Sneak out to the fresh air as soon as the bedroom door is closed. Sit down with fingers finally stretched across heart-drawing keys. Revisit the place where the blue balloon slipped from tiny fingers not an hour ago.
Up it sailed over the roof as we both fought back tears. Gravity took him down and helium took it up and how do you explain to your two-year-old that this feeling will follow him all his life? That the good things, the glimpses of unending glee, they slip away faster than we know what happened.
That we'll still be reaching toward the sky begging for brokenness to end until the whole sky gives way to the return of the King who triumphantly answers YES.
And He will remedy all our desperate cries of wanting with His all-sufficient, I AM.
But in the meantime? Yeah, while we're here trapped inside mean time, we're the heavy hopeful. The ones who wish helium could take us up and out of trouble, sorrow, strife. Like leaden boots with ankle clamps we wait with all creation for things to finally get better.
Heavy. It's been a year of miscarriage and disappointment. Loneliness and transition. Endings and new beginnings and staring down the rest of our lives.
Turns out there's a weight of soul that comes with age, not always a bad thing, but one unmeasured by numbers on scales. There's a sobering realization that the world is ours, the time is now, and our seemingly personal daily decisions are the ones that shape the future of the planet, the generations, the cosmos.
It's a weight that could crush. And some days it does.
But even as I watched the blue balloon disappear into the deepening evening sky, hope glimmered.
The crumpling of his face and the pain of loss flashing in his eyes and his heart-breaking cry nearly tore mine in two. All because of that blue balloon.
Yet what I offer him in that moment is the same true hope I offer myself.
The best is yet to come.
There is a hope strong enough to answer the loss of balloons and babies and innocence and life. His name is Jesus. And He will surely come.
Every twinge of disappointment will be swallowed. Every tear shed in pains both small and great will be wiped away. And every heavy sadness will make the joy more perfect when we see Him face to face.
We who love Him before that sight? We are the heavy hopeful. The ones who enter into the pain of the aching world and shoulder it with Jesus, to Jesus, for the sake of all the souls. Feet anchored in broken reality with hearts that grasp hope and bring it down to mend the corners we can reach until the Light of the world mends every last inch.
Sunlight lingers in the lengthening days of spring and birds keep singing, air keeps cooling, night keeps slowly falling. Somewhere north of here a blue balloon sags and sinks. And we're one earth-twirl closer to the day the King returns.
Come, King Jesus. Come.