I’m trying something different for Hanukkah this year: saying the prayers fully and correctly over the lighting of the candles.

For years I kind of faked it, filling out the bits of prayer I remembered with random Hebrew words I recalled from bar mitzvah classes, guttural mumbles and a few Yiddish oaths my bubbie used.

It added up to something that roughly translated to: "Blessed art thou, oh Lord our God, who for this blasphemy would send me straight to hell, if we Jews believed in it."

My wife and kids didn’t know the difference, being more Christmas people than Hanukkah people, and I operated under the assumption that He would forgive me in the holiday spirit that it’s the thought that counts.

And in my defense, my laziness manifested before the Internet, when it wasn’t so easy to look up prayers on the fly.

The guilt kicked in a few years ago when my grown daughter wrote in her blog about conflicts she felt during the holiday season growing up with a Protestant mother and a Jewish father.

She said she treasured the Christmas gift-giving, but any spirituality she drew from the holidays came from our recitation of the prayers over the Hanukkah menorah.

Talk about feeling like a schmuck. I vowed then and there to stop cheating and say the prayers in the proper Hebrew. And I did, sort of.

There are three prayers — to bless the candles, to bless the holiday and, on the first night, a Shehecheyanu to mark the beginning of a special occasion. I only got as far as learning the first one.

The guilt flared again this year when one of my granddaughters started taking a stronger interest in the holiday.

She’s reading about the story of Hanukkah, learning the rituals and singing the songs.

It brings back my own childhood memories of family Hanukkah celebrations and reminded me that the faith is as much about people and tradition as Scripture.

The first Hanukkah I remember, my mom made a menorah by cutting potatoes in half and lining them on a piece of tin foil, with holes cut in the top to hold the candles. I’m sure my dad said a proper prayer and the potato latkes tasted delicious, if a little waxy.

Our first real menorah was a child-sized metal candelabrum that used nine little birthday candles. My mom saved it through the years and sent it to me before she died. She’d be delighted that I’ve handed it down to my granddaughter.

So I’ve practiced all three prayers and copied them into my smartphone in case my memory fails. If I get too tongue-tied, the voice lady in the phone has my back.

Reach David Shapiro at volcanicash@gmail.com or blog.volcanicash.net.