One of the magical happenings when we lived in Albuquerque was the hot air balloon festival. Conditions around temperature, and wind, and landscape all converged every October to create an optimum setting for flying. Balloons showed up all over town, sometimes landing in people's yards, or parking lots. There is only so much control you get with fire and air. No brakes, for instance. You can go higher if you drop bags of sand out, and heat up more air. But precision has nothing to do with it. 

 

There was a race across the mesas, in which a set of car keys was perched on top of a pole, and the team who maneuvered their craft such that they could lean way out and grab them won. Hopefully no one fell out in the effort. That would hurt. 

 

One time John and I dragged our four small kids out of bed before dawn to see the race begin. We were surrounded by huge baskets and the sounds of hot air whooshing into and inflating silk bags. The colors were as vibrant as the sunrise itself. John was in charge of the camera and went nuts. He took a whole roll of thirty six shots of bright orbs flying by. Back then you actually paid to develop pictures, and I would have been satisfied with half a dozen. We were dirt poor at the time, but he got carried up in the excitement,  just like the balloons. 

 

The spiritual growth class I went to one time talked about this. The leader said that our happiness is like a balloon, and it can ascend incredibly high. But we weigh it down with Opinions, like sandbags. 

 

 

When we let go of that dead weight, the buoyancy of God's hopes for us has a chance to lift us up. Which is the plan all along.