SermonStudio

For three years I belonged to a little circle of friends in Boston who took an annual winter pilgrimage. There were four of us - a banker, a florist, the owner of several funeral homes, and myself. The funeral home man owned a farmhouse in the White Mountain range in New Hampshire. Around early March we would all become stir crazy from the confinement of winter, so we would go on our three-day breakout. The old farmhouse would be freezing until we had built our fires in the fireplaces. We would unload our provisions, cut a hole in the ice over the river and lay in some drinking water.