Juice Box

A worshiper arrived late to our small afternoon service and walked, mid-sermon, straight to the front seat. He carried a large red “American Girl” shopping back and wore a camouflage coat, a baseball hat, and tan colored boots with shimmering diamond-like material at the ankles. He sat down quietly, making sure to not squeak the wooden chair he’d selected on the tile floor.

He sat attentively for a few moments, and then he reached inside his big red bag to retrieve a small box, which made a crinkling sound as he fidgeted with it: a juice box and its cellophane straw wrapper. He poked the straw through the top and stealthily raised the box to his chin. The straw slid beneath his face mask, and he took a long drink, eyes constantly on the preacher. The box’s sides caved in quietly as its contents were emptied, and then he placed it back into the bag.

Come, you who are thirsty.

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