Our little town does the 4th of July in grand fashion. We have a children’s parade, which is a prelude to the big parade down the main road through town. Some years I think half the town is in the parade. And in any given year half of our kids have been in it, leaving just Geoff and me and the other half of our kids to watch.
Some years the cruise ships that are in town on that day will have a make-shift float full of ships’ musicians performing as they lazily pull through town. When their floats pull into view the ships will start blowing their horns from the dock. All adding to the festivities of an already-festive morning.
In the afternoon there are food and game booths on the dock, and a logging show. Some years back there would be an outside open dance down on the dock in the evening. And almost every year, except for a few recent ones when weather has been inclement, the day ends around midnight with fireworks out over the water.
It was on the 4th of July a few years back that Geoff had purchased helium balloons for the kids. The kids were little at the time. And although the helium balloons were tied around their wrists, little Emma’s red balloon quickly slipped off.
As we watched it take on a life of its own, soaring up into the clouds, little Emma shaded her eyes and strained to watch it as it left on its journey. Disappointment and concern etched in her face.
She was pretty sure that Dad needed to hurry up and get it before it was “too late.” To which we explained that it was already much too high for even Dad to get.
“Where’s it going?” she asked, still watching it.
I said something about it going up into the sky, all the way to Heaven.
She was quiet for a few seconds. Assimilating this new understanding of God into what she’d already understood. She was still squinting, still trying to make out the tiny speck of red way up high.
Once it disappeared she turned her attention back down to Earth and asked, “But what’s God do with all those balloons?”
I said that I really didn’t know, and I guessed that was something we’d find out some day when we got to Heaven. And thankfully, that was the end of the conversation.
It’s one of those brief moments which has stayed with me, though. Funny how that is. I’ve thought about it every time I see a helium balloon breaking free and drifting up into the sky, escaping its confines of Earth.
But what does God do with all those balloons?
For a while, I regretted that conversation with Emma. Regretted that I hadn’t just tried to explain to her that helium is lighter than our air so it rises, taking the balloon with it. Regretted that I hadn’t just suggested we wave to it, and wish it well on its adventures. Regretted that I didn’t use it as an opportunity to talk about the dangers of broken helium balloons falling back to Earth wherever they land, and how they don’t decompose. Regretted that we didn’t just go buy her another one. Instead, in the moment, I had offered a cute, empty, “explanation.”
But over the following weeks my thoughts on the matter started to change. Maybe I’m getting old. Old enough for my understanding of God to slowly be returning to how I knew God when I was a child. It started to occur to me that maybe my explanation to Emma was right. Maybe the real wisdom in that situation wasn’t in explaining the mass differential between helium and oxygen, but in understanding that the physical and the spiritual co-exist everywhere.
As a parent, I would grab every one of our kids’ escaping balloons if I could. If only to have them in hand and present them back to their owners, with a smile, upon their return home.
“Hey, I think this belongs to you,” I’d offer, holding out my hand, with the balloon bobbing happily above.
“You got it!” they’d gasp, excitedly taking the string from my hand, and happily reclaiming ownership of what was once lost.
It makes sense to me that God would do the same.
I can picture God up in Heaven reaching out and taking hold of each and every helium balloon that floats up into the heavens just to have on hand for another day. Maybe to celebrate that child’s arrival Home.
“I think this belongs to you,” God will offer, holding out a hand. With every lost helium balloon ever, bobbing happily above.
“You got it!” we’ll gasp, excitedly taking the string from His hand, happily reclaiming ownership of what was once lost long ago.
I don’t know. Maybe Heaven really is full of helium balloons just waiting to be returned to their owners upon their return Home. And some day, when I get there, if there’s a bright red one, I’ll know whose it is.
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