The Word That Walked Through the Door

When Dr. Margaret Chen arrived in the remote Hmong village of Ban Nam Hia in northern Laos, she had already spent three years studying the language from recordings and transcripts in her office in Minneapolis. She could conjugate verbs, recognize tonal patterns, and read simple texts. But when she opened her mouth on that first morning, the village elders smiled politely and nodded — the way you nod at a child who has said something almost right.

It wasn't until she sat in the dust beside an elderly woman named Kia, helping sort chili peppers in the afternoon heat, that something shifted. She fumbled for words, pointed, laughed at herself. Kia corrected her pronunciation again and again. Months passed. The language stopped being a code to decode and became the air she breathed.

One evening, Kia's granddaughter asked why Dr. Chen had come so far when she could have simply sent books.

She paused, searching for the right words in a language that was finally becoming her own.

"Because," she said quietly, "you cannot love someone from a distance."

John begins his Gospel not with a manger or a miracle, but with eternity: "In the beginning was the Word." Before time had shape, before stars had names, the Word existed with God — and was God. And then the unimaginable: "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us." The Almighty did not send a memo from heaven. He came Himself. He sat in the dust with us, learned our grief, felt our hunger. Because you cannot save someone from a distance.