“It doesn’t get any better than this. This is what heaven’s going to be like.”
I’ve never forgotten those words uttered by our friend Sam while we were sitting around a campfire on Benson Hill. That was back in our camping days, when the kids were still with us and family vacations were spent at campgrounds and holiday weekends with the crew on the hilltop outside Punxsutawney. With three kids, we couldn’t afford anything else.
Not that camping on the hill translated “poor.” It was a rich experience in every way.
Picnics on the hill were not only reserved for holiday weekends, but for any time the need was felt to get together, which was frequently. And they were open not only to the Benson clan, headed up by Grandpa Oscar and Grandma Henrietta, but also to friends from the little country church we attended and anyone else they took a shine to—which was just about everyone they met.
The kids played night games—“Capture the Flag” in the dark. And there was always a pot of coffee on the fire and food on the table, a weekend-long covered dish picnic.
We looked forward to the legendary cowboy breakfast, compliments of the many hands that prepared it—scrambled eggs, fried potatoes with onions and peppers, bacon, ham, and toast, all cooked over an open fire. Auntie Kay was famous for her sticky buns—cinnamon rolls slathered with a thick ooze of sweet, sticky icing. Back then we didn’t worry about fat grams and cholesterol and sugar and anything else that could eventually kill you. We just enjoyed eating and being together.
Occasionally the Backwoods, a local men’s quartet, would fill the air and our souls with Southern Gospel music.
One year, in response to the growing number of folks who showed up for picnics on the hill, Sam and Steve, another friend from church, built a three-bay outhouse Sam named “The Steven F. White Memorial Toilets” (after Steve), which he painted across the top.
I never had to worry about my kids. There were plenty of moms who patched up skinned knees, put ice on sprained joints and kissed boos-boos.
Grandma and Grandpa are gone now, and the kids are raising kids of their own. Echoes of laughter and singing no longer ring across the hilltop outside Punxsy. The creaks and groans of aging have caught up with just about all of us.
If I could relive any time of my life, it would be picnics on the hill. We were surrounded with family and friends, folks who loved Jesus and us. Like-minded folks who knew, believed and lived the Bible, who practiced that old-time religion that the world might label “politically incorrect” but never really goes out of vogue.
Ask a hundred people what heaven will be like, and you’ll get a hundred different answers. No dust. No cleaning. All the chocolate I can eat and no worries about gaining weight (I’ll have a new body!) No aches. No pain. No tears. No sadness. No conflict. Only love, joy, peace and rest forever. Whatever we enjoy most in life is what we associate with heaven, whether golf, fishing, family, friends—or picnics on the hill.
What does the Bible say about Heaven? After all, that’s what really matters—what God says about it.
That it’s His home, unimaginably beautiful, and open to all whose names are inscribed in the Lamb’s Book of Life (Revelation 21:27). I know my name is there. And I’m looking forward to an eternal picnic on the hill of all hills.
You were right, Sam. It doesn’t get any better than that.
Dear God, thank You for blessing us with picnics on the hill and people who fill our lives with their love—in this world and the next. Amen.
Special-Tea: Read Revelation 21–22