Jacob Glassner

I had a vision of heaven when I was a child.

But before someone asks me to write a book, I assure you it was nothing like the vision of 4-year-old Colton Burpo presented in the best-selling book “Heaven is for Real.”

When I imagined heaven as a youngster, I envisioned a place where I had a giant toy chest filled with box after box of plastic toy soldiers—American infantry, German Africa Corps, British paratroopers and countless others.

My young life revolved around toy soldiers. In fact, I spent so much time lost in my own world lying on the floor lining up soldiers in neat rows that my mom suspected I had a learning disability. Turns out, I just really liked soldiers.

A box of 50 soldiers was $2 back then—$2.10 with tax—and I remember going to the hobby shop and pulling two sweaty dollars and a dime out of my striped, 1980s-style tube sock to make a purchase. What great irony that my idea of paradise could have been had for less than $100.

I suppose someone along the way must have told me that you could have whatever you wanted in heaven, and my idea of wealth and happiness was measured in toy soldiers.

But as Paul says in 1 Corinthians 13:11: “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.”

Thinking about golden streets, mansions and crowns is a childish way to view heaven. Those things are meaningless because the greatest treasure is to spend eternity with Jesus. Can you imagine finally getting to see Him face to face? To fall into His embrace? To have a conversation with Him? No more distance. No more wondering if He heard our prayers. There’s a reason they call it paradise.

I used to think I’d get to heaven and just ask God a bunch of questions: Why do bad things happen to good people? How many times did angels protect me from harm? Is there life on other planets? Did Lee Harvey Oswald act alone or was there a second shooter on the grassy knoll?

But none of that will be important.

Or maybe I’d request some special skills—like finally being able to dunk a basketball (it sure will help if I get a pair of wings) or being able to play the guitar as effortlessly as Hendrix.

But that won’t really matter either.

I’m looking forward to meeting Edward Glassner, my grandpa who died of cancer the year before I was born, and Gabriella, my daughter who never had the chance to take her first breath. And as awesome as those moments will be, they won’t compare to the majesty of Christ. It might be difficult to conceive something better than a heavenly reunion with lost loved ones, but meeting Jesus for the first time will be indescribable.

I imagine Him sitting on His throne surrounded by angels. And there at His nail-scarred feet is little Gabriella, lying on the ground—oblivious to her surroundings—lining up toy soldiers in neat rows just like her dad.  

He’ll stand up and run toward me, careful not to step on a soldier barefooted, and engulf me in His embrace. I’ll be home.