What Are We Waiting For?
It's not what you think it is.
Growing up, my picture of heaven was uninspired—disembodied beings floating on clouds, holding harps and singing the same hymn over and over and over again. I mean, the wings were kind of a cool idea, but other than that... not a very compelling picture of eternity with God. Also... turns out... not in any way biblical. Somewhere along the way, we absorbed a vision of heaven that's more cartoon than kingdom. Detached from earth. Disconnected from desire. A vague spiritual afterlife that, if we're honest, feels more like an escape hatch than a homecoming. But that's not the story the Bible tells.
The Bible does speak of being with God immediately after death—what theologians call the "intermediate state." Jesus calls it "paradise." Paul says to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. But beyond that, we're given very little. The focus of Scripture isn't on floating somewhere in the sky. It's on resurrection. On reunion. On a world remade. The promise isn't just that we'll go to heaven when we die. It's that heaven is coming here. So what if I told you the real picture is infinitely better? What if what's coming is far more beautiful than we've imagined?
Take a deep breath, and allow yourself to drift into your mind’s eye. What follows is my attempt to take what Scripture reveals and let it come alive in the imagination—to paint a picture of what we’re waiting for, what we were made for.
Imagine stepping outside and feeling the warmth of the Father—not sunlight, but glory—settle on your skin. No shadows. No fear. Just presence. The kind that doesn't need a temple or sanctuary because everything is holy now. Every square inch of creation, lit by His nearness and warmed by His presence. You feel a gentle breeze—His breath moving over you, in you, through you. It isn't just air; it's His Spirit. The fullness of Him filling every space, warming you from the inside out. You breathe deeply, completely, freely.
You are known. Fully. And it delights you completely. You know Him as you are fully known. You walk with Him like in the garden—intimately, tangibly, undeniably near. You laugh. You ask questions. You delight together. He has all of your attention, and you have all of His. He is more than enough for everyone simultaneously. This is the God you can reach for and touch. The hand that shaped galaxies now lifts your chin and sees you—all of you, with every story you carry. And He notices. There is presence. Tenderness. Justice. Peace. And the overwhelming weight of joy that comes from being completely seen and completely loved. You stand fully present and feel completely at home. Like Adam and Eve in the garden, but deeper. This is restoration beyond innocence—this is wholeness that knows the full story and chooses love anyway.
The ground under your feet pulses with life—not just alive, but vibrantly, joyfully alive. Each step sends ripples of vitality through the earth itself. The curse is undone. The rivers run clear—like glass and crystal—winding through landscapes that take your breath away. Trees stretch toward the sky, their branches heavy with fruit that changes with the seasons of your desire, their leaves rustling with what sounds like laughter itself. And there, at the center of it all, grows the Tree of Life—no longer guarded or hidden, but open and overflowing. Its branches stretch wide over the river, bearing fruit in every season, its leaves shimmering with healing. It's not just a symbol of eternity—it's a promise fulfilled. Eden isn't a memory anymore. It's reality.
Colors you've never seen before stretch across the sky—not just purple and gold, but hues that have no earthly names, painting sunrises that never fully fade into sunsets that never truly end. Mountains rise in majestic invitation, their peaks crowned not with snow but with light, their slopes cascading down into valleys so green they seem to glow from within. Fields bloom in endless abundance—wildflowers that carpet the earth like living prayer, orchards that bend under the weight of their generosity, meadows that stretch beyond horizons, inviting you to run, to dance, to simply exist in their beauty. The air itself carries the fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle, of fresh rain and warm earth. Waterfalls tumble from heights you can't measure, their mist catching light and throwing rainbows that arch not just across the sky but through your very soul. Gardens weave between forests, and forests open into clearings where sunlight pools like liquid gold. Every vista reveals another wonder, every turn unveils beauty that makes you pause and simply stare. The garden wasn't lost—it’s been waiting. And you are home in it, like you’ve always belonged.
Animals flourish as they were always meant to. The lion lies down beside the lamb—not because predator instincts have been dulled, but because hunger itself has been healed. You watch them rest together in the dappled sunlight, the lion's great mane catching the breeze as the lamb curls trustingly against his side. Bears lumber gently past deer that barely lift their heads from grazing. Eagles soar overhead while rabbits play freely in the meadows below, all creation finally singing the harmony it was always meant to sing. The wolf walks alongside the sheep. The leopard naps with the goat. The calf and the lion cub chase each other through fields of clover. What was once a food chain has become a dance of fellowship. Every roar is music. Every bleat and bellow and song joins the chorus that rises from earth to heaven without ceasing.
Children play among them all—laughing with the joy of absolute safety, climbing on the backs of creatures that were once dangerous, feeding birds from their palms, napping in the warm curve of a sleeping bear. They've always belonged here, in this place where wonder and wildness meet without conflict. The groaning is gone. All of creation, which once strained and ached under the weight of decay, now breathes freely. No more survival. No more scarcity. No more systems of predator and prey. Only abundance. Only flourishing. Only the deep exhale of a world finally at rest.
In front of you is the city—New Jerusalem stretching across the landscape, woven within the garden like light itself has taken architecture. It doesn't loom like earthly cities do, all concrete and shadow and hurry. It invites. It welcomes. It shimmers with the kind of beauty that makes you want to explore every corner, knowing there will always be more to discover. The gates stand wide open—never to be shut—and you feel both the freedom to wander wherever your heart desires and the deep security of being completely safe. No guards needed—there's nothing to guard against. No walls to keep anyone out because everyone belongs. You can walk freely between garden and city, city and garden, moving as the Spirit leads, exploring as wonder calls.
The ground radiates light—like a transparent gold. You're walking on what kings have died trying to possess, and here it's simply the foundation. The walls sparkle like living rainbows—stones you never learned the names of, refracting glory in every direction. Jasper and sapphire, emerald and topaz, each one catching and throwing light in patterns that shift and dance with every step you take. Home is now a place where glory isn't locked in a vault but woven into the streets. Where you don't guard the treasure—you walk on it. Where the most precious things are the most freely given, and freedom itself has found its perfect expression in complete safety.
You don't toil here. You tend. You don't exhaust. You explore. There is rhythm again—work that fulfills, play that delights, rest that restores. Your hands shape and cultivate, but not with the sweat of frustration or the weight of futility. Every task you undertake bears fruit. Every project you begin finds completion. Every dream you nurture comes to life under your care. You might find yourself building something beautiful—not because you have to, but because beauty calls to be created. You plant gardens that bloom beyond imagination, craft melodies that capture the music of the spheres, paint with colors that don't exist on any earthly palette. Work flows from desire, not duty. From love, not obligation.
No more striving for significance. No more burnout in the name of productivity. No more wondering if what you're doing matters or if you're enough. Only purpose. It flows naturally, like water finding its course—not because you've earned it or achieved it, but because you finally understand how perfectly you were designed to contribute to something infinitely larger than yourself." You don't have to search for meaning—it emanates from everything you touch. Beauty invites participation at every turn. You don't know everything. And you don't want to. Because discovery never ends here. You learn without limits. You ask without fear. You explore without shame. There are mysteries to uncover that span galaxies, truths to understand that reach into the very heart of God Himself. Every conversation with the Creator reveals new depths. Every exploration of His creation unveils new wonders.
Eternity isn't boring—it's expansive. Every day is deeper than the one before. The glory of God isn't something you understand in a moment—it's a well with no bottom, a sunrise with no ceiling. You are caught in perpetual wonder—and you never tire of it. Wonder refreshes you. Awe strengthens you. Each discovery only increases your capacity for more.
And you do it all in harmony with one another. Every tribe, tongue, and language. All who call on the name of the Lord Jesus, gathered not by politics or preference, but by grace. The dividing walls that once seemed so important have crumbled. Not because differences don't matter, but because unity matters more.
We recognize each other—not just faces, but stories. People you've loved. People you've longed to understand. People you've never met but somehow always known. There are reunions and reconciliations. Here, the least have become the greatest. The once overlooked are honored. The formerly forgotten are celebrated. Everyone carries dignity like a crown because everyone bears His image—and now that image shines unobstructed.
You are uniquely, perfectly you—but you are also part of a whole so much more majestic than you could have imagined. Like threads in a tapestry, each one essential, each one beautiful, each one irreplaceable. Your gifts complement others' gifts. Your story harmonizes with their stories. Your joy multiplies their joy. And their joy multiplies yours.
There is no shame here. No insecurity. No wondering if you belong or if you're enough. Friendship is fully realized—deep, authentic, free. Conversations flow like rivers, sometimes gentle, sometimes rushing, always life-giving. And the laughter... oh, the laughter. The kind that brings tears to your eyes, that echoes across the hills and comes back to you like music. Laughter that springs from pure joy, from the sheer delight of existing in perfect harmony with God and each other. It's contagious and endless, this joy that bubbles up from the very core of who you are.
You sit at a table—a feast prepared with joy and generosity—and you belong completely. The best dinner party ever, where food and wine flow like rivers, and conversation flows even deeper. The aromas alone could sustain you—bread still warm from the oven, fruits so ripe they perfume the air, spices that awaken senses you didn't know you had. Every bite is more satisfying than the last, not because you're hungry, but because taste itself has been restored to its fullest expression.
The table stretches as far as you can see, accommodating everyone who wants to join. There is no scarcity here, only abundance. You taste flavors from every culture, every tradition, prepared with love by hands that know no weariness. Everyone serves each other in pure delight—not from obligation, but from the overflow of joy. You find yourself reaching for someone's glass to refill it at the exact moment they're cutting you a slice of something wonderful. Conversations weave between languages that somehow everyone understands. Stories are shared without shame. Dreams are spoken without fear of judgment. The conversations are deep and honest and full of delight. Questions that once felt too dangerous to ask are welcomed here. Mysteries that once divided are explored together with curiosity and grace.
And through it all, you sense Him—not just with you, but in you, among you. His presence fills every pause between words, every shared glance, every moment of satisfied silence. The feast is His gift, but more than that, His presence is the feast. He delights in your delight. He laughs with your laughter. He savors not just the food, but the fellowship, the joy, the love flowing freely around this endless table.
And it's not just you that's whole. It's us. All of us, together, finally home. And you realize your laughter, your joy, your very presence at this table has been part of something larger all along—the worship... It simultaneously takes your breath away and compels you to express your adoration to Him with every fiber of your being. It's like the most beautiful soundtrack ever—always there, weaving through everything, full of power and glory but never overwhelming. It rises from the earth itself, from the rivers and mountains, from the laughter of children and the rustle of leaves. Angels' voices blend with the voices of the redeemed, creating harmonies that reach depths your soul has always longed to hear.
The music draws you in irresistibly. It starts as a whisper in your spirit, then grows until your whole being resonates with its frequency. You couldn't hold in the song if you tried—it wants to escape through your voice, your movement, your very breathing. The melody line finds you wherever you are, whether you're tending a garden or walking through the city, whether you're deep in conversation or lost in wonder. The words come from somewhere deeper than memory—ancient words, new words, wordless sounds that somehow carry the fullness of your heart. Your voice blends perfectly with the cosmic chorus, adding your unique note to the symphony that has been building since the foundations of the world.
Your body moves in ways that feel both completely natural and completely new. Every gesture is worship. Every step is praise. The rhythm pulses through you like a second heartbeat, and you find yourself moving in perfect sync with others, each person dancing their own dance while somehow dancing the same dance. The music never stops, never grows tiresome, never becomes routine. It evolves and builds and surprises, always revealing new layers of beauty, new reasons to rejoice, new facets of His glory to celebrate. And you are part of it—not just listening, but contributing to the song that fills all of heaven and earth.
And this... all of this... stretches on into forever. Forever isn't a length of time you endure—it's a depth of life you inhabit. Each day unfolds with the wonder of a first day and the richness of countless days lived fully. There is no sameness here, no tedious repetition. Every sunrise reveals new colors. Every conversation opens new understanding. Every moment with Him uncovers new facets of love you never knew existed. You never grow tired of the beauty because beauty itself keeps growing. You never exhaust the relationships because people keep becoming more themselves, more radiant, more fascinating. You never run out of things to explore because creation itself is infinite, and the heart of God is deeper than any ocean, wider than any sky.
Time doesn't drag here—it dances. Eternity doesn't loom—it embraces. And you realize that what you once called "forever" was just your finite mind trying to grasp the ungraspable. This isn't endless time. This is timeless joy. This is life as it was always meant to be lived—without fear of ending, without the shadow of loss, without the weight of wondering if there will be enough. There is always enough. There is always more. There is always Him.
Trying to describe this feels impossible—similar to John in his Revelation, I’ve struggled to put into words the fullness of what’s coming. We stretch the limits of language, imagery, and imagination just to try and glimpse it. But even our best descriptions fall short of the glory Jesus says is already breaking in—here, now, just not yet complete. At the beginning of this reflection, I said I was simply trying to take what Scripture reveals and let it come alive in the imagination—to paint a picture of what we’re waiting for, what we were made for. A glimpse. A reflection. Language stretched thin trying to hold glory. The reality is, what I’ve tried to paint here is only a shadow of the fullness of what He promises. But it sounds a lot better than a cloud and a harp… even with the wings. So we wait with anticipation—not with resignation or boredom, but with the kind of eager expectation that makes your heart race. The kind of waiting that makes you scan the horizon, listening for the sound of His return.
My hope in writing this is simple: that you’d be inspired and encouraged. That in your best moments, you’d know the future is even better. And in your worst moments, you’d remember the future is even nearer than you think. Because what we’re waiting for isn’t an escape from this world. It’s the healing of it. It’s not the end of the story—it’s the beginning of the one that never ends.
And by the way… there’s nothing in Scripture that says we get wings. In fact, there’s not much to say angels have them either….
Scripture References:
Genesis 1–3, Genesis 2:25, Isaiah 11:6–9, Isaiah 25:6–8, Isaiah 65:17–25, Luke 23:43, John 14:1–3, John 20:19–29, Romans 8:18–25, 1 Corinthians 13:12, 2 Corinthians 5:6–8, Revelation 7:9–17, Revelation 19:6–9, Revelation 21:1–5, Revelation 21:10–27, Revelation 22:1–5, Philippians 3:20–21, Matthew 5:3–12, Matthew 22:30, Ephesians 2:13–22, Psalm 16:11, Hebrews 12:22–24