When I was younger, I thought the best part of Heaven would be seeing people I loved again and throwing my arms around Jesus.

I still think that.

If you’ve lost someone important to you, there is a part of your heart that never stops looking forward to that reunion. Sometimes it’s obvious. Sometimes it catches you by surprise in the middle of an ordinary day. You’ll hear a song they loved or see something they would have laughed at, and for a moment you wish you could pick up the phone and tell them about it.

For me, those thoughts usually drift toward my mom or my grandparents. I wonder what they would think about the kids now. I wonder what stories I would tell them. I wonder how long it would take before the conversation felt natural again, as if no time had passed at all.

For most of my life, that’s where my imagination stopped. Heaven meant reunion. It meant seeing the people I missed and never having to say goodbye again.

Lately, though, I’ve found myself thinking about something I had never considered before.

What if my loved ones aren’t simply with Jesus?

Of course I believe they are with Him. In fact, that’s exactly how I have always imagined Heaven. When I thought about my mom or my grandparents, I pictured them worshiping, rejoicing, and experiencing the presence of God in ways we can barely comprehend.

I never wondered whether my grandpa had favorite places in Heaven or whether my mom had adventures she couldn’t wait to tell me about. It never occurred to me to imagine them laughing over a game, walking through a garden, learning something new, or setting off to explore another corner of God’s creation.

I don’t mean that in a theological sense. I mean it in a practical sense. I always imagined my loved ones fully alive with Christ, but my imagination tended to stop there. I thought about reunion. I thought about worship. I thought about being in God’s presence. I rarely thought about what daily life in Heaven might actually be like.

The older I get, the less that picture makes sense to me.

The God who created the entire universe from oceans and mountains and giraffes and music does not strike me as someone who specializes in boredom. Everything He has made overflows with creativity. Even on this side of eternity, there are entire lifetimes worth of things to discover. If Heaven is greater than anything we can imagine, why would discovery suddenly stop there?

That thought changed something for me.

Instead of imagining a reunion, I started imagining an introduction.

What if one day I see my mom and, after the tears and hugs and joy of finally being together again, she says, “Come on. I want to show you something.” What if she has stories to tell? What if she has adventures she’s been waiting to share? What if there are places she loves that I know nothing about yet?

What if God has spent years delighting her with surprises that I haven’t even begun to imagine?

The thought of seeing my loved ones again brings me comfort. The thought of discovering their heavenly world brings me wonder.

Maybe that’s why I became so attached to the idea of The Father’s House while writing Jonner and the Stuffed Animal Mansion. The more I thought about hallways and doors and adventures waiting behind them, the more I realized I wasn’t really imagining architecture. I was imagining possibility.

I was imagining a Heaven where people remain wonderfully themselves.

A Heaven where Grandpa Gus still lights up when someone mentions airplanes.

A Heaven where Uncle Mitch has somehow found a way to celebrate Christmas all year long in Greece.

A Heaven where the people we love are not diminished versions of themselves but fuller versions, more alive than they have ever been.

I don’t know exactly what Heaven looks like. Scripture gives us glimpses, but not blueprints. Maybe there are no hallways. Maybe there are no doors. Maybe there are no mansions designed around airplanes or Christmas lights or stuffed animals. But maybe there are.

I have a hard time believing that eternity with a creative God will be less personal, less joyful, or less surprising than the world He has already made.

And if one day I find myself standing beside my mom while she excitedly shows me something she has discovered with Jesus, I suspect the reality will be far more beautiful than anything I managed to imagine while sitting here writing about it.

Ephesians 3:17–20 (NIV)

“So that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love,

may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ,

and to know this love that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us”

I thought I had figured it out.

Jonner had a Stuffed Animal Mansion. Little Noodle had an aquarium. Grandpa Gus had an airplane hanger. Uncle Mitch had Christmas in Santorini. All of these places already existed in my mind and, eventually, in the book.

The problem was that I had no idea how they connected.

If Jonner wanted to visit Grandpa Gus, how would he get there? Would he fly? Would an angel take him? Were all of these places scattered throughout Heaven like houses in a neighborhood? I found myself thinking about questions like this far more often than a reasonable person probably should.

Honestly, it didn’t happen all at once. The idea followed me everywhere, late at night when I couldn’t sleep, wandering the aisles of the grocery store, standing in the doorway while tucking kids into bed. It kept circling back, showing up in quiet moments when my mind had space to wander. And then one day, without any fanfare, it just clicked.

A hallway.

Not a particularly complicated idea. Just a hallway lined with doors, assuming it would be endless to go down and explore. I imagined Jonner and Jesus walking it together, maybe with a stuffed animal tucked in his arms.

Every door would tell a story before you even opened it. Uncle Mitch’s door would be wrapped in Christmas lights. Grandpa Gus’s would have airplanes and chrome worked into the design. Little Noodle’s would have fish and bubbles. Above every door would be a name.

I loved the idea immediately. Not because it was clever, but because something in it rang true. It felt new and familiar at the same time, like I had stumbled onto something I’d always believed but never quite put into words. I couldn’t wait to go find my husband and kids and tell them.

Jonner could have his own mansion filled with stuffed animals and adventures, yet still be just a hallway walk away from anyone he loved. He could visit old friends, family members, or wander to places like the Tree of Life and the Garden of Angels. The more I sat with it, the more it opened up, and the more excited I became.

Problem solved.

Then Mille emailed me a sketch. We weren’t even working on that spread yet. She just wanted to get my mind thinking about it, and I am so grateful she did.

Looking back, that sketch may have created more work than every page before it combined, but it also opened up more ideas than I could have imagined.

She called it the “Hallway Reveal” and included a note:

“I have been thinking about these pages for a while. The curve adds a fun playful element and allows for the maximum exposure and details to be displayed for each door.”

What she drew wasn’t a long hallway. It was curved. Simple enough, right? Apparently not for my brain.

I remember staring at that sketch and feeling something shift. Not disagreement. Not confusion. Inspiration. The curve pulled my eyes upward, and suddenly the hallway didn’t feel finished anymore. I could see another level above it. Then another. Balconies layered one over the next, doors climbing higher and higher, as if the whole place refused to stop growing.

What if this wasn’t really a hallway at all? I asked Mille to give me some time to think about it, and think about it I did.

The more I thought about it, the more the picture changed. I stopped imagining a corridor connecting different places and started imagining a single place that connected everything.

The Father’s House.

John 14:2–3 (NIV)

“My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.”

A place so large that Jonner could never fully explore it. A place with doors on every level. A place where Grandpa Gus’s aviation-inspired mansion might sit just a few doors away from Little Noodle’s Aquarium. A place where Uncle Mitch’s Christmas lights could glow down the hall from the Garden of Angels. A place where every story, every reunion, every adventure, and every surprise Jesus had prepared could somehow exist together.

At some point my notes outgrew email.

I opened a Word document and started writing pages of ideas. I attached photos. I studied the inside of the Texas State Capitol.

I sketched possibilities. I made lists of doors and wondered how many stories could fit inside one building before it stopped feeling like a building and started feeling like a dream.

Weeks later, Mille sent back a revised sketch, and there it was—the Father’s House. Not exactly as I had imagined it, but better. When this whole process began, I thought the doors were the important part. Now I see it differently. It isn’t the doors that matter most, but the way they connect. There’s a quiet assurance that Heaven is vast enough for every story, every adventure, and every person we love. And yet, somehow, it still feels like home because we are in our Father’s house, and He loves us more than we can understand.

As I write this, the paintings are finished, but they’re still with Mille, and I haven’t seen them up close yet. The final art is pictured below, but I know it will be even more spectacular when I do.

One of the things I have learned while writing a children’s book is that not every idea deserves to survive.

I remember how clunky it was the first time I read a rough draft to my family over Christmas break. The book has come a long way since those early pages. In fact, one big idea that is now central to the story wasn’t even in the original draft. I’ll save that story for another article in the coming weeks.

I once considered naming this book, Jonner and the Couch That Hugged Back.

Fortunately, Tucker talked me out of it when he said it “sounds really creepy.” Though I dropped the title, I held onto the idea of the hugging couch for several more months, before eventually letting it go.

At the time, I had a very specific vision for the Stuffed Animal Mansion. I didn’t just want a mansion filled with stuffed animals. I wanted the mansion itself to be made of stuffed animals. I imagined couches made of stuffed animals, lamps made of stuffed animals, and maybe even chandeliers made of stuffed animals. If there was a piece of furniture in the mansion, I probably wanted it covered in fur.

By the time I hired my illustrator several months later, I myself was struggling with how anyone could paint a mansion made of stuffed animals, to the level I saw it in my head. I knew I was going to need to rethink the art. What I ended up writing in my notes to Mille was “A warm, inviting living room. Stuffed animals interacting, laughing, playing. Feels like home and belonging. There is lots of activity happening, including DJ Tooty Turtle pushing a train across the floor.”

When Mille sent back her first sketch of the living room, I found myself grinning from ear to ear. She had somehow taken all of my scattered notes and turned them into a room that felt alive. There were stuffed animals lounging on couches, animals peeking from balconies, trains running across the floor, and little details tucked into every corner.

When I looked at Mille’s sketch, I wasn’t thinking about couches or chandeliers anymore. I was thinking about the stuffies. I was thinking about the feeling of the room. Most of all, I was thinking about whether children would want to step inside that room and stay awhile. I wanted the page to be filled with little discoveries that would bring them back again and again. I want the kind of pages where a child notices something new on the fifth reading that they missed on the first.

One of the things I didn’t expect about self-publishing was how much I would have to learn to communicate creative ideas. Writing the story is one thing. Explaining the feeling you hope an illustration will create is something entirely different. The process has been exciting, intimidating, and incredibly rewarding all at the same time.

I do wonder what Millie is thinking going through this process with me, since it’s her first time too. I hope I’m not driving her crazy with my wild ideas and sharing our journey publicly. But if I am, she hasn’t said so. I’m grateful to be experiencing this with a true professional like her.

I asked for one set of sketch requests that included a capybara because all four of my kids think capybaras are awesome, a horse doing something silly (ideally a tea cup on his head), an otter, an alpaca, a hedgehog, and more teddy bears. I also asked for a “generational patchwork quilt rug” because I wanted the room to feel warm and well-loved, like something that had been passed down through generations.

At one point, Mille responded with what may be one of my favorite emails from the entire project:

“All animals you requested and a few extra have been added to the sketch. The otter is the one peaking over the couch. We are now at max capacity.” I love being at max capacity. I took this as a personal victory.

As the process evolved, I was less concerned about whether any piece of furniture looked like a stuffed animal and more focused on whether the room felt like a place children would want to visit. I wanted ducks drinking tea from tiny cups. I wanted animals waving from balconies. I wanted children to look at the page and spend a few extra minutes discovering all the little details tucked into the corners.

More than anything, I wanted the room to feel welcoming. Not just for the child turning the page, but for the parent reading the story aloud. I wanted it to capture a small piece of what I imagine Heaven might feel like, which is a place where you are happy to arrive and no one is in a hurry to leave.

The final painting ended up being one of the most detailed spreads in the book. Mille even warned me that it would be one of the most challenging illustrations she had attempted so far. Looking at the finished piece now, I am grateful we took a different approach than I originally imagined.

Because along the way, the living room stopped being about creating the most imaginative stuffed animal mansion possible. It became about creating a place where Jonner felt like he belonged.

When I go back and read the original manuscript notes, that was the goal all along.

“The room felt friendly, like everyone had been waiting for him.”

“This felt like home.”

When I think about Heaven, I certainly think about wonder, beauty, and things beyond my imagination. But I also think about belonging. I think about being welcomed. I think about walking into a place where I am fully known and fully loved.

A place that feels like home, in our Father’s House.

And thankfully, there is not a single couch that hugs anyone.

One of the page spreads in Jonner and the Stuffed Animal Mansion that brought the most internal struggle and led me into the deepest questions about Jesus wasn’t the mansion. It was the gates.

When I first wrote this scene, I knew I needed a way to make it clear to young readers that Jonner had arrived in Heaven. The mansion, stuffed animals, and adventures all happen there, and I wanted there to be no doubt for young readers.

Like many Christians, I immediately thought of the Pearly Gates. The image comes from Revelation 21:21, where we are told that the gates of Heaven are made from pearls. But as I quickly learned, it’s one thing to dream or imagine Heaven and another thing entirely to describe how to paint it.

My original notes to my illustrator, Mille, described giant gates reaching into the sky with whimsical carvings, animals, music, stars, and swirling details. I imagined warm light pouring through the gates and wrapping around Jonner as he stepped forward.

My original words I wrote for the page were simple and came easily.

“Jonner stood in front of the biggest gates he had ever seen.

Soft. Golden. Glowing.

Warm light poured through.

Not bright like a flashlight.

Soft like sunshine.

Jonner felt something inside his chest.

Warm.

Safe.

Loved.

Like he was being welcomed home.

He knew he had stepped into his Father’s House.

Jonner smiled and stepped forward.”

As the artwork evolved and the page took shape, I ended up changing those words. I’ll save the final version for when the book comes out, but looking back, it’s interesting how even a few lines of text continued to grow alongside the illustration.

Working with Mille on the artwork was a much deeper process than I expected. Even with a talented illustrator bringing the vision to life, translating something as mysterious and wonderful as the pearly gates of Heaven onto a page took a lot of thought, discussion, and revision.

I felt pressure not to leave out any detail that might make a child smile or wonder. On a deeper level, I didn’t want to disappoint my Lord and Savior, Jesus, and one day have to explain why He wasn’t on the page.

How do you explain the grandeur of a place that God says is beyond anything our eyes have seen, ears have heard, or minds have imagined? In 1 Corinthians 2:9, Paul writes: “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no human mind has conceived the things God has prepared for those who love Him.”

I kept coming back to that verse throughout this process of working on this book. None of us can conceive how wonderful it will be, so how can I describe what she should draw?

As sketches began coming together, I found myself wrestling with something I hadn’t anticipated. How do you paint entering Heaven for the first time when Jesus isn’t there waiting for you on the page? What was I doing? I felt like I was going to get this wrong, and I wanted so badly to get it right.

In a book filled entirely with stuffed animals, it never felt right to place a human figure on the page. My original instinct had been to leave Him out visually and let the story carry the meaning.

When I saw the sketches, it weighed on me that I was leaving the most amazing part of Heaven off the page. Because let’s be honest, the gates and the mansion aren’t the best part of Heaven. Jesus is. He is everything.

During this time, I shared the first sketch with my Bible study group. One friend suggested incorporating the Lion of Judah and the Lamb of God into the gate design. Another suggested crowns and doves. Suddenly everything clicked. The solution wasn’t to paint Jesus directly. The solution was to point toward Him: the Lion of Judah from Revelation 5:5, the Lamb of God from John 1:29, crowns and doves woven into the gates themselves. Strength and gentleness. Victory and sacrifice. Both pointing to the same Savior.

At almost the exact same time, Millie shared something with me that brought unexpected relief. She explained that she wasn’t comfortable illustrating people and didn’t feel ready to paint human figures. Instead of creating a problem, it gave me peace. I stopped letting that weight consume me and started looking for other ways to communicate who Heaven belongs to.

As the art progressed, I realized I still wasn’t done. The first painted version was beautiful, but I kept coming back to the same feeling. It needed more life, more light, more radiance, more of the joy, warmth, and wonder I imagine when I think about Heaven. I found myself sending notes to Millie that were difficult to explain. I wanted the scene to feel more luminous.

Looking back, I realize I was asking her to paint a feeling more than a place. I asked her to add flowers to the vines, more light pouring through the gates, richer colors, and touches of gold throughout the crowns and designs. Not because Heaven needs flowers or gold to be beautiful, but because I wanted the page to feel alive.

I want children to look at it and want to step through those gates with Jonner.

Looking back now, I realize this page changed me more than I expected. Over the past several months, I have spent time reading Scripture about Heaven, listening to sermons about Heaven, and thinking deeply about what the Bible actually says. The truth is that Scripture only gives us glimpses: pearly gates, streets of gold, crowns, light, love, a Father’s House, many rooms, many mansions.

It’s enough to stir our hearts, but not enough to satisfy all our curiosity, and maybe that’s intentional. No painting can fully capture Heaven. No words can fully capture Heaven. No children’s book can fully capture Heaven. It’s Heaven.

And when we finally arrive there, I know it won’t be the gates that take our breath away. It will be the overwhelming love of Jesus. His warmth. The joy and celebration. The feeling of finally being home.

For now, this little giraffe standing before the gates is the best glimpse I can offer.

The rest is beyond anything our eyes have seen, ears have heard, or minds have imagined.

We’ll discover it when we get there

.

Last November, I sat alone on this same beach with a notebook and a mind racing with goals.

Not just ordinary goals. I was searching for something that felt meaningful. Something that would stretch me and help me grow. Something that belonged to me.

That afternoon became the beginning of my Big Wild Goal.

This week, I’m back at Crystal Beach with my family.

I’ve always felt my deepest inspiration and introspection when I’m near the ocean. There is something about the sound of the waves, the salty air, and the endless horizon that helps me slow down enough to hear my own thoughts.

The forecast called for Tropical Storm Arthur to arrive, and I was fully expecting our first day at the beach to be a washout. So this morning, despite the forecast, Jim and I loaded up the boys on the golf cart and headed down the beach. It was not raining, but it had been a downpour overnight.

We love to ride golf carts on Crystal Beach, and we especially love beachcombing. Sea glass. Seashells. Sea beans. Driftwood. Anything unusual.

As we drove along the water’s edge, I spotted something large and dark near the sand. It was the largest sea bean either of us had ever seen.

It was a sea heart.

As Jim and I celebrated this unbelievable find, he spotted another. By the time we headed home, we had found four. There was an unbelievable amount of joy in this discovery. Our hearts were overflowing. Jim even asked me, “Would you rather have a concert set list or four sea hearts?” and I said, “Four sea hearts.”

In all our years coming to Crystal Beach, we’ve only found a handful of hamburger sea beans. Finding four sea hearts in a single ride felt like a gift from God.

It was a gift from God.

Naturally, I started reading about them as soon as we got home, cleaned them up, and removed the barnacles. What fascinated me most wasn’t how rare they are. It was how they are designed.

Sea hearts are built to wait.

Their seed coat is so hard and waterproof that they can float for years without germinating. They simply wait for the right conditions and the right shore.

They survive everything. Salt water. Storms. Being tossed against rocks. Years of sun and cold. Yet they arrive whole, still capable of growing.

And perhaps most interesting of all, they don’t force the destination. They surrender to the current and trust the journey.

As I read that, I couldn’t help but think about my own Big Wild Goal and trusting God.

The dream of writing a children’s book spent years floating around in my mind before I finally gave it a place to land.

Life happened. Responsibilities happened. Career changes happened. Excuses happened.

The dream was waiting.

Maybe that’s why finding those sea hearts felt so meaningful. Sometimes dreams have to travel longer than we expect before they find the shore where they’re meant to grow.

I could not believe it.

Later in the day, we took the entire family back out on the beach. What began as an exciting discovery became a family treasure hunt. We all found many more sea hearts and several hamburger sea beans. We laughed and had so much joy together.

I felt the presence of God with us all day.

And as I walked the beach with a sea heart in my hand, I found myself thinking about the response to my last article. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what would happen when I published My Big Wild Goal. It felt more personal and vulnerable than most things I’ve written. But the responses have touched me deeply.

One woman told me, “This article is exactly what I needed to read today.”

Another wrote, “The article prompted me to think about my own Big Wild Goal.”

My 80-year-old friend shared, “The last one, about setting a goal for the year, really got me thinking about how my life has been going.”

And another reader told me, “Your article resonated with me and honestly made me feel supported in my own aspirations and wild goals.”

I have read every comment, message, and email. Thank you!

I will come back to them on the hard days.

I hope you all feel permission to pursue something that feels wildly ambitious, deeply personal, and maybe even a little unnecessary or scary.

In many ways, those messages felt like sea hearts. Unexpected gifts. Small reminders that when we put something meaningful into the world, we never fully know where it might land.

Getting those sea hearts today felt like a message God was sending me.

Keep going.

Trust the journey.

Trust His promise.

Don’t give up before the dream finds its shore.

As for the book, the journey continues.

My illustrator, Millie, is currently waiting on feedback from me for the third sketch of Pages 11 and 12, the scene inside Our Father’s House.

The development of that scene has evolved more than almost any other part of the book. What started as a simple hallway has transformed into something much richer and more meaningful than I originally imagined.

I can’t wait to share the story behind it someday.

But not yet.

For now, I’m waiting until the final painted artwork is complete because I want you to experience it the same way I did: watching the idea slowly come to life.

I’m incredibly grateful for Millie’s creativity, patience, and willingness to keep exploring possibilities with me until we find exactly the right one.

For now, I’ll keep collecting sea hearts and sea beans, making notes in my notebook, and following where this Big Wild Goal leads as I focus on Jonner and the Stuffed Animal Mansion.

Because sometimes the forecast says rain, and you go anyway.

And sometimes you find treasures you never expected.

Last Thanksgiving, I escaped for a few hours.

Not because I needed a break from my family, but because I needed some space to think.

My amazing husband, Jim, has always been incredibly supportive of my dreams, even the ones that begin as half-formed ideas scribbled in my notebook (or changing careers). While we were at the beach house, he took over kid duty and encouraged me to spend some intentional time alone to think, reflect, and soul search about my goals for 2026.

So I grabbed my notebook and a beach chair and headed down to the sand.

One of the things I love most about Crystal Beach that time of year is how empty it feels. There are no crowds, no noise, and no distractions. It was just me, my notebook, my toes in the sand, and the sound of the waves rolling in.

I wasn’t doing anything unusual.

I was working on my goals for the upcoming year.

I’ve always been an early goal setter. While most people wait until January, I like to start thinking through the next year well before it arrives. I want to hit January 1st with clarity and momentum rather than spending the first few weeks figuring out what I want the year to look like.

So I started making my lists.

Business goals.

Financial goals.

Family goals.

Health goals.

The usual.

The goals themselves weren’t the problem. They were good goals and reflected things that genuinely matter to me. As I looked over the list, though, I realized nearly every goal was connected to taking care of someone else, growing a business, supporting my family, or meeting a responsibility. Those are all worthwhile pursuits, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had intentionally set a goal that existed simply because it excited me.

That realization sat heavily with me as I listened to the waves.

Somewhere along the way, I had become very good at setting goals that served everyone around me. But when was the last time I had given myself permission to pursue something that felt wildly ambitious, deeply personal, and completely unnecessary?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized there was one idea that kept resurfacing.

A children’s book.

It wasn’t some brilliant new revelation I had while sitting on the beach. Quite the opposite, actually. It was a dream I had carried around for years.

Every now and then I would pull it off the shelf in my mind, think about it for a while, and then put it right back where I found it.

I was always too busy.

The timing wasn’t right.

I had other priorities.

Or at least that’s what I told myself.

But the idea never completely disappeared.

Part of it came from conversations with my own children. Like many parents, I’ve had moments where my kids asked big questions about Heaven, loss, and what happens after we die. Those conversations stayed with me.

I have also found myself thinking about grief differently over the years. Not just how painful it can be, but how powerful it can be when it is transformed into something that brings comfort, hope, or healing to someone else.

Somewhere along the way, those thoughts began to take shape as a story.

A story about Heaven.

A story about wonder.

A story that might help children process some of life’s biggest questions through imagination, faith, and hope.

As I sat there with my notebook in the sand, I finally stopped asking whether it was practical and started asking a different question:

If not now, when?

So I wrote it down.

One Big Wild Goal for 2026: Write and self-publish a children’s book

At the time, it felt almost ridiculous. I knew very little about publishing and had no experience with illustrations, book launches, ISBN numbers, printing, or marketing. If I’m honest, I had no idea how to bring a children’s book into the world. I just knew the idea wouldn’t leave me alone.

So I made a commitment to myself.

And then something unexpected happened.

The moment I committed to the goal, it started changing me.

The book became more than a book.

It challenged me to learn new things, ask for help, embrace being a beginner again, and take action before I felt fully prepared. It pushed me outside of my comfort zone in ways I never anticipated. It also sent me back to my Bible, digging into what Scripture actually says as a foundation for the story I wanted to tell.

That’s when I started to realize that maybe the point of a Big Wild Goal isn’t simply achieving it.

Maybe the point is who you become while pursuing it.

Today, I’m deep in the process of bringing Jonner and the Stuffed Animal Mansion into the world.

The dream that once existed only in my imagination now has pages, artwork, deadlines, and an October 2026 launch date.

The funny thing is that when I wrote this goal down, I thought the goal was to publish a book. Looking back, I think the real goal was becoming the kind of person who isn’t afraid to say a dream out loud, put herself out there, and do whatever it takes to make it happen, even when there’s no guarantee of success and every step requires a little vulnerability and a lot of faith.

A few weeks after that afternoon on the beach, Christmas arrived.

Among the gifts under the tree was something completely unexpected: hot pink LLC paperwork for Big Wild Goal, LLC.

My husband had quietly taken steps to turn my dream into something real, establishing Big Wild Goal, LLC as a woman-owned business and giving this little idea in my notebook a foundation to grow from.

Not because there was a manuscript.

Not because I had a launch date.

Not because I had proven any of this was going to work.

But because he believed in it.

Looking back, I realize that piece of paper represented something much bigger than a business entity. It represented belief. Before there was artwork, a website, or a publishing plan, there was someone willing to say, “You’ve got a Big Wild Goal. I am confident that you will reach it.”

What a gift.

I’m still figuring out how to share and spread the idea of a Big Wild Goal in a way that inspires others to pursue one of their own. And yes, I’ve even caught myself wondering: is it too soon to start thinking about my 2027 Big Wild Goal? Maybe it’s something truly Wild, like starting my own recruiting company or taking on a challenge that pushes me far beyond what feels comfortable today.

Because I know I’m not the only person carrying around a dream they’ve quietly talked themselves out of pursuing.

Maybe yours is writing a book.

Maybe it’s starting a business.

Maybe it’s changing careers.

Maybe it’s learning to paint, running a marathon, traveling somewhere you’ve always wanted to go, overcoming a fear that’s been holding you back, or doing something wildly unexpected for someone like you. Maybe it’s finally giving yourself permission to try something that has absolutely no guarantee of success.

I don’t know exactly where this journey will lead.

What I do know is that one quiet afternoon on an empty beach changed something in me.

For the first time in a long time, I gave myself permission to pursue a goal that wasn’t rooted in obligation. It was rooted in curiosity, creativity, and possibility.

And that has made all the difference.

Looking back, it’s funny how much can change because of one quiet afternoon.

I have no idea what future Big Wild Goal may be waiting for me, but I’m grateful I finally had the courage to start this one.

And something tells me I’m not the only person carrying around a dream that’s waiting to be written down.

The funny thing is that Jonner’s room wasn’t imagined from scratch. It began with a little boy’s room in Keller, Texas. Tucker’s train tent, favorite books, stuffed animals, and bedtime routines all found their way into the story. Looking at the illustrations now feels a bit like opening a family photo album and discovering it has become part of a dream.

Tucker has always had a big imagination. His room has changed over the years, but one thing has remained constant: stuffed animals.

And lots of them.

Not just a few sitting neatly on a shelf. An entire zoo.

Yes, that is a real photo. You should notice several that served as inspiration, including Jonner himself, hanging off the Zoo sign!

And yes, there are that many stuffed animals.

Some are old friends. Some are favorites. A few probably need a bath.

As I worked with my illustrator on Jonner and the Stuffed Animal Mansion, I used Tucker’s room as inspiration. Looking at the finished artwork for the first time felt a little surreal. What had once been a pile of stuffed animals, bedtime routines, and family conversations was suddenly becoming a real book.

One thing I’ve learned through this process is that there is a huge difference between imagining a story and seeing it come to life.

For months, these scenes existed only in my head. Then they became rough sketches. Then conversations. Then revisions. Sometimes more revisions. And eventually, they became paintings.

Watching that transformation has been one of my favorite parts of the journey.

This was the final original sketch for Jonner’s bedroom. You can already see all of the details that made the final version, but it still amazes me how much personality emerges between a pencil sketch and a finished painting.

This illustration doesn’t show the mansion.

It doesn’t show the Father’s House.

It doesn’t show the adventure waiting behind the doors.

It’s simply Jonner in his room.

And yet, it may be one of the most important pages in the entire book.

Before readers can believe in a stuffed animal mansion, they have to believe the stuffed animals matter.

Before they can follow Jonner on an adventure, they have to understand why he loves these little companions so much in the first place. I know how much Tucker loves his stuffed animals.

As I looked at the finished pages, I found myself lingering on a simple prayer that appears near the beginning of the story.

I remember when this page was nothing more than a rough drawing and a single question.

A question that felt simple enough for a child to ask, yet deep enough for adults to ponder too.

“Dear God...

What is heaven like?

Are our favorite things there?

And the people we love, too?”

Interestingly, the title of this article wasn’t part of the original manuscript.

In the earliest sketch, Jonner simply asked, “What is heaven like?”

As the story evolved, another question quietly found its way onto the page:

“Are our favorite things there?”

The more I sat with it, the more I realized that question might be at the heart of the entire book.

When I first wrote those words, I thought they belonged to Jonner.

Now I’m not so sure.

I think they belong to all of us.

Children have a remarkable way of asking questions that go straight to the heart of things. They don’t usually ask complicated theological questions. They ask whether they will see Grammy again. They ask whether the people they miss are waiting for them. They ask whether heaven feels far away or whether it feels like home.

As a Christian, my hope rests in Jesus and His promise that He has gone to prepare a place for us. When He speaks about His Father’s House, I don’t picture something cold, distant, or unfamiliar. I picture a place prepared with love by Someone who knows us completely.

That perspective has shaped every page of Jonner and the Stuffed Animal Mansion.

The mansion is simply the setting. At its heart, this is a story about comfort, belonging, imagination, and hope.

It’s about helping children imagine heaven through the lens of Jesus rather than fear, inviting them to picture a loving Father who knows each of His children personally and delights in preparing a unique place for each one in His Father’s House. A place where we remain connected to the people we love while always being connected to Him, surrounded by His presence, care, and love.

It’s about reminding them that they are deeply known and deeply loved. They do not need to have fear.

And perhaps that is why I keep returning to that simple question:

Are our favorite things there?

I don’t pretend to have all the answers. Scripture doesn’t tell us whether stuffed animals have mansions or whether dinosaur valleys exist behind heavenly doors.

But I do believe the God who created us understands the things that bring us joy. I believe the One preparing a place for us knows every memory, every relationship, every tear, and every hope we carry.

Most of all, I believe heaven will be wonderful not because of what is there, but because of Who is there. Jesus.

As these illustrations continue to arrive, I find myself smiling at how a little boy’s stuffed animal collection helped inspire a much bigger conversation.

One that, perhaps, we have all asked at some point.

Will we see the people we love again?

And if Jesus is preparing a place for us, could it be even better than we imagine?

If you could peek behind one of the doors in the Father’s House, what would you hope to find there?

I’d love to hear what special things, favorite places, or treasured companions might be waiting on the other side.

Stay tuned to see some of the other heavenly mansions that will appear in the book as the illustrations continue to come to life.

Thank you for following along as this book slowly comes to life. It has been such a gift to share the journey with you.

If you’re new here, you can start at the beginning with How the Stuffed Animal Mansion Came to Life below.

My Big Wild Goal continues...

~ Breanna

A few weeks ago, I shared the behind-the-scenes process of building pages 7–8 of my children’s book; from my original vision notes, to rough sketches, to revision feedback back and forth with my illustrator.

At the time, the painting itself had not started yet.

Now it finally has… and seeing this spread fully painted for the first time honestly felt surreal.

This is the first (and only) exterior view of the Stuffed Animal Mansion in the book. I wanted it to feel enormous, playful, welcoming, joyful, and slightly over-the-top in the way children imagine magical places.

There are stuffed animals peeking from windows waving from balconies.
Twisting towers and pillow-like textures to feel soft and happy.
Warm golden light glowing from inside, inviting Jonner into his new home.

And now… it finally exists outside my imagination!

One of my favorite parts of this process has been watching how much collaboration goes into every page. What starts as a simple idea slowly evolves through sketches, revisions, artistic problem solving, and layers of paint until suddenly a world begins to appear.

I’m incredibly grateful for an illustrator who has partnered with me creatively through all of it. Watching Millie bring this story to life has been one of the most special parts of this journey.

And honestly, seeing the final line on these pages: “I love heaven already.”

…hit differently once the painting was complete.

We still have more pages ahead, but this felt like a milestone worth sharing.

The Stuffed Animal Mansion is finally real.

If you’d like to continue following along as this world comes to life (and be the first to know when the book becomes available for pre-order), I’d love for you to subscribe.

Subscribe now

One of the things I’m learning as I create this book is how much thought and collaboration goes into every single spread and only Mille, my illustrator, and I see this normally. Here is a peek behind the curtain.

Pages 7–8 are especially important because this is the first (and only) time readers see the exterior of the Stuffed Animal Mansion.

This is the moment Jonner first realizes Heaven may be far more wonderful, playful, and alive than he imagined.

When I sent my illustrator the original vision for this scene, my notes looked something like this:

“Grand stuffed animal castle. Warm golden light glows from the inside.
I picture Jonner looking up at the castle with the perspective behind him.
In the windows are stuffed animals, too. I am thinking some from his bedroom. I do want a bunny rabbit waving and welcoming. Maybe a penguin or panda has his nose against the glass. A giraffe with long neck is leaning out a window and smiling. The front door is enormous. Outside there are also stuffed animal topiaries (think Edward Scissorhands).”

Then came the very first sketch, which you can see labeled.

At that stage, the goal is not perfection. It’s capturing the heart of the scene and beginning to shape the perspective, layout, and emotion of the page.

But as I looked at it more, I realized something:

I wanted the mansion to feel even bigger and more magical and more excessive in the way children imagine things.

So I sent revision notes back and included a picture of a concert poster from a Phish show for inspiration of a towering perspective and overwhelming scale to help explain the feeling I was chasing.

“I feel like the castle can use many more stuffed animals, hanging around balconies or windows. I want it to be excessive.

Can we shift the perspective up higher, like the picture attached? I want it to show the castle to be expansive, huge, grand in size.”

What I appreciate so much is that my illustrator didn’t just say “okay.” She thoughtfully explained the artistic tradeoffs involved:

“The page is landscape, not portrait, so as we zoom out and make the castle larger, the details naturally become smaller. The fluffy pillow-like textures will become more block-like, and the stuffed animals will lose some individual detail as they shrink in size.”

That was such a helpful moment for me creatively because it reminded me that every artistic choice comes with compromise.

Bigger scale = Smaller details.
More grandeur = Less softness.

And honestly? That’s part of what makes this process so fascinating. I am loving this project!

The second sketch struck the balance perfectly for me, and I approved it for painting. No more notes, not even an opinion on how she does the colors because I trust her.

Now we’re at the stage where we all are waiting eagerly to see this enormous stuffed animal mansion finally come to life in full color.

I truly cannot wait.

If you’d like to continue following this journey (and be the first to know when the book is available for pre-order), I’d love for you to subscribe and ask your friends to as well.

One of the things I’m learning as I create this book is how much thought and collaboration goes into every single spread.

This started in a much quieter place like late-night conversations with one of my children. It is in the small questions that felt too big for little kids to carry.

Years ago, my mom passed away while my girls were still young and I was pregnant. I don’t think I was prepared for how hard that season would be. I was trying to process my own grief while also helping my children make sense of something I didn’t fully understand myself.

There were so many questions about heaven.

Where is it?

What is it like?

Will we see her again?

I wanted to answer them in a way that honored my faith and the truth of what I believe, but also in a way that felt gentle and safe for children. Something they could hold onto. Something that didn’t feel heavy.

And if I’m honest, I didn’t always feel equipped to do that.

More recently, those questions have come back in a new way through my young son. His curiosity is innocent and constant, and it has brought me right back to those same conversations. But this time, I felt a pull to do something with it.

To take all of these moments and put them somewhere.

That’s where this book began.

It’s a story about heaven, but it’s also a story about comfort. About imagination. About helping children process big ideas in a way that feels peaceful instead of overwhelming.

I’m sharing this here because I want to invite you into the process. The messy middle of creating something that matters. The parts that are meaningful and the parts that are hard.

If you’ve ever had a child ask a question you weren’t sure how to answer, or if your family has walked through loss, I hope this will resonate with you.

And if nothing else, I hope it gives you a small way to start those conversations.

The book is coming in October, and I’ll be sharing more along the way.

I’m really glad you’re here.