Helium Love
What if our words were gorgeous gifts?
By Anni Ponder
“No one can be uncheered with a balloon.”
For as long as I can remember, I have loved balloons. I recall how excited I used to get at Chuck E. Cheese's when I would put the token in the machine, press the button for the color I wanted (always pink), and watch as the automated air compressor filled the beautiful globe with helium. I would feel such glee holding onto the string of my prize, watching it bob and float above my head.
Anytime I got a balloon on a string, I made sure to ask my grown-up to please tie it to my wrist, extra tight, so it wouldn’t fly away. I once made the mistake of just holding one without having it tied on, and I sobbed as it floated out of reach. Never again, I thought.
I cared so deeply about balloons that I would cry tears of empathy anytime I saw one escape from a crowd, sure there must be a heartbroken child somewhere nearby. Actually, I still get a little sad when I see one weaving its way up to the heavens and out of view. I always hope there’s not a teary-eyed kiddo learning the never-forget-to-tie-your-balloon-on lesson.
Now that you know about my abiding affection for balloons, you can understand the depth of what I was trying to express one afternoon in Stockton, CA when I was about four.
Frank was about the loneliest person I had ever met. My grandparents had befriended him, and sometimes he had lunch with us after church. A physically-unattractive social misfit with an enormous heart, his eyes told a story of low self-worth. Even as a four-year-old, I could sense he had a rough life and didn’t love himself very much, and his sadness spoke to me. I wanted to help, to make him feel loved and valuable. I decided to say something that would let him know how much I cared about him…I needed a metaphor to drive home my point, but what? I considered my options while sitting on the floor, plugging little plastic pins into my Lite-Brite toy.
Presently I stood up and walked over to where he was sitting in the recliner. Putting my little hands on his arm, I looked into his face and said, “Frank, if you were my balloon, I’d never let go of your string.”
Frank’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Tears sprang into his eyes, and he just looked at me.
“Honey, what a sweet thing to say!” my grandma exclaimed from the kitchen.
After a moment, Frank found his words. “Anni, that is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you.” His smile lit up the room.
I went back to playing with my toy, but never forgot that moment. Something about the way Frank’s face lit up worked its way deep inside my heart. That afternoon in my grandparents’ living room, I learned that with a little intention and a whole lot of love, I could make a sad face beam. I loved how that felt.
I wish I could tell you I decided right then to always do that with my words, but we all know that wouldn’t be the truth. Looking back and listening to my words over the years, I’m so saddened by all the things I have said out of fear, greed, selfishness, jealousy, rage, bitterness, spite. I am aware that many times, I’ve used my words as weapons, and have wounded those around me.
Worst of all, I have done all of this as a Christian, and I’ve made Jesus look bad.
The thing about the way Jesus talks to me is that it’s always gentle and compassionate. Often, it’s humorous and lighthearted. Very rarely does He raise His voice, and never once has He been unkind or mean. He never insults or demeans me; never uses His intelligence to put me in my place and humiliate me.
How I wish I could say the same for myself.
Can you relate? Maybe you’re recovering from wounding that has left you with a quick temper and a sharp tongue. Perhaps you struggle to say kind things to those who think differently than you—I know that’s a tough one for me. I wonder if we’re so afraid of what will happen if they don’t come around to our viewpoint that we resort to hostility in order to win them over to our side. Like that has ever worked before.
“There’s probably a little bit of Frank inside every one of us.”
I’m trying to take a note from my four-year-old self and remember that there’s probably a little bit of Frank inside every one of us—that we all wrestle with doubt, insecurities, shame, and guilt. That we are all hoping to find genuine connection. That we all need to hear we are worth holding onto.
I wonder if it would help me remember if I tattooed a pink balloon on my hand. While I think on that, may I issue you a challenge? For the next week, say one gorgeous, affirming thing to someone every day. Keep track of the helium love you spread around, and at the end of the week, let me know how it went. I’d love to hear what you said to people, how they responded, and how it felt to you. Who knows what sort of goodness will come of it?
Also, let me know if you decide to do the tattoo. Might look a little weird, but hey. Could be a great conversation starter.
