I just returned from a six-day vacation at a very large theme park.
You can probably guess which one. Let’s just say there were fireworks, parades, sugary drinks with glowing ice cubes, and enough themed lands to make your head spin long before the rides did.
And honestly? It was wonderful. Truly wonderful.
There’s something about walking through those gates that makes you feel eight years old again. The music, the colors, the costumes, the little pops of imagination that show up in the most unexpected corners. Everywhere you look, there’s a detail someone cared about. A story someone built. A world someone dreamed.
The technology alone left me shaking my head more than once. Animatronics that blink and breathe like real creatures, rides timed so perfectly you forget gravity is even a thing, lands that look like someone carved a piece of a movie set straight out of the screen and dropped it into Florida soil. I just kept thinking, People made this. Human minds actually dreamed all of this up and then figured it out.
It’s astonishing what we’re capable of sometimes.
But here’s the thing no brochure warns you about: you can absolutely over–theme-park.
And we did it. We went too hard, too fast, too long. By day three, we were running on fumes and churros. By day five, even the cheerful background music sounded like it needed a nap. And by day six? Well, by day six I officially wore myself and my kids out. And my apologies to bystanders who witnessed me limping toward a bench with the desperation of someone looking for an oasis in the desert.
On that last evening, I had one ride left on my wish list. One big finale. The kind of ride you talk about for months afterward. I was determined, but my body had other opinions. Somewhere between the crowds and the travel and the sheer over-theme-parking of it all, I came down with a head cold that flattened me at the finish line. I wanted to push through. I really did. But I hit a wall made of tissues and exhaustion and the realization that I am, in fact, a human being with limits.
Still, as I bandaged my blistered feet and downed my cold medicine, I had this moment. This strange little moment in the middle of the neon and the noise. I looked around at all the people laughing, at the sky-high buildings themed within an inch of their lives, at the engineering marvels disguised as whimsical adventures. Surprisingly, it wasn't a thought of regret over missing my big ride. Instead it was:
I miss God.
Not because He wasn’t there, He was. He always is. But because nothing around me pointed back to Him. Everything was beautiful, but the beauty wasn’t anchored. Everything was joyful, but the joy wasn’t eternal. I found myself longing for something I couldn’t put my finger on. Something familiar. Something holy.
In the middle of the crowds, the sugar, the music, the lights, I missed the One who gave me the ability to feel joy in the first place. And I started imagining, because my mind does that, what it would be like if all this human creativity, all this imagination, all these talents were used for one purpose: to honor God.
Can you imagine a theme park designed around worship instead of entertainment? Not cheesy. Not forced. But breathtaking. A place where every color, every sound, every story pointed straight back to the Creator of everything beautiful.
I know it would never happen here. But I wondered, What about heaven? Will there be places like this, only better? Places where man’s imagination isn’t limited by physics, budgets, or sin? Where creativity is pure, and joy doesn’t run on a schedule, and every experience teaches you something deeper about God’s heart?
What if there’s a “ride” that lets you experience the parting of the Red Sea, not as a spectacle, but as worship? Not as a thrill, but as awe? What if there’s something even better, something beyond what we can imagine because our imaginations down here only scratch the surface of what they were originally designed for?
I don’t mean to make Bible stories feel casual. That’s not my intent. I just find myself wondering what God-honoring creativity will look like when it’s finally unhindered. When all of humanity’s gifts are restored and perfected and pointed in the right direction.
Because as much fun as the week was, and as many memories as we made, there were moments I felt this ache, this homesickness, for my forever home. Scripture says God knew us before we were born. Maybe that’s why the longing feels so familiar, because somewhere in the beginning, before our first breath, our souls knew His presence in a way we haven’t fully experienced since.
I know Him now, but heaven will be something else entirely. A fullness. A wholeness. A joy that doesn't fade with exhaustion or crowds or head colds. And no theme park on earth, no matter how magical, will ever come close.
A Glimpse of Glory
John sat alone on the rugged coastline of Patmos, the island Rome reserved for men they feared or wanted to erase. Patmos wasn’t a place people visited, it was a place people survived. Its hills were sharp and unforgiving, its stones hot under the sun, its nights cold enough to make old bones ache. The wind came off the Aegean in sudden gusts, sometimes gentle, sometimes cruel, always carrying the scent of salt and isolation.
John’s hands, weathered, scarred, and marked by a lifetime of following Jesus, rested against the rock beside him. He was old now. Much older than he had ever expected to be. His beard had turned white, his back had grown stiff, and he often woke in the night with memories he couldn’t outrun: the face of Jesus on the cross, the empty tomb, the flames of persecution, the cries of believers hunted and killed.
Patmos was quiet, but not peaceful. It was the quiet of exile, of being pushed out, cut off, unwanted. And yet John prayed, because prayer wasn’t a duty to him. It was a breathing memory. It was the thread that connected him to the One he loved more than life itself. He prayed to the Jesus he once walked beside in dusty streets, the Jesus whose laughter he had heard, whose miracles he had touched, whose robes he had leaned against during the Last Supper. He prayed to the Jesus who called him “beloved.”
And then, without warning, the veil lifted.
One heartbeat John was staring at the stubborn blue of the sea. The next, he was swept into a realm no mortal words could shape. A voice, not a whisper, not a human call, but a sound like a trumpet, spoke his name. It didn’t echo. It resonated. It filled the space around him like light fills a sunrise.
John turned, and everything changed.
Before him stood One like a Son of Man, familiar, yet beyond recognition. There was no mistaking who He was, but this was no longer the Jesus who walked the earth in humility. His eyes burned with flame, not anger, but purity so fierce it revealed everything and hid nothing.
His feet glowed like bronze refined in a furnace, as though He had walked through suffering and come out victorious. His voice thundered like rushing waters, like every ocean wave John had ever heard multiplied into music. His face shone like the sun in all its strength. Looking at Him felt like looking at glory itself. John, who had seen miracles, who had seen Jesus raise the dead, who had stood at the foot of the cross, fell at His feet as though dead.
But Jesus, still Jesus, reached out His right hand and touched him. The same hand that once broke bread, the same hand that lifted Peter from the sea, the same hand that carried the scars of love rested gently on John’s shoulder.
“Do not be afraid.”
Strength filled John’s bones again. Vision returned. And suddenly, majestically, he was taken higher. He found himself in the throne room of heaven. A throne not carved by man, not adorned with jewels found in earthly mines, but radiating with glory itself.
Upon it sat the Almighty, beyond form, beyond comparison, His appearance like jasper and carnelian, colors so intense they seemed alive. Around the throne was a rainbow, not thin or distant, but full and encircling, glowing like emerald light woven into living air.
Lightning flashed, not chaotic, but controlled, declaring God’s power. Thunder rolled, not frightening, but announcing His majesty. Seven blazing lamps stood before the throne, the fullness of God’s Spirit shining.
And stretching out like a great expanse was something John could only describe as a sea of glass.
Clear. Still. Untouched by wind, storm, or time. John, the fisherman, the man who once battled waves on the Sea of Galilee, stood before a body of water finally at peace.
Around the throne were living creatures unlike anything earth had ever seen. Covered in eyes, wisdom, perception, unending awareness, they cried day and night, not in monotony but in worship:
Holy, holy, holy
is the Lord God Almighty,
who was, and is, and is to come.
Every time they cried out, twenty-four elders fell to their knees, casting their crowns, surrendering every honor, because in the presence of God, even glory bows.
John saw colors he had no names for. He heard sounds that weren’t music, but worship made audible. He felt the atmosphere pulsing with holiness, love, justice, mercy, power, all at once. He saw a world where God is not distant or questioned, but central. Where light comes not from a sun but from the Lamb. Where nothing decays. Nothing threatens. Nothing dies.
He saw the world we were made for.
And he wrote it down, not to give us a puzzle to solve, but a promise to cling to. Through John’s eyes, we get to see what he saw: the home our hearts recognize, the glory we long for, the God who will one day make all things new.
The Journey Home
We awoke early the final morning of our vacation. It was still dark outside, the kind of dark that feels deep and heavy, indicating morning was still hours away. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the rustling of suitcases being zipped shut. Our flight was early, painfully early, and we had squeezed every last drop out of the night before. We’d stayed in the theme park until closing, determined to make the most of our final hours, which meant we’d slept only a few hours at best.
We had enjoyed ourselves. Truly. We’d laughed, we’d ridden rides, we’d eaten more sugar than any human body is designed to process, and we’d made memories I’ll treasure. But we were exhausted, physically, mentally, emotionally, and I was sick. The head cold that had been stalking me finally settled in, heavy and unmistakable. My body felt like it was waving a white flag.
Leaving felt like relief and sadness holding hands. The magic had faded. The sugar high had long since evaporated. Reality was waiting at the airport, along with crowds, security lines, luggage, and the nagging worry of wondering whether we’d packed our liquids correctly or were about to donate all our toiletries to TSA.
We stepped out into the humid Florida morning and said goodbye to the palm trees, their silhouettes swaying gently against a sky that was only beginning to lighten. There’s something iconic about those trees, something that whispers vacation and sunshine and escape. But as we slid into our Uber, I felt something else too, a strange emptiness I hadn’t expected.
I have been to countless theme parks in my lifetime. They feel like an American rite of passage, summer trips, family outings, childhood nostalgia wrapped in churros and fireworks. But I’ve never felt an emptiness in the middle of them like I did on this trip.
But in a way, I’m grateful for it. I always want to long for my Savior.
As we drove toward the airport, headlights reflecting on wet pavement, I found myself thinking not about the rides we hadn’t gotten to, or the shows we missed, or the souvenirs we didn’t buy, but about home. Not just my own bed, though that sounded heavenly at the moment, but my forever home.
I look forward to the day when I get to explore the wonders of His creation for eternity. I love exploration, and learning, and seeing new things. My heart comes alive when I discover something beautiful or fascinating. And the thought of an eternal life where that never ends, where boredom doesn’t exist, where every moment reveals something new and breathtaking, fills me with such joy.
Not to mention being in the presence of the Savior Himself. Finally knowing what perfect love actually looks like, and feels like. How can you not be excited about something like that?
John saw it for himself.
Can you imagine being John, sitting on an island meant for exiles, surrounded by silence and salt spray, and suddenly being transported into a place so beautiful, so overwhelming, so utterly beyond anything the human mind can dream up? Standing in the midst of God’s story, seeing eternity unfold before your very eyes?
And then, being sent back.
I think about the adjustment he must have faced returning to that barren island. One moment surrounded by glory, the next staring again at stone and sea and loneliness. In my heart, I believe Jesus saved this vision for John toward the end of his life. Because can you imagine the longing he would have battled if this had happened when he was young? If he had decades left on earth while holding the memory of heaven so vividly in his mind?
It was mercy.
John loved Jesus so very, very much. And that’s how I want to live my life too. I am certainly nowhere close to the great Apostle, but I understand that kind of love, at least in small ways. I understand the loyalty that grows when you know you are truly and wholly loved. When grace has changed you. When the Savior has reached into your life and claimed your heart.
And in the end, heaven is going to be the biggest reward of all.
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