As my birthday approaches each year, the wild child within me begins to stir from its slumber. I use the occasion as an excuse to try things I’ve always wanted to do. One year, I planned to go bungee jumping—but my family voted 5 to 1 against it, and the idea was quickly abandoned. But last year, as my birthday drew near, a sudden thought came to me: I want to fly like a bird. For a while, I was caught in a daydream, like a character from Greek mythology, wondering how I might soar freely through the sky.

Sensing my wish, my second daughter, Erica, gifted me a ride in a hot air balloon at a summer festival. It was the first time in my life that I found myself in the basket of a balloon, just the two of us, early on a midsummer morning in Kingsport, TN. Under the skilled guidance of our pilot, Mr. Yonkee, hot air filled the multicolored balloon laid out on the grass, and it slowly rose like a living creature. Then, with a burst of flame from the burner, it lifted gently into the sky like a floating dream.

As the ground grew distant, the thrill of rising into the sky turned into something close to fear. Inside the basket, all I could do was surrender myself to the air, letting go completely.

But once I gathered my senses and looked down, the village below was peaceful. The crowd that had cheered moments earlier as dozens of balloons ascended had already dispersed, and the town had quietly returned to its morning routine. In the distance, vibrant balloons that had launched before ours floated between clouds along the Smoky Mountain ridges—like a painting come to life.

I saw cattle grazing on hillsides, wild horses startled by the balloon’s shadow, shimmering mountain lakes, and majestic forests that felt close enough to touch. The clouds curled between mountains and lakes, glowing in the morning sun, and the breath of peace carried on the wind felt like God’s great orchestral performance—something I could see, touch, and feel with my whole being.

Yet amid my joy and serenity, Mr. Yonkee was constantly adjusting the burner and speaking into his walkie-talkie with ground crew below. He gave instructions on wind direction and landing coordinates, asking them to drive to the designated site. Later, I learned that not only the crew but also local police vehicles were tracking the balloon, prepared for any emergency. I had momentarily forgotten that without the pilot, this experience would have been impossible.

Each birthday, I’m reminded of Saint-Exupéry’s haunting question: “Is knowing the sum of a triangle’s angles or the latitude and longitude of a map enough to call oneself human?” As the years pass and my life’s landing point draws near, I ask myself: Am I living beautifully and truthfully in this moment? Am I savoring the love that burns within me like fire? Am I truly trusting and relying on the Lord, the perfect pilot of my life?

This hot air balloon ride was more than a thrill—it was a precious birthday gift that helped me confront an uncomfortable truth. And for that, I am deeply grateful.

© WanHee Yoon

(Faith Column #16, Published in LA Christian Today, August 17, 2011)