“I wonder what Heaven will be like,” our older daughter says, staring out the window of the car, with her hand propped on her chin. She’s staring at clouds.
I turn on my blinker to change lanes and reach the exit ramp toward home. Our younger daughter is buckled in behind me and blurts out the first answer:
“Ice cream with every meal! And I’ll never get hurt, so I can get a skateboard if I want to! And we’ll stay up all night.”
She’s giggling and giddy with possibility.
They’ve lifted the lid off the sky. There’s no turning back now. They’ve peeled back the clouds to reveal the sacred. They’ve excavated the holy. And it tastes so sweet. Now that they’ve started, they can’t stop.
Shelves of candy near the breakfast table. Rooms full of bunk beds. No tears. Rainbow streets and flying horses. Loud music and gigantic roller-skating rinks where the angels spin you around in the middle, under a gigantic disco ball.
“I wonder if we’ll have to stand in a crowd to see Jesus, of if we’ll get our own time with Him,” my daughter asks. “Or will we have to wait, like, 5,000 years, to have our very own dinner with God?”
I can feel it in my chest first, my spirit quickening when I consider the possibilities.
Why don’t I think of it more? Why don’t I pull back the curtain and consider the wild and ridiculously wonderful promises that Heaven already holds? My sister says that maybe it’s because we can’t handle it. It’s so grand and glorious and wonderful and knee-buckling that our today-brains can’t handle the magnitude.
But just for a moment, on an exit ramp headed toward home, I can’t stop thinking about what it might be like. I try to see, but can only look through a glass, darkly.
This much I know: I’m going to spend an eternity praising the eternal, Living God. And I want to get a head-start while I’m here on Earth.