The Day that the Orange Juice Was Rationed

Dear Persecuted Friends, 

In my household, this is our list of acceptable drinks to drink:

1. Water

2. Water

3. Water

Oh, yeah there’s a fourth one!

4. Water

(Did I mention that our family drinks water?)

So, when we came to stay at our Grandparent’s house, and they started giving us orange juice to drink…um, well…let’s just say that I really enjoyed it. Basically, this means that one whole pitcher of orange juice served to four people disappeared in practically one day. 

I just might have had three cups…or so. 

And those at-least-three cups just might have been really big ones. 

Also they just might have each disappeared in about 2.4 seconds. 

(No, I wasn’t timing…but it sounds like a pretty good average number, don’t you think?)

My little sister just might have helped me finish off most of this orange juice. 

But, admittedly, it was mostly me. 

Oops. 

But, hey, the orange juice was good! 

Grandma and Grandpa sat staring with wide eyes at the orange juice pitcher. 

Before I could grab it to finish it off, Grandpa picked up the pitcher and thrust it into the fridge. He tried to do this subtly as if he didn’t know he was taking it away from my grasping fingers. 

There was only about one-fourth of it left. 

Grandma and Grandpa did not wear horrified expressions, but I could almost see what they were thinking. 

This is what they were thinking (I’m almost positive): WOW. 

Yeah.

Well, I like orange juice! 

I promise I didn’t mean to be piggy! 

But there is just something special about orange juice: The refreshing tartness in your mouth; that wonderful, cooling sensation down your throat; the pleasant, orange color the juice has in the mug. 

The richness, the thickness, the absolute-wonderfulness. 

I am definitely not obsessed with orange juice. 

But I bet that orange juice will flow like water in Heaven. 

Here on earth, however, orange juice doesn’t grow on trees!

(Well, actually, maybe it does…)

So, when I get orange juice, it may be hard for me to hold back.

The next day, I eyed that luscious orange juice when Grandpa brought it to the table. 

I poured myself a glass. 

It disappeared. 

(I’ve told you about that 2.4 seconds, haven’t I?)

I reached again for the pitcher, which had about a half a cup left in it (thanks to me the day before). 

Then, I chuckled nervously: “Is it okay if I finish this off?”

Translation: “I want more orange juice, and I call dibs on seconds!”

Grandpa, unfortunately, is a good translator. He glared me down. 

“No,” he said solemnly, “I haven’t even gotten firsts.”

Way to make your granddaughter feel guilty!

 I drew back my hands from that tantalizing and magnetic-to-my-fingers-I-think pitcher, and put them glumly into my lap, as I watched Grandpa pour that beautiful, rich, thick, and heavenly beverage into his own mug. 

Oh! The melodrama! The agony of watching someone else drink the last of the beverage that you adore so much!

It wasn’t just that either. It got even worse. 

My military Grandpa, used to living on rations, had not only found me out, but he had also decided to make a change in my young, orange-juice-addicted life. 

The next morning, the orange juice pitcher was full again. 

Oh! The happiness that leapt inside of my sad, wretched heart! Oh, the love that the bright orange liquid inspired inside of me!

But then…

(Dun, Dun, Dunnn!)

Grandpa pulled out four minute and tiny glass cups and slowly filled them with the happy-looking liquid.

One of those way-too-small cups was for me.  

My military Grandpa had put a ration on the orange juice. 

My heart fluttered nervously. 

“Grandpa,” I squeaked, “I see you’ve put a ration on the orange juice.”

Translation: “I wanted to drink all of that orange juice today.”

(What did I say about Grandpa being a good translator?)

“I’m trying to save enough for tomorrow…and maybe the next day,” he said, matter-of-factly. 

No translation of that was needed. 

After he poured, Grandpa hid the orange juice pitcher in the fridge…lest I dare ask for seconds. 

I sadly took my small cup of orange juice in my hand and raised it to my lips. 

You would think that I should sip it slowly in my sadness. 

You would think that I should savor it, because I only had one glass. 

You would think that I should have the decency to not gulp it down in less than a second. 

Nope.

Slurp!

The orange juice in my cup disappeared too fast.

And there was none to replace it. 

Oh! The anguish. Oh! The sorrow. Oh! The awful, awful truth. 

My orange juice was gone. And I could have no more. 

In the couple of days since then, we have, every day, had rationed orange juice: one cup a piece. 

My orange juice needs have not been satisfied. 

My orange juice stomach has not been filled. 

The orange-juice-related happiness I once felt has departed from my tragic life. 

I have also officially diagnosed myself with a mental disease: OJDD (Orange Juice Deficiency Disorder). 

Just wait until my parents hear that the villain of this story restrained my orange-juice-drinking-rights and gave me a mental disorder along the way!

The point of this tragically-ending story is to encourage my fellow orange juice lovers: stand up for orange juice!

And if somehow your orange juice needs are not being fulfilled and the cruel vices of your villainous opponents are keeping you from getting the orange-juice-happiness that you desire…

I have something to say to you: I’ve been there. I’m still there. And we can suffer through this together. 

Just remember that when we get to Heaven, orange juice just might flow like water. 

And If I’m right, and if it does…we orange juice loving sufferers will be able to drink orange juice without limitation forever and ever. 

And orange juice will never be rationed again. 

Your fellow OJDD-plagued-and-OJ-deprived-sufferer, 

Karis Anne