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Better Than a 3-Foot Bunny

Dear B. Log,

A lot of people think about chocolate bunnies—I know I do—and some even wonder what they have to do with Easter. But what I think about more are those little yellow marshmallow chicks. At least a chocolate bunny doesn’t really look like a bunny; otherwise I wouldn’t eat it. But those little yellow marshmallow chicks look real (shudder). Well, never mind, the main thing is that it’s almost Easter.

Easter was always a big occasion at Bassett Manor. When my twin brother, Wellington, and I were kids, we thought Easter was just for hunting eggs and eating chocolate. Every year, Granddad would buy us each a 3-foot chocolate rabbit from the local chocolate-maker in Anchorage. The gumdrop eyes and licorice whiskers were my favorite part.

I remember one special Easter when I was 10. Our butler, Bradford, had invited my whole family to a sunrise service. Everyone thought sunrise came too early. But I’d never been to church, and watching the sunrise sounded exciting. Besides, I liked Bradford. He always had time for me and told me amazing things about God.

That Easter morning, I heard how God’s Son, Jesus, let himself be killed. Why? Apparently so I could be forgiven for the bad things I’d done. I remembered lying about who broke the toaster (me) and lying about who painted the marble floors lime green to match his slippers (yep, me again). So I asked Jesus for forgiveness. And then the preacher said Jesus rose from the dead, and we could live with Him forever! I thought, Anybody who’d do all that for me must love me a lot. So I wanted to ask Him to be my best friend, Lord and Savior.

Bradford helped me to turn my thoughts into prayers, and I felt as if the world was all brand new. I was brand new. And I couldn’t wait to tell my family about Jesus. I was full of joy … until I got home.

That’s when I discovered Wellington had eaten my 3-foot chocolate bunny—and his! He’d waited for me to leave, snuck downstairs and eaten 6 feet of rabbit. Was anything left? Only two chocolate ears, half a licorice whisker and one gumdrop eye, which hit the floor when Wellington jumped after I shouted, “Gotcha.” You can imagine what I wanted to do to my brother.

But as I looked at the broken bunny pieces, I remembered how Jesus got hurt for my sins. After about five seconds, I wasn’t mad anymore. I forgave Wellington, even though he didn’t apologize. (But I could tell he was sorry by the way he groaned and held his tummy.) Anyway, I forgave my brother because I love him, which is exactly what Easter is all about.

I was also glad it only took me five seconds to forgive Wellington, because five seconds is exactly how long you can let something sit on the floor and still eat it. (Well, not really, but back then I thought the five-second rule was for real.) Anyway, I scooped up those broken candy bits and ate them with a smile on my face and a bigger smile in my heart.

(Thinking.) I wonder what that spy, Miss Ulily Mae Willow, is doing for Easter.

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