Children-prayer balloons
I could still vividly remember as I released the balloons one by one. They glided silently and gently into the dark mantle of the night sky. They sometimes caught the moon’s pale light and seemed to faintly glow as if saying goodbye. Then they disappeared into the black curtain that embraced them. I tried peering into that thick blanket and imagined how they later transformed into stars.
It was a solemn ritual, like a prayer that was said from the heart each time I let a balloon off. Sometimes during windy nights, it was difficult to carry out this “ceremony.” The balloons were blown violently to various directions, some skyward and others hurled down into the bottom of the high cliff. Mother’s early-retirement dream house crowned this highest point of the village. The ocean’s rhythmic waves devoured the balloons that came in contact with the water.
“Won’t the whales die if they end up eating the balloons?”
“Baloney!” Mom said. “Sometimes there are people who think whales are more important than people. I guess I was pretty much like them when I thought there were other things in my life more important than family.”
* * *
“Why do we have to do this, Mom?” I asked her one Sunday evening.
“Can you imagine if we stocked all these balloons in the house? By the end of the month, we won’t have space to eat our dinner.” She laughed while she tried to control the bundle of balloons that seemed restless to fly away.
“Then why not sell them again next weekend at the park?”
“The balloons would be already ‘stale.’ The helium would have already gone out of them and trying to fill them up again would just be double work. Sometimes, too, it’s unsafe because they’re more likely to explode in your face.”
“Guess you’re right,” I said as I took another balloon and released it.
“Did you say a prayer before letting it go?” she asked.
“Ooops, I forgot,” I apologized.
“Then say one right now while you can still see it,” she said.
This was our weekly evening ritual before we hit the sack. Dad’s silhouette was always seen accompanying us from their bedroom window.
* * *
“When did you start selling balloons, Mom?” I asked on another occasion.
“That was some years ago, but to be precise, I started the day you were born.”
“Why?”
“I want children to be happy. Every child enjoys balloons. Don’t you?”
“Then why not give them away to kids before coming home?”
“That would be a mess, ’sides”—she paused trying to untie a tight knot—“’sides, I’m sending them off to children who have never had a life to enjoy balloons.”
“What makes these prayer balloons so special, Mom?” I asked.
“They give you a lofty feeling. ’Sides I guess, they remind us to look up once and for all?” She shrugged her shoulders. One thing I liked about mom was her straightforward, adult replies. She never got tired answering my questions.
“But how come you never gave me a single balloon?” I protested.
“Oh, but don’t you get to release the ones that aren’t bought every Sunday evening?”
She was right, and I simply kept silent and continued listening to her.
“Andy, you have the privilege of sending the prayer balloons to your siblings,” she softly said. I didn’t realize that she was beginning to break down. But she composed herself immediately.
“Siblings? I had siblings?”
“Yes, and ever since you were born, I swore to make up for that loss,” she sniffed.
“How did they die?”
Mother was silent for a few eternal seconds while I continued releasing the balloons she handed. She slowly took a deep breath. “You were still young, but I tried explaining it to you even if you still didn’t understand. It was my sin, my selfishness, and my pride that I resorted to contraception.”
The word “contraception” rang a familiar bell in my ears. “I used to repeat that as ‘contraption,’ and I couldn’t really understand what you meant, Mom.”
She smiled and pursed her lips. “Yup, you couldn’t pronounce it well. But in some way, ‘contraption’ was also appropriate since the use of such ‘foreign chemicals and methods’ were like contraptions that converted me into something mechanical.”
“And the other word, I also said wrong?” I tried recalling.
“Oh, you mean ‘a-portion’?” she softly giggled. “And that really tore a portion of my life, you know?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s the word, ‘a-portion’,” I remembered.
“That was when contraception didn’t function as expected, and I had to resort to an abortion.” She embraced me and kissed me on the forehead. “I’m sorry, Andy, please forgive me for what I’ve done.” She was no longer hiding her tears.
“Is that why you ask me to send my siblings these balloons with my prayers?”
“Yes, honey. And I pray to God to listen to your prayers (and mine) so that your ‘prayer balloons’ will move the Sto. Niño’s ‘cute’ Sacred Heart to have mercy on my poor soul.”
* * *
As we celebrate Holy Childhood Day this Sunday, let us entrust all the mothers and the children who have been victims of abortion to the Merciful Heart of the Sto. Niño. Let us offer them the balloons of our prayers.
