The Voice He Hadn't Heard in Years

David Chen hadn't spoken to his father in twelve years. Not since the argument that ended with a slammed door and silence that calcified into something permanent. He'd built a life in Portland — new job, new friends, a careful architecture of moving on.

One Saturday morning at the Hawthorne farmers' market, David was examining a crate of Bartlett pears when a voice cut through the crowd noise like a blade through cloth. "David." Just his name. One word. But he knew that voice the way you know your own heartbeat — instantly, involuntarily, down in the marrow. He turned. His father stood six feet away, grayer now, thinner, holding a canvas bag of tomatoes like it was the only thing keeping him upright. And then, quieter: "Son."

Not "Where have you been?" Not "You should have called." Just a name, spoken with twelve years of longing pressed into two syllables.

Mark tells us that when Jesus came up from the Jordan, the heavens tore open — the Greek word means ripped, like fabric — and the voice of the Almighty broke through: "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased." Before any miracle. Before any sermon. Before Gethsemane or Golgotha.

The God who made the stars ripped open the sky to say one thing: You are mine, and I delight in you. That is the voice speaking over every baptized soul — not a verdict, not a performance review, but a Father calling your name.