The Last Letter Home

In 2017, a family in Manchester, England, discovered a shoebox in their grandmother's attic after her passing. Inside were dozens of letters from her late husband, Thomas, written during World War II. Some were hurried postcards from training camps. Others were censored dispatches with whole sentences blacked out. A few were dictated through a fellow soldier when Thomas was too injured to write. Each letter carried fragments of his love, but none could deliver his full heart. The family cherished them, yet something was always missing — his voice, his face, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

Then, at the bottom of the shoebox, they found a reel of 8mm film dated 1946 — the day Thomas walked through the front door. There he was, fully present, scooping up his children, kissing his wife, alive in a way no letter could convey. His granddaughter said, "We had his words for years. But in that film, we finally had him."

The writer of Hebrews tells us that God spoke through the prophets in many times and many ways — through burning bushes, stone tablets, whispered visions, and thundering commands. Each was real. Each was precious. But they were fragments. Then the Almighty sent His Son — the radiance of His glory, the exact imprint of His nature. In Jesus, God did not send another letter. He walked through the door.