Before Dwight and I married, I taught primary in an LDS (Mormon) ward. “Teaching” four-year-olds was challenging. Since a child’s attention span is essentially the child’s age +/- five minutes and the children outnumbered me, I made sure to over-plan. On Easter Sunday, 1994, Dwight made me a coloring sheet. Using the Playboy logo, he drew a crown of thorns around the ear, printed seven copies and handed them to me on my way out the door with a kiss.

Growing up in the Jewish section of Detroit, Dwight never celebrated Easter.

The year after we married, I dyed eggs, bought chocolate bunnies, and made elaborate Easter baskets for his daughter, her boyfriend, and us. We had Easter brunch.

That evening, Dwight told me, “I don’t celebrate Easter.”

I knew all of his best friends were Jews. Richard even the number his mother was marked with in the concentration camps, tattooed on his arm so he would never forget.

Dwight explained, “Hitler often ran his pogroms on Easter. It was never a celebration for my friends.”

After that, we stopped hopping down that bunny trail.

But, the one Easter observance Dwight liked was buying me a new dress each year. Today, I bought three.