The note addressed to my wife was curt and accusatory, castigating her for an oversight that was unimaginable in its ramifications – it appeared that we had run out of peanut butter. The judge was my oldest brother; he and his wife were visiting us from Venezuela. “No Bannon household should ever be without peanut butter,” he chided. It was a Sunday morning; my wife and I had left early for a morning full of ministry responsibilities at church. My brother and his wife were having a late breakfast and had promised to join us for the last worship service of the morning. His breakfast plan? Toast with peanut butter, but after searching every shelf in the pantry and every cupboard in the kitchen, there was no peanut butter in sight. It was in the refrigerator.
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