Adapted from: A Most Meaningful Seder by Rabbi Yechiel Spero

Pesach is like no other Yom Tov. From the moment Purim ends (and in some homes, even before that), there’s a hum in the air, a sense that something big is coming. There are so many details: vacuuming floors, washing down surfaces, checking cabinets, scrubbing refrigerators and ovens and stoves… There’s something about Pesach that makes us want to go further, to be extra careful, to add an extra layer of protection. Even little kids pick up on it. 

Sometimes, though, you may want to know why everyone seems to be working so hard and going the extra mile. These thoughts may cross your mind when you’re told for the tenth time not to bring snacks into the room that’s already Pesachdik. Why are we so, so careful?

To answer, let me tell you a story.

It was a cold, rainy afternoon many years ago in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Inside a large department store, people moved quickly from aisle to aisle, checking out the displays, but among the crowd was one elderly woman who stood out — not because anyone noticed her, but because no one did.

She wasn’t there to shop. She was simply wandering through the aisles. Her steps were slow, her face tired. To most of the salespeople, she was invisible. They gave her a glance and turned away, instead paying attention to the customers who looked like they were ready to buy something.

She continued walking, counter after counter, unnoticed. Until she reached the far end of the store. There, a young salesclerk stood, arranging items on the display. Unlike the others, he didn’t look past her or pretend to be busy. He stepped forward, his face bright with a smile, and asked, “May I help you, ma’am?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m just waiting for the rain to stop.”

The young man could have nodded and walked away. But he didn’t. Instead, he offered, “Would you like a chair?”

Before she could respond, he disappeared and came back carrying a chair. He placed it next to the counter and motioned for her to sit. The woman smiled — a real smile, one that lit up her tired face. “Thank you,” she said gratefully as she sat down.

When the rain finally stopped, the young man didn’t just say goodbye. He walked her to the door, watching her carefully, making sure she didn’t slip on the wet sidewalk. “Take care, ma’am,” he said with a nod.

The woman turned to him before she left. “What is your name?” she asked. He told her, and she asked for his card. He handed it to her, not thinking much of it. It was just another rainy day, and soon he forgot about the encounter.

Months passed. Life in the store went on as usual. One day, the store owner received a letter from Scotland. It was a request to send the young clerk to take an order for furnishing a home. The owner was puzzled. The young man didn’t work in the furniture department. He worked in sales. The owner suggested sending someone more experienced for the job.

The response came back quickly: No one but this young man will do.

It turned out that the elderly woman wasn’t just any customer. She was Andrew Carnegie’s mother. Carnegie, one of the richest men in the world, had asked her to go to the store and quietly observe how she was treated. She had noticed everyone who ignored her. And she had noticed the one young man who treated her with respect, offering her kindness when he had nothing to gain.

The young man was sent to Scotland, where he arranged for an order worth thousands of dollars. But that wasn’t all. He earned a partnership in the store. Over time, that partnership grew into half-ownership of the very business where he had once been just another clerk.

That simple act of kindness — a chair, a smile — changed his life.

Maybe that’s the lesson of Pesach. When Hashem chose the Jewish people, we weren’t the strongest nation. We weren’t the most powerful or impressive. We were slaves, broken and tired. But Hashem knew we were different. 

We did the small things, the extra things. We followed Him into the Midbar with nothing but emunah. And because of that, we are His beloved nation.

Like the young man in the store, we earned more than we could have hoped for. Hashem didn’t just take us out of Mitzrayim. He became our Partner. He gave us His Torah, His mitzvos, and nonstop berachos. And every Pesach, we remind Him why He chose us.

That’s what chumros (being extra careful and strict when it comes to halachah) are all about. They’re our way of going the extra mile, of saying, “Hashem, we’re still Your nation. We’re still the people who do more, who care about the details, who show You we’re different.”