The Letter That Walked Through the Door

Margaret Chen had been writing letters to her grandson in Beijing for eleven years. Every month, she sat at her kitchen table in Portland, choosing each word carefully, telling him about the maple tree in the backyard, the way the rain sounded on the roof, the chocolate chip cookies she wished she could share. She poured her whole heart into those pages. Her grandson, Li Wei, treasured the letters — but he once told his mother, "I wish Grandmother's words could sit at the table with me."

Then one autumn, Margaret stepped off a plane at Beijing Capital International Airport. Li Wei spotted her in the crowd, and something broke open in his chest. The woman whose words he had memorized, whose handwriting he could recognize anywhere, was standing in front of him — flesh and bone, smelling of lavender, with arms that could actually hold him.

"You're here," he whispered.

"I couldn't stay on the page anymore," she said.

This is what John is telling us. For centuries, God spoke through prophets, through the Law, through psalms and burning bushes and still small voices — word after word after word, sent with infinite care. But then came the moment when the Word refused to stay on the page. The Word became flesh and moved into the neighborhood. The God who had been writing to us walked through the door, looked us in the eye, and said, "I couldn't stay distant anymore. I had to come Myself."