The Maker of the Wooden Bird

For twelve years, Marco Chen knew his grandfather only in pieces. A faded photograph on the mantel. His mother's stories about a man who survived the Cultural Revolution and rebuilt his life in Taipei. A cassette tape of his voice singing a folk song. A hand-carved wooden bird that arrived one Christmas with no note — just the bird, and the quiet understanding that this was love in a language Marco couldn't yet read.

Then, in the summer of 2019, Marco flew to Taiwan. When the old man opened the door — weathered hands, bright eyes, that same voice from the tape but now alive and warm — every fragment suddenly made sense. The photograph had a heartbeat. The stories had a face. The wooden bird had its maker standing right before him.

This is the movement of Hebrews 1. For centuries, God spoke in pieces — a burning bush here, a still small voice there, prophets carrying fragments of a message too vast for any single messenger. Each word was true. Each revelation was real. But they were glimpses.

Then the Son arrived. Not another fragment, but the full radiance. "The exact imprint of His nature." In Jesus, every prophetic whisper found its living voice, and the God who had been known in pieces was suddenly, unmistakably, standing at the door.