Anyone with small children at our Catholic church most certainly knows about the "Balloon Man." As soon as Mass concluded, he would begin to blow up (usually yellow smiley face) balloons to distribute to the kids in attendance. This typically resulted in joyful children chasing balloons around the sanctuary, their laughter echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Kind of disrupted the reverence of the service...but I think that was the point. It's hard to say whose smile was the biggest: the children or the Balloon Man.
A little over a month ago, we learned that the Balloon Man had suddenly passed away.
A day or two later, our family went out to dinner and the events that followed can only be explained through the lens of divine intervention.
After dinner, as we were passing through the restaurant from the patio, we were stopped by a kindly gentleman who asked if he could share bright yellow smiley face balloons with the kids. Independent of each other, both Jon and I instantly were reminded of the Balloon Man and of course had to say yes. Jon's comment was that he only ever knew of two people who carried around balloons to share with children: the man in the restaurant and the Balloon Man. It's no coincidence that meeting that man happened right after hearing about the death of the Balloon Man.
Jon was so moved that he felt called to pay for the man's dinner. We've told the girls a number of times that when you do kind things for others, what often happens is that kindness comes back to you. Having another person pay for a meal as a result of a simple act like giving a balloon to a child was a very concrete way of showing them that.
I was so moved that I felt called to email our priest and tell him this story, asking him to please share it with the Balloon Man's family...which he did during the homily of the funeral Mass.
What happened next gives me chills in the very best way.
You see, when the son of the Balloon Man heard this story, he began to connect the dots, realizing that he was in fact the kindly gentleman in the restaurant that night.
He and his sister were out for dinner after an emotionally exhausting day of cleaning out their father's house. One of the items he found was his dad's stash of yellow smiley face balloons. When he saw Erik toddle through the restaurant, he was reminded of his now-teenaged son and decided to share a balloon with him.
We have attended this church since moving to Memphis, and the Balloon Man and his family much longer. We've seen the Balloon Man's son and family countless times, but out of context, in masks, after not attending services in-person for months, turned the encounter into an interaction between strangers. I'm a little embarrassed that I didn't recognize him, but upon reflection, I don't think I was supposed to.
Once the Balloon Man's son figured out the connection, he contacted us, but it wasn't until we ran into each other after Mass--(not) coincidentally our very first service back in over a year--that the story was revealed. We were all visibly moved by the realization.
Shortly after losing my own dad many years ago, our priest at the time told us that we would receive signs from him, often in unexpected ways. He called these "signs of blessed assurance," and I know that each of us has our own stories of how that has come to fruition. Even now, whenever I hear a certain song on the radio or see a flock of geese honking across the sky, I am filled with the knowledge that my dad is watching over me and letting me know that all is going to be okay.
I feel very strongly that the Balloon Man was sending his family, particularly his grieving son, a sign of blessed assurance that night in the restaurant, and I am infinitely grateful that we were allowed to play a small part.
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