My favorite place:

Camp Judson

Why I count down the seconds until I can return to (my type of) paradise.

By Peyton Witzke | Royal Report

The cold boulder sat beneath me as the gold-rimmed pages of my Bible ran through the wind and my pretzel-folded hands came undone. It’ll be 366 days until I can return to this exact spot again. The thought itself froze my bones in place and painted my skin with a Cotton Candy Crayola crayon. Packing up my few glittery dirt belongings, I ran down to the campfire as it was just beginning.

“Mas Grande ALELE!” screamed the campfire song leader of the evening. The glow of the warm atomic orange fire lit up the faces of campers as they repeated the counselor. Miles away, their voices could be heard as the sound vibrations fell off the nearby Black Hills and into the ears of those on Keystone Road, enjoying a bowl of rocky road ice-cream on cold metal stools. A few more silly songs — “There was a Great Big Moose” and “Brown Squirrel” — were enjoyed, as they disappeared into the night, before the worship songs filled the smokey air.