When I was a little girl I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Fruit Loops, and that’s about it. My mom was concerned. “Rena won’t eat anything but peanut butter and jelly or Fruit Loops,” she shared with my doctor. He looked me over and pronounced me healthy. So Mom did as the doc said and left me alone to my meager diet. But one day I sat in despair, carrying on about my limited options. “Peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and jelly!” I announced. “That’s all I ever eat is peanut butter and jelly!”

“Well, Rena,” Mom ventured bravely, “What do you want to eat?”

I imagine there was a long, heavy sigh before I answered. “I guess I’ll have peanut butter and jelly.”

And still today, at the age of 48, I eat peanut butter and jelly most mornings for breakfast; sometimes, again for lunch. My beloved childhood sandwich has, however, undergone a makeover. White bread sandwiches with Jiff were exchanged for Smuckers All Natural peanut butter with Smuckers Sugar-Free Blackberry jelly on toasted wheat, toasted just right. Fruit Loops show up occasionally for a nostalgic late night snack, usually when my grandson is on a cereal craze. I just had a bowl, which prompted this post which has been a long time coming. But peanut butter and jelly is my fav.

My Uncle Norman used to tell Boudreaux jokes. My favorite involved sandwiches, of which Uncle Norman and I disagreed. He told it his way; I told it mine. At his funeral late September 2016, I had thought about sharing the joke I would title “Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich”. I gave his eulogy and shared three Boudreaux jokes. I should’ve shared the sandwich joke, just the way I always did. He couldn’t have argued back, you know?

This is the joke, according to me:

Boudreaux, Thibodeaux, and Pierre broke for lunch one work day. The three sat down along the Sunshine Bridge with their lunches and Boudreaux hung his head immediately after opening his lunchbox. “Bologna sandwich! Bologna sandwich! That’s all I ever eat is bologna sandwiches! I told my wife I’m sick of bologna! Why she can’t make me a roast beef sandwich or something?! I told you what—tomorrow if I come down here and open this lunch box and find another bologna sandwich, I’m gonna jump off this bridge!”

Next, Thibodeaux opened his lunchbox slowly and peeked inside. He shook his head. “Turkey sandwich! Another turkey sandwich! I’m sick of turkey sandwiches! I told ma wife to make me some egg salad. Tomorrow, if she don’t make me an egg salad sandwich, I’m joining you. If I have another turkey sandwich, I’m jumping too, Bourdreaux.”

Pierre stared at his brown bag lunch for a while before he opened it. He let out a deep sigh and shook his head slowly. “Peanut butter and jelly! Peanut butter and jelly! That’s all I ever eat is peanut butter and jelly! [I totally threw that last part in there. In your honor, Uncle Norman. (wink)] Tomorrow, if I have another peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I’m gone join you two on that bridge. I’m gone jump.”

The lunch whistle blew next day and the three went to sit along the side of the Sunshine Bridge, lunches in hand. Boudreaux opened his first and slowly pulled out a bologna sandwich. He hung his head for just a second, and without waiting for the other two to proceed, walked to the edge of the bridge and jumped. Thibodeaux followed, cautiously opening his lunchbox to retrieve another turkey sandwich. Without hesitation, he walked to the edge of the bridge and jumped. Pierre sat silently for a moment all by himself. He peeked into his brown paper bag and then pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He tossed the brown bag and jumped, joining his two friends.

Days later at Boudreaux’s, Thibodeaux’s, and Pierre’s funeral, their wives stood next to their caskets sobbing. Boudreaux’s wife shared how grieved she was that she didn’t make Boudreaux a roast beef sandwich. After all, he had asked her. “If I had just realized how sick he was of those bologna sandwiches I wouldn’t have made another one.”

Thibodeaux’s wife composed herself. “Same here,” she said. Thibodeaux fussed about those turkey sandwiches. If I had only known how bad he wanted that egg salad, I’d have sure made it.”

Pierre’s wife just shook her head. “I don’t know what to say,” she said. “I knew Pierre hated peanut butter and jelly. But he made his own lunch.”

Favorite joke EVER!

Uncle Norman insisted the sandwiches were all different, except for Pierre’s pb&j. Sometimes I mix up the sandwiches, but I’ve never told that joke with the same Cajun accent and lingo that Uncle Norman used. He had jokes, and most of them were about Boudreaux and his sidekicks. Uncle Norman was unique in all the world. Like Pierre’s pb& j, he had distinctive characteristics that made him stand out. He was our version of Duck Dynasty’s Uncle Si. And we loved him so. Uncle Norman was content in his own redneck skin. He knew who he was. And like his jokes, there was no switching up those details. Anyone who knew him would tell you the same things about him. He never failed to meet a stranger, he never failed to make you laugh, and he never failed to find an opportunity to praise the Lord for the day he’d been granted.

The month prior to his passing marked The Great Flood of Louisiana 2016. After the flood, I returned from an Ecuador mission trip to find devastation in our community. I had last seen Uncle Norman in July while visiting him during his last hospital stay. Late August he’d left a voicemail asking if he could get a BLT. I texted him some options for later that week or as soon as I could. Desperation surrounded me in those weeks following the flood. Days passed. “Can I get a BLT,” Uncle texted me. Sadly, I didn’t get to it. In hindsight, I wish I’d have followed the cues. Sometimes they’re subtle nudges from the Lord. But Mom had assured me not to worry, she’d gotten a BLT to Uncle Norman. I would take great solace in that in the following months.

Uncle Norman passed away September 24, 2016, at the age of 62. He was just over a month away from turning 63. The thought of his BLT longing brought anguish to my soul, at least at first. But I’d come to realize that, although I missed an opportunity to see him again this side of Glory, he got his sort of BLT Last Supper, and he would not want me fussing over who made it. Perhaps it was only fitting that my mom, his big sister, would be the one to make that final sandwich for Uncle Norman. She had been faithful in carrying out years of persistent pb&j requests for me. Uncle’s fate was far better than the three Cajun guys.

I don’t know why I hesitated in sharing the Boudreaux joke about the sandwiches at Uncle Norman’s funeral. Perhaps it hit too close to home at the time. But I’m certain Uncle would’ve laughed. I wouldn’t wrap up the sum of his identity in a sandwich, but I’d say that Uncle Norman knew who he was. He made no apologies for his scraggly haired, bearded appearance; saggy pants with plumber view; or his redneckish ways and jokes. And that made him the very best representative of Jesus he could’ve ever been. There’d be no mistaking his characteristics. And like the summarizing of Cajun jokes, there’d be no mistaking his sandwich. Life is best lived when you know who you are. It’s okay if somebody else thinks you’re a ham sandwich; just don’t try to be a turkey sandwich if you’re really a roast beef.

Uncle Norman was a BLT. I love bacon. A lot. But I’m a pb&j. And knowing that makes all the difference in this life.