Cracked pots

An old, dear friend of mine died last week.

He had been drafted at eighteen and had served as a medic in Vietnam, seeing the worst imaginable injuries and wounds, a witness of what people do to one another with the excuse of "peace-making."

He and I could spend hours talking about something as serious as this or nothing at all.

I hadn't seen him in a while, as we had moved away, and he and I no longer worked together. However, we had shared acquaintances yet, and it was through a friend of a friend that I heard.

At the funeral, a minister who didn't know him well despite my friend's devotion to his faith delivered the eulogy. He told us that my friend, like all of us, was broken and that caused him to take his own life.

My friend was not broken; however, like all of us, he was flawed, cracked if you will. My sister said, "We are all cracked pots--that is how The Light gets inside." I don't care for the term "cracked pots," as it sounds too much like "crackpots."

However, I do agree with the sentiment. Flawed is not broken, it allows access to what is inside us.