The way they were looking for it, you’d think a diamond had rolled under the fridge. A real diamond. But you and I both know, in the context of when this happened—three days before Pesach—it wasn’t worth the value of a diamond. In fact, it had no street value at all. And yet, its mere existence was enough to spark the angst and hysteria of the baalabusta and everyone else in the house.
Truthfully, if a diamond that size had rolled under the oven, we might have left it there. But a Cheerio? Three days before Pesach? That was a code red.
With all the bittul, shiurim, and other heteirim swirling around, there’s no rational reason to lift a 300-pound fridge. But every Erev Pesach, I’m convinced that someone in General Mills was divinely inspired to invent a chometzdike food item specifically engineered with the aerodynamic capability to roll. Crumbs don’t roll. They fall and stay put—until they’re swept up or kicked under a baseboard. But a Cheerio? A Cheerio rolls with kavanah. Especially during Chodesh Nissan, it practically has a taavah to head under the fridge. It’s created to give us that nisayon.
And the irony? This is the food we specifically give toddlers because it’s easy to hold and eat. And yet, in those tiny, sticky hands lies one of the greatest theological nightmares of the Jewish home.
Now, I know that some of you are already shaking your heads, mumbling “bittul” like it’s a holy mantra. “Why,” you ask, “would someone otherwise normal (hopefully) worry about a Cheerio that slipped under a refrigerator?”
Actually, I recently heard a chiddush: a whole Cheerio might actually be worse than a crumb of equal size. Like a beryah. Don’t quote me, but apparently, its intact form may require more hishtadlus than your average crumb.
But even if it’s just a crumb, there’s this gnawing feeling—that es gritjidt in the gut—just knowing there’s still some chometz in the house, physically unreachable or not. And maybe, that’s actually a good feeling.
Es gritjidt. That inner twist when something feels off, when you missed something, when the world’s slightly misaligned.
It’s amazing how often the agmas nefesh we feel is inversely proportional to the significance of the thing causing it. A crooked tie, a lost parking spot, a spot on your new Yom Tov jacket—and suddenly you’re in a tailspin.
A Cheerio? You’d think we’d move on. But we don’t.
Because sometimes, the tiniest piece of matter does indeed matter.
There’s a ruchniyusdike realm in which a miniscule inconsistency—a minor blemish—can render a massive effort almost worthless.
It’s fascinating to see that the same person who accepts a heter for what looks like a full-blown chillul Shabbos or rely on a p’sak that is arguably hanging by a thread (or a thin wire) will completely unravel when a shtickel matzah falls into the soup.
And I don’t think this is a question from a Litvak perspective.
But I do know that Chazal gave us a framework, a system that distinguishes between real aveiros and imagined ones, between what’s worth panicking over and what can be left alone.
Still, there are things that haunt us. Tiny missteps that loom large. Maybe they stem from OCD. Maybe from control issues. Or maybe, just maybe, they’re born from deeper places: resentment, rivalry, ego, and other subconscious infiltrations that play with the mind and emotions.
Pesach is the season of cleaning out the chometz, but sometimes what needs to be scrubbed is not just the cabinet. It’s the heart.
We obsess over the elusive Cheerio. But what are we really chasing?
Take a step back to the story we read just one month ago.
There was a man named Haman—wealthy, powerful, second only to the king. He had everything. But one Jew named Mordechai wouldn’t bow and it ruined everything for him. “All this means nothing to me as long as I see that Jew at the gate.” That’s not rational. That’s not political. That’s a spiritual Cheerio stuck in the man’s soul.
Sometimes it’s not the size of the flaw. It’s what we make of it.
And sometimes, what we deem as minor has eternal ramifications. A stringency or leniency can alter the face of history. What if Shaul had immediately followed the command to eliminate Agag? What if that one small lapse hadn’t occurred and his evil progeny would never have been born?
What if Rav Yehushua Ben Perachia decided to listen to the wayward talmid who wanted to do teshuvah?
How many of history’s darkest chapters may have sprouted from what seemed like a minor decision? How many ramifications are cited in Chazal that emanated from seemingly minor words, actions or infractions?
How many zechusim evolved from the tiniest displays of respect or emotion? A few extra steps walked? A special feeling in a heart? An act of zerizus?
Yes, sometimes, the elusive Cheerio must be found. We have to lift the oven. Make the call. Ask the shailah. The tiniest “O” can evoke a great “Oh” even generations later.
But other times? We chase crumbs and ignore the cake.
I often think of the story I most certainly have printed in the Yated about Rav Shraga Feivel Mendlowitz. He was spending Shabbos at the home of a talmid. The table was half-set. The wife, exhausted, was lying on the couch. Two uncovered challos sat next to the wine.
Embarrassed, the host scolded his wife, muttering something about the minhag to cover the challah. “Everyone knows,” he said, “that we mustn’t embarrass the challah!”
Rav Shraga Feivel looked at him and said, “I’ve had many people come to my office. Broken people, hurting people. I’ve never had a challah come to me with an inferiority complex. We cover the challah to train ourselves to be sensitive to others. If that’s the case, how can you use the minhag to embarrass your wife?”
Sometimes, what we’re looking for in that elusive Cheerio is not just chometz. It’s control. It’s validation. It’s proof that we’re doing Pesach right. But maybe the real bedikas chometz is internal.
Maybe, in searching for that Cheerio, we should find ourselves.
Just saying.
