Someone at work gave my son, Sean, a big red helium balloon on a string, and you would have thought it was the moon!
Presents didn’t come often to my three-year-old. Nor me. I was thankful for my job at his day-care center, but it didn’t pay much. I’d been so full of hope once. Now it seemed like I would be forever struggling. I reached out to tie the balloon to Sean’s wrist for our walk to the car. “I’m a big boy!” he said, jerking his hand away.
“Promise you’ll hold on to it tightly?” I said. Sean nodded. He didn’t know how quickly life’s treasures could float away.
A warm breeze blew through the car window. I heard a thunk on the ceiling. “My balloon!” he yelled. Out the window! I pulled over, but it had already gone up into the sky. Sean sobbed.
There was nothing I could do. He forgot about the balloon, but on the drive home two weeks later, sitting in traffic and fog, I was still thinking about it. How am I ever going to make a happy life for Sean and me, God, if I can’t even hold on to a silly red balloon?
A clean-cut man in his 30s walked out of the haze ahead. I blinked, amazed. He was holding a red balloon. The man walked right up to our car. “I believe this is yours,” he said, handing it to me through the open window. Sean giggled.
I held tightly to my balloon—and my hope. Maybe it was just another kind stranger with a gift; maybe it was an angel. But already our future looked brighter.
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