Balloons and Hope

The nozzle on the helium tank is temperamental. My friend wiggles the black tip, adjusting the balloon, so air flows into the latex surface, making it round

full

sailing into the heavens

with a length of ribbon connecting it to earth.

My friend fills a handful and gathers them into a bunch, before bringing them outside to mark the location of a meeting for Chandler's Relay for Life, a fundraising event for the American Cancer Society.

It's been a week of reflection. Pondering. Remembering why I have joined the fight against cancer.

Twice a year, as part of my follow-up treatment, I have blood drawn. I have a mammogram. I talk to my oncologist. Those procedures happened this week.

Twice a year, I remember hearing the words I first heard three years ago, "I'm sorry. It's breast cancer."

I also remember the words I heard a year ago, "There's no more evidence of disease." (NED is my best friend and I love when he makes the rounds at the oncology department - No Evidence of Disease.)

On my own cancer journey and as I've joined the cancer journey of others, we hold onto hope -- sometimes when life is good and especially on terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days (and if you've had cancer or another serious illness, you know that days like that are not an exaggeration.)

But today, as I write this, I find myself asking this question:

Is hope the balloon, sailing into the heavens or is hope the ribbon, tethering us between heaven and earth?

Is hope something we let fly, or is hope something we hold onto?

Is it possible, that hope is both?

When it comes down to it, I am sure of one thing:

Nobody can be un-cheered with a balloon. - Winnie the Pooh

But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it. - Romans 8:25.

Which do you think it is: Is hope the balloon, sailing into the heavens or is hope the ribbon, tethering us between heaven and earth?

I know, I know, I'm asking you to use your philosophical brains in the middle of the week.