The Voice Behind Every Postcard

For eleven months, seven-year-old Maria Espinoza knew her father mostly through postcards. Staff Sergeant David Espinoza was deployed to Kuwait, and every week or two, a card arrived at their small house in Laredo, Texas — a desert sunset, a foreign marketplace, a scrawled "I love you, mija" in his familiar handwriting. Her mother played his voice messages at bedtime. Her grandmother showed photographs from the mantelpiece. Each one carried something real. Each one carried something true. But none of them were him.

Then came the November afternoon when Maria's teacher walked her to the gymnasium. There stood her father in dress uniform, arms open wide. She didn't need another postcard. She didn't need another recording. The one who had been speaking all along was finally standing in front of her.

The writer of Hebrews understood this. For centuries, the Almighty spoke to His people through prophets — faithful messengers carrying fragments of His heart. Through Moses came the law. Through Isaiah came comfort. Through Hosea came longing. Each word was genuine. Each revelation was true. But they were postcards from a Father whose children ached to see His face.

Then came the Son — not another messenger but "the radiance of God's glory and the exact representation of His being." In Jesus Christ, God stopped sending messages about Himself. He came Himself.