Good Evening!! Smile. The following story is one I have wanted to bring for awhile now. It was written by my son-in-law C. Robert Perry and is a true story. I hope that you enjoy it.
Originally Published in:
The Lookout, September 4, 1994
ROBBY'S BALLOONS
by
Bob Perry
The sky was crisp and blue and the beautiful outdoors would have been a pleasure to enjoy, except for the fact that I had not seen an entire NFL Football game in years -- four and a half years actually -- since the day my first son was born. But this day would be different. I had already proclaimed so during the drive home from church.
"OK guys," I said, "Today daddy gets to watch what he wants on TV. One show. One football game. That's all I ask."
My two sons did not respond.
"It's nice outside. You can play out back on the swings and in the sandbox. I just want to relax, all right?"
They both shook their heads quietly. It was obvious they had other plans in mind, plans that probably included me. I could tell they were not taking my declaration seriously, probably because they had heard such pleas for solitude from me before, nearly as many times as I had offered them.
"What did you guys learn in Sunday School today?"
"I don't remember." My four year old was the first to admit his inattention. He was looking blankly out the window, thinking.
"Me neetha," added our two year old. He smiled when he said it, proud to be just like his older brother.
"How in the world can you guys forget what you did in class thirty minutes ago?"
"I don't know."
"Me neetha."
I rolled my eyes in exasperation and wondered if our attempts to put some values in their lives through church would ever have any effect. I wanted them to hurry up and learn something there, not just think it was a place to go and play games. But I had resigned myself to the fact that any observable progress in that direction would probably have to wait a while. After all, they were still just little kids.
As I pulled the family van into the garage, I loosened the strangling tie that was forcing the sticky collar of my shirt against my neck. I longed to release the annoying little button that was crushing my larynx, free myself from the clutches of my suit and be transformed back into the slovenly, tee-shirted couch potato that I really was. I unstrapped, unbuckled and extracted our two boys from the confines of their car seats, slipped off my coat and tie, and headed straight to the kitchen pantry in search of a bag of microwave popcorn. The game would start any minute.
"Daddy?"
"What, Rob." My inflection was negative in tone. It was my own nasty but subtle little way of reminding him that I wanted to be left alone.
"Will you blow up a balloon for me with the new helium tank?"
"Not now, Rob." I rummaged frantically through the pantry shelves barely acknowledging that he had spoken.
"Why not?"
"Rob, when I say no, what do you say?" I still hadn't found the popcorn.
"OK."
"That's right. Now go upstairs and change your clothes buddy ... A Ha!" I had found my Orville Redenbacher before Robby was half way to his room. I put the paper bag in the microwave and set the timer. By the time the beeper announced that the snack was ready, Robby was back.
"Daddy, can't you blow up just one balloon?"
Now I was getting mad.
"Robby, I already told you no and I meant it. I said I want to relax. The football game is about to start and I don't even know where that helium tank is. I'd have to go looking all over the basement for it." I headed for the family room and grabbed the TV remote control.
"But Daddy, it's right under the basement stairs."
"Robby, I said no. Besides, every time I make a balloon for you it ends up getting popped because you let it go and it hits the bumpy ceiling. Then you get scared and cry. That's no fun. I don't like that. It's nice outside. Now go out back and play for a while."
"But Daddy, I won't let it pop. I'll take it outside with me."
"Oh great, Rob. So you'll let it go outside and it will go up in the sky with all the others you've let go out there. Then you'll be in here wanting me to blow up another one because you can't get it back."
The pregame commentary was already underway.
"No I won't. I'll get it back. I'll get all the balloons back."
Because I was listening more intently to the football game than to my son and because I had yet to look at him during the conversation, I had no way of knowing that his eyes were swelling. My voice became more intimidating.
"No you won't Rob. The balloons have helium in them, remember? They go up in the sky, out of sight and you can't get them back."
"I can get them back Daddy."
"Robby, no you can't."
"Yes I can, Daddy."
Finally, I spoke directly and disgustedly to my four year old. "OK Rob, you tell me how you're going to get them back."
Robby looked up at me with tears in his eyes, but his voice was firm and sure. "Well Daddy, when Jesus comes back and takes us up to heaven, I can get my balloons back then."
The chill that gripped my spine at that moment is impossible to describe. I shivered as I moved slowly away from the noisy television and toward my pleading, frustrated little boy.
The cheering crowds and excited commentary that accompanied the football game faded behind me as I quietly took his hand and headed toward our basement in search of a small, helium-filled, metal tank. We only spent a few minutes blowing up balloons and letting them go to rise and vanish into the blue sky above our backyard deck, but it was a time I will never forget. Not because I missed the first quarter of some inconsequential NFL football game, but because I will forever cherish the look of contentment in my son's eyes as his dad spent time with just him. It was a time when my four year-old unknowingly gave me a Sunday School lesson that no adult could ever have imparted. I received an awakening reminder that day about having the faith of a child -- an innocent, unshakable faith that should direct my life. The kind of faith that leads a little boy to blow up a bag full of multi-colored balloons, let them soar into the far off reaches of the sky, and know, without a shred of doubt, that he will get back each and every one. No matter who may tell him it's impossible. |
