Emma Veronica

Dear Falks, It's me.  I guess you've been on my mind recently as I hear all this talk about life and death, joy and loss.  One year ago you left us. I've been contemplating why your passing has affected me so deeply.  No offense, I just feel that we weren't very close.  And yet, we were.  I vividly remember the first time you heard me sing.  I was absolutely terrified.  I have such a small voice and I knew you wouldn't be able to hear me.  And of course, you'd take that to mean that I didn't know the music and I would fail, and you'd be disappointed in me.  But you proved me wrong.  You took the time to hear my voice and not only did you listen, you reminded me that my voice is significant and strong.  I never told you, but that meant the world to me.  Now I think of you whenever I'm feeling small. I really do miss you dearly.  Thanks again for everything Falks.  Love, Emma

Breathe. Inhale... exhale.  I am alive. The first fragile snowflake falls in December. A field of flowers swaying in a spring breeze. A star shoots past the moon on a warm summer night. The low roll of thunder when a storm begins. A broken pot that sits on the shelf in an old potter's home. I see my Savior in all these things-- my Anchor -- but not in the broken pot. You see, the broken pot is one that simply sits on a wooden shelf.  It collects dust. It is known for its brokenness and it does not serve a purpose. It does not know why the potter keeps it.  But the potter knows. The potter has never forgotten the pot. I am the broken pot. I sit on a shelf collecting dust. I am helpless, hopeless.  I cannot serve my purpose.  Nor any purpose. But one day, the potter takes me from my shelf.  My shattered edges shift and crumble.  It hurts. The potter with gentle hands and loving fingers takes on broken piece ...