Emphasis Preaching Journal

The hill behind the house in which I grew up has four season memories. Winter was coasting on sleds and tobogganing. Spring produced a flow of sap from the sugar maples ... sweet water from the tree. Fall's apples from the ancient, but well-pruned tree were always a delight. But summer offered a special treat. At the foot of the hill was a tiny spring. The head of water bubbling out of the ground was hardly more than half an inch high, but it never failed, even in dry weather. If you didn't know where to look you could easily miss it.