Ballons

“I thought humans are like balloons: we are useless, empty, and kind of ugly until God’s breath is blown into us, and then we become something bigger and beautiful.”

I can’t remember whose birthday it was, Matisse’s or Fred’s, but there was a wave of preschoolers heading to our house for a birthday party. This was the calm before the tsunami of slobbering and sticky, sugar-buzzed kids would tear through our house, terrorizing the dog and destroying furniture. Matisse and Fred jumped up and down on the couch, anticipating the joyful chaos. So to keep my children occupied, I recruited them to help me blow up balloons. I grabbed a purple balloon out of the bag, gave it a good stretch, and started huffing and puffing. With each breath, the balloon got bigger and bigger and more beautiful. It was as big as my head. Then I turned to the kids and said, “Hey, watch.” I released it, and the balloon sputtered and jetted around the room, wiggling up to the ceiling. Matisse and Fred squealed and clapped. Then the balloon fluttered down and flopped onto the floor, wrinkled, lifeless, and kind of ugly. I thought humans are like balloons: we are useless, empty, and kind of ugly until God’s breath is blown into us, and then we become something bigger and beautiful.