By Yochanan Gordon
A couple of days before Pesach, one of my kids turned to me with that mischievous twinkle only a child can muster and asked, “Tatty, are you going to get angry this Yom Tov?”
I paused. Not because I didn’t have an answer, but because I did. I looked him in the eyes and said, “Nope. Not this year. I’m ready. I’m calm. In fact, you can even test me.”
Famous last words.
I take the pre-Pesach avodah seriously. Not just the scrubbing and scouring of kitchen surfaces, but the internal work—the chametz of ego, the leaven of expectation. I try to enter the Seder with presence, intention, and a sense of personal redemption. I’m the guy who gets emotional during Ha Lachma Anya, who reflects on freedom in every cup of wine, and who tries to carry the light of Yetzias Mitzrayim beyond the symbolic night and into the substance of life.
And then comes Chol HaMoed.
Trips. Traffic. Sticky fingers. Lost shoes. Melted ices. Kids in sugar comas. Grand plans unraveling in the heat of reality. It’s as if Hashem Himself arranged a cosmic pop quiz: You said you were free? Let’s see how you handle parking at the zoo.
At first glance, Chol HaMoed feels like the awkward middle child of Yom Tov—sandwiched between the grandeur of the Seder and the crescendo of Shevi’i Shel Pesach. It’s Yom Tov… sort of. We wear Shabbos clothes, say Hallel, and keep one foot in the world of holiness. But the other foot? It’s firmly planted in the chaos of real life.
But maybe that’s the point.
If Yom Tov is the revelation, then Chol HaMoed is the integration. It’s not a break from the chag—it’s the testing ground of the chag. The light you received at the Seder needs to be lived out in the parking lot, in the picnic area, and on the long drive home. That’s where geulah becomes real.
At one point during Chol HaMoed, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the noise, the plans, and the sheer amount of “togetherness,” I texted my Rebbe. I wrote:
“I know I’ve asked this before, but I’m wondering again—what is the avodah of Chol HaMoed within the greater context of Yom Tov?”
Normally he replies rather quickly. This time—nothing. No answer. No checkmark. Just silence.
But the more I sat with it, the more I realized that his silence was the answer.
Just a few days earlier, during his Shabbos Hagadol derasha, he had mentioned how people often ask him what his Seder looks like. His reply?
“My Seder looks like everyone else’s. Spilled grape juice everywhere, kids interrupting every thought, chaos abounding.”
And if that’s what his Seder looks like, then surely his Chol HaMoed looks just like mine—kids pulling, responsibilities mounting, attention stretched in ten directions at once.
The absence of a reply wasn’t a lack of guidance. It was the guidance. Because the avodah of Chol HaMoed isn’t found in texts, drashos, or lofty ideals—it’s in the non-reply, in the demand to be present with your family, to hold the kedusha while juggling the carpool. It’s not about escaping the mess. It’s about elevating it.
Someone once told me that the reason children find the Afikoman is because kids have a knack for discovering the very parts of us that we try hardest to hide. The Afikoman is that broken, tucked-away piece of matzah—the bread of emunah. We hide it, hoping to bring it back later. But our kids? They expose it, they bring it to light. Not to mock us—but to complete the story.
That’s what my kids did this week. They found the Afikoman in me. The hidden pieces of my impatience. The cracks in my perfect image of calm. The places where I still have work to do. And as painful as that can feel in the moment, it’s also redemptive.
Because Pesach isn’t about perfection. It’s about becoming. It’s about remembering that even Moshe Rabbeinu, fresh off the miracles of Mitzrayim, had to spend forty years navigating complaints, setbacks, and sandstorms. Maybe his Chol HaMoed lasted decades. And maybe that’s why ours can feel so relentless.
But it’s in that space—between the Seder plate and the spilled slushy—that the real avodah happens. Every moment you lose it and then reset, every time you choose laughter over lashing out—that’s geulah. It may not look like freedom. But it feels like growth.
So no, I didn’t make it through Yom Tov without getting upset. But I did notice when I slipped. I did apologize. I did reset. And in that process, I remembered what freedom really is: not the absence of tension, but the choice to show up again anyway—with a little more softness, and a little more truth.
Chol HaMoed isn’t a break from Yom Tov. It is Yom Tov—just without the costume. It’s the Yom Tov of the everyday. And in many ways, that’s the most holy part of all
