The Day Heaven Got Bigger
How a hallway changed everything and why the best ideas sometimes arrive disguised as problems.
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.
