The day Snowball died, my daughter wept like Eden had shattered. She buried her face into my shirt, her sobs soaking through. “Will we see her again, Daddy?” Her eyes were swollen, searching. That desperate kind of hope—the kind only grief can squeeze out—hung heavy between us. I wanted to promise yes. That of course a cat with mittens for paws and a purr that stitched hearts back together would be waiting in heaven. But I hesitated.
It’s a question that wraps itself around more than fur and paws. It tangles with memory, companionship, and the whispers of Eden to come: do pets go to heaven?
The prophet Isaiah gives us a glimpse—a dream, really—of what the world will be when all things are made new. A world unraveled from sin’s grip, pulled back into harmony.
“The wolf shall dwell with the lamb,
and the leopard shall lie down with the young goat…
and a little child shall lead them.
They shall not hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain…” (Isaiah 11:6-9, ESV)
It’s a breathtaking picture—a peace even the wild obeys. And most curiously, it’s filled with animals.
Paul, too, hints at this great unraveling. He writes that “the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God” (Romans 8:21). Creation. Not just humans. Not just our souls. All of it.
But to ask if Snowball or Max or Daisy will be there—that’s more than a theological curiosity. It’s a heart-wound question, and we come to it not with dissection, but with devotion.
Ecclesiastes wonders aloud, “Who knows whether the spirit of man goes upward and the spirit of the beast goes down into the earth?” (3:21). It sounds uncertain, perhaps even bleak, but Solomon is doing what Ecclesiastes always does—acknowledging the mystery wrapped around life and death. He’s not answering, he’s humbling us into remembering we don’t always get to know.
But that’s not the same as saying no.
Maybe—just maybe—God’s plan is bigger than our categories. Maybe the Shepherd who notices every sparrow and who gave Adam the job of naming animals didn’t weave them tightly through our hearts only to discard them at the gate of eternity.
And maybe you’ve felt that too… the ache that lingers after a pet is gone. The way the house feels too quiet. The way their water dish remains untouched on the mat a week later. Grief is no respecter of species.
I've seen elderly couples cling to the final wag of a tail like it was a eulogy. I’ve stood beside children who whispered prayers over their fish tank, asking Jesus to hold Goldie close.
We ache because they were given to us in love.
And even more mysteriously, I believe we love them because they bear some reflection, however dim, of the God who delights in life.
I don’t pretend to know all answers. But I do know this: our God is not wasteful. He is the Redeemer of all things. The Restorer of broken stories. The Architect of forests and the Author of every chirp at dawn.
He painted stripes on tigers and laughter in dolphins. He let Balaam’s donkey talk. He called ravens to feed Elijah and lions to protect Daniel. They have always been part of His story.
Would it be so strange for animals to be part of the final chapter, too?
So no, I can’t carve a doctrine of “pet heaven” out of Scripture alone. But I can trust the heart of a God who creates with joy and redeems with abundance.
And I can say this without blinking: the God who is preparing a place for us is the same God who shaped our pets with tender intention. If they were entrusted to our love here, perhaps they are enveloped in His joy there.
“Will we see Snowball again?” I remember my daughter’s question.
I kissed her forehead and said something I half-believed at the time, and fully hope now: “If God knows it will bring you joy, I think He just might.”
Because He’s not stingy with comfort. He’s not closed-fisted with joy. Heaven is not the end of good things—it’s the beginning of better ones.
And when the day comes that heaven opens wide, and all that was lost is found again, who’s to say that your old friend—tail thumping, paws running—won’t be there too?
After all, He’s the One making all things new.
Even that.
The day Snowball died, my daughter wept like Eden had shattered. She buried her face into my shirt, her sobs soaking through. “Will we see her again, Daddy?” Her eyes were swollen, searching. That desperate kind of hope—the kind only grief can squeeze out—hung heavy between us. I wanted to promise yes. That of course a cat with mittens for paws and a purr that stitched hearts back together would be waiting in heaven. But I hesitated.
It’s a question that wraps itself around more than fur and paws. It tangles with memory, companionship, and the whispers of Eden to come: do pets go to heaven?
The prophet Isaiah gives us a glimpse—a dream, really—of what the world will be when all things are made new. A world unraveled from sin’s grip, pulled back into harmony.
“The wolf shall dwell with the lamb,
and the leopard shall lie down with the young goat…
and a little child shall lead them.
They shall not hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain…” (Isaiah 11:6-9, ESV)
It’s a breathtaking picture—a peace even the wild obeys. And most curiously, it’s filled with animals.
Paul, too, hints at this great unraveling. He writes that “the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God” (Romans 8:21). Creation. Not just humans. Not just our souls. All of it.
But to ask if Snowball or Max or Daisy will be there—that’s more than a theological curiosity. It’s a heart-wound question, and we come to it not with dissection, but with devotion.
Ecclesiastes wonders aloud, “Who knows whether the spirit of man goes upward and the spirit of the beast goes down into the earth?” (3:21). It sounds uncertain, perhaps even bleak, but Solomon is doing what Ecclesiastes always does—acknowledging the mystery wrapped around life and death. He’s not answering, he’s humbling us into remembering we don’t always get to know.
But that’s not the same as saying no.
Maybe—just maybe—God’s plan is bigger than our categories. Maybe the Shepherd who notices every sparrow and who gave Adam the job of naming animals didn’t weave them tightly through our hearts only to discard them at the gate of eternity.
And maybe you’ve felt that too… the ache that lingers after a pet is gone. The way the house feels too quiet. The way their water dish remains untouched on the mat a week later. Grief is no respecter of species.
I've seen elderly couples cling to the final wag of a tail like it was a eulogy. I’ve stood beside children who whispered prayers over their fish tank, asking Jesus to hold Goldie close.
We ache because they were given to us in love.
And even more mysteriously, I believe we love them because they bear some reflection, however dim, of the God who delights in life.
I don’t pretend to know all answers. But I do know this: our God is not wasteful. He is the Redeemer of all things. The Restorer of broken stories. The Architect of forests and the Author of every chirp at dawn.
He painted stripes on tigers and laughter in dolphins. He let Balaam’s donkey talk. He called ravens to feed Elijah and lions to protect Daniel. They have always been part of His story.
Would it be so strange for animals to be part of the final chapter, too?
So no, I can’t carve a doctrine of “pet heaven” out of Scripture alone. But I can trust the heart of a God who creates with joy and redeems with abundance.
And I can say this without blinking: the God who is preparing a place for us is the same God who shaped our pets with tender intention. If they were entrusted to our love here, perhaps they are enveloped in His joy there.
“Will we see Snowball again?” I remember my daughter’s question.
I kissed her forehead and said something I half-believed at the time, and fully hope now: “If God knows it will bring you joy, I think He just might.”
Because He’s not stingy with comfort. He’s not closed-fisted with joy. Heaven is not the end of good things—it’s the beginning of better ones.
And when the day comes that heaven opens wide, and all that was lost is found again, who’s to say that your old friend—tail thumping, paws running—won’t be there too?
After all, He’s the One making all things new.
Even that.
