I always went to the Pesach seder at my Bobie and Zaidy’s house.
Same table.
Same songs.
Same Divrei Torah.
Same jokes. (bih bih bih…)

After my Zaidy was niftar, we continued at my parents’ home. Even when I got married and had kids, we went back. Pesach was never up for discussion. It meant something — that night of unity, of memory, of something way bigger than ourselves.

Until one year, we couldn’t go.
My wife was pregnant and couldn’t fly. So for the first time ever, we made our own seder.

And something happened that I didn’t expect.
As I led the seder — saying the words, singing the tunes, explaining the steps — I had a realization:
I was doing it exactly like my father.
And he did it like his father.
And I remember my Zaidy saying: “This is how my father did it.”

That night, I wasn’t just hosting a seder.
I became a link in the chain.
Not just any chain — the chain.
The one that holds our people together.

“We don’t just tell the story—we become the story.”

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The Secret to Jewish Survival

“V’higadeta l’vincha” — you shall tell your child.
It’s more than a mitzvah.
It’s a survival strategy.
A vision.
A calling.

The Jewish people aren’t here today because of armies or assets.
We’re here because of stories.
Because of the energy, the emotion, the passion we bring to the seder table.
Because we make our kids feel like they were there.

We’re not just telling a story.
We’re handing over an identity.

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Why We Go All Out

There’s a reason we go all out to keep the kids engaged.
The songs, the costumes, the candy, the frogs — it’s not just fun.
It’s the future.

If our children aren’t lit up by the seder…
If they don’t feel the story…
The chain stops with us.

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The Seder That Made Me Realize

That night taught me something deep.
I didn’t “study” how to lead a seder.
I didn’t read a manual.
But I had seen it, absorbed it, lived it — year after year.
The flow. The tone. The tunes. The divrei Torah.
It was all already inside me.

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What I Learned Leading My First Seder

And then something funny happened…

As I read the Haggadah, my kids started commenting — joking about the way we were singing certain lines, laughing at some of the strange customs we were doing.

And it hit me like a wave.

Those were the exact same jokes my brothers and I used to make.
Same lines. Same reactions. Maybe even word for word.

Without even trying, they were reenacting our seder from years ago.

That’s when I realized:

“We don’t just tell the story—we become the story.”

This is how tradition survives.
Not just through words — but through laughter, rhythm, reactions, and love.

That’s the power of modeling.
We don’t raise children by lecturing.
We raise them by living.

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So:
Live with excitement and joy.
Repeat your values — again and again.
Let your life be the loudest message in the room.

Repetition shapes the subconscious.
It’s why propaganda works.
And it’s why the Torah tells us to fill our homes with mitzvot, meaning, and melody.

“Your children don’t need a perfect seder. They need a passionate one.”

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Why They Went to Rabbi Akiva

Every year, we read about Rabbi Eliezer, Rabbi Yehoshua, Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya, Rabbi Akiva, and Rabbi Tarfon — sitting in Bnei Brak — discussing Yetziat Mitzrayim all night long.
But here’s the deeper question:
Why were they all at Rabbi Akiva’s house?

He was the youngest.
They were older and greater in stature.
And yet, they went to him.

Because this was after the Churban.
The Beit HaMikdash was destroyed.
Rome had crushed us. Hope was fading.

But Rabbi Akiva?
He was the one who laughed when others cried.
The one who saw hope in the ashes.
The one who believed the story wasn’t over.

And they needed that energy — that contagious hope — to fulfill the mitzvah of Sipur Yetziat Mitzrayim.
Because it’s not enough to tell the story.
You have to light a fire with it.

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The Man on the Plane

There’s a story about two Jews on a plane — one religious, one secular.
Each had grandchildren sitting further back.

Throughout the flight, the religious man’s grandchildren kept coming up — offering water, checking in, showing care and respect.

Eventually, the secular man turned and said:
“I can’t help but notice how your grandchildren keep coming to you. Mine haven’t come once.”

The religious man replied:
“To my grandchildren, I’m closer to the Source.
To Hashem. To Torah.
I’m a link in the chain they revere.
But to your grandchildren…
You’re just someone who didn’t figure it out yet.
Every generation thinks it knows better than the last.”

“When you lead a seder, you’re walking in the footsteps of every generation that refused to forget.”

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So… What About You?

Ask yourself:
Are you creating a seder your children will want to recreate?
Even if you don’t have kids yet — you’re still becoming someone’s role model.

“The best time to prepare to be a great parent is 20 years before your first child is born.”

This isn’t just about Pesach.
It’s about your whole life.

Are your mitzvot alive with meaning?
Are you living a life that others would want to copy?

We’re not just telling stories.
We’re shaping souls.

“If you want your kids to love Judaism, let them see you love it out loud.”

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The Chain That Shines

There’s a halacha that we start preparing for Pesach 30 days in advance.
Why?
Because this night is the heartbeat of our nation.
It’s the spark that keeps us going.
Not just for us —
For them.
Not just for memory —
For destiny.

“We don’t keep the seder alive. The seder keeps us alive.”

Because the story we tell on Pesach?
It’s not just about the past.
It’s a blueprint for the future.

Let’s make sure the chain doesn’t just survive…
Let’s make sure it shines.

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