say that all of that disappeared as I held her for the first time. That would be a lie. The fear only grew. Sleepless nights, juggling a husband at war, a broken body, it felt like my life had come to a halt. The sea was not splitting, it was swallowing me alive.
Then, her first smile appeared. A small moment, but with it comes a small realization. That I would do anything for the next smile, that there is nothing more miraculous then her happiness. That day, I received an email inviting me to an event I had only dreamed of being a part of. And I start to feel the miracles. Her first giggle, and my content reached a new milestone. Her first taste of food, and the job offer I had dreamed of arrived in my inbox.
It was then that I realized miracles are small. And they compound. She wakes up every morning and suddenly she is walking. She is healthy. She is intelligent. She is beautiful. She is a miracle, a miracle I have actively partaken in creating. I came to understand that I had not given myself up to her. I expanded myself with her existence. As I looked for the miracles, they came at me, fast and steady. Opportunities I had only dreamed of arrived after sleepless nights. As she grew, I grew.
I had been sold a lie, that motherhood would shrink me. It did the opposite. Not with massive miracles falling from the sky, but with small, persistent sparks that build our day-to-day life.
This year, I launched The Meira K Show, a platform reaching millions of people monthly. I built a digital ecosystem that breaks down Israel’s news in ways young audiences actually understand and trust. I created an exclusive network mobilizing the next generation of movers and shakers. I trained leaders, advised campaigns, built initiatives, spoke on stages, MCed events, and strategized for some of the biggest names in the world. I left my job to focus on being a mother and launching my own venture completely, and I have been rewarded tenfold. I took a bet on myself and watched as God guided my every step, all while learning what it means to nurture a tiny human who demands everything of me, minute by minute.
In the middle of this chaos, the miracles were everywhere, small, almost invisible, but undeniable. Moments that could have gone wrong, opportunities that seemed impossible, yet here they were.
I have realized that miracles are not interruptions of life. They are life. They exist in alignment, persistence, and timing, in the choices we make when we are exhausted, afraid, or uncertain. They exist in the tiny, improbable victories that accumulate until suddenly, something monumental emerges. Motherhood taught me how to notice these sparks. Leadership taught me how to create them. Life and God taught me how to hold them all at once.
It is easy to look at the world and feel like the miraculous is impossible. But it exists in every second of our lives: a moment of clarity in chaos, a conversation that changes a trajectory, a tiny foot taking its first step. The world does not hand you miracles. God tests your attention, resilience, and courage until you see them.
This Chanukah, I think of the candle that flickered against destruction. That we celebrate not the monumental war we fought, but the small things that seemed impossible becoming something more. That flicker is everything I have learned this year. Miracles are small, fragile, and insistent. They survive even when the odds are against them. When we notice them, when we hold them, they illuminate more than we could ever imagine.
Becoming a mother did not slow my work. It sharpened it. It forced me to focus, to cut through noise, to prioritize what truly matters. It gave me clarity, perspective, and audacity. It taught me that capacity is not fixed. We can hold more, do more, be more, when we embrace life as it is, not as we hope it will be.
This year, on the first night of Chanukah, my daughter turns one. I feel like I do too. With her birth, I rebirthed myself into someone bigger, more capable, and more miraculous than I ever imagined. Miracles are not just events. They are patterns. They are choices. They are life insisting on light in the darkness. This year, I have seen them in my daughter, in my work, and in myself. I will carry that lesson forward, noticing, creating, and holding the sparks that will light the way for everything yet to come.
This Hanukkah, I’ve been thinking about the quiet miracle that found me this year. While I was studying on the other side of the world, my mom became sick and kept it to herself so I could stay focused and not worry. I only learned about it later, and it humbled me to realize how much love she carried alone.
Today she is healthy, and that feels like the greatest light I could ever receive. I’m celebrating her strength, our closeness, and the way family love travels any distance.
Hanukkah reminds me that light is something we inherit as much as something we *choose to ignite*.
In the darkest moments of the past two years, the miracle that found me was a return to my roots, to our roots – to my people, and to a strength I didn’t know I carried.
I felt the resilience that has traveled through generations, the same quiet defiance that has always kept us standing.
My great-grandfather, Shmuel Yosef Agnon (z”l), wrote, “From every broken place, something whole can grow,” and in those words I recognized my own journey.
What sustained me was not the absence of darkness, but the knowledge that I come from a people who turn endurance into light.
This Hanukkah, that inherited flame is my miracle.
October 2025: 10 days of concentrated miracles, witnessed through every layer of who I am
As a human, as a Zionist Jew: the ceasefire. The unimaginable grace of seeing hostages come home alive and finally embrace their families again. Light after two years of darkness.
As a Venezuelan:
The Nobel Peace Prize awarded to María Corina Machado: an honor that belongs to all of us. A victory for dignity, courage, and hope for the entire Venezuelan people.
As a mother: the sacred miracle of celebrating my son’s Bar Mitzvah. Passing the covenant “mi dor l’dor”.
Gratitude doesn’t even begin to cover it. These miracles now live in my heart forever.
Each of these stories is a reminder that miracles still happen — in our families, in our work, in our communities, and even within ourselves.
This year, may we hold tight to our light. We remember those we lost, and everywhere hate has tried to silence life. And we recommit to being louder, braver, and more united than ever before.
Because that is what Hanukkah teaches us: even the smallest flame can push back the darkness. And when we light together, the world changes.
