That morning, a gentle spring rain was falling upon the earth. Though it was already spring, the bare branches around the church still looked desolate, and squirrels—having survived the long winter—scurried across the wet limbs. It was only the second Saturday since our church had begun its homeless ministry after much struggle and prayer.

I wondered how Clift and his wife, Edna—our volunteer couple—had managed through the night caring for the homeless women in the church basement. The women had already been picked up by the van, and the couple had finished folding the cots and bedding. I could hear Clift humming his favorite tune even from the top of the basement stairs:

“Ah! The shepherds’ pipes echo through the mountain valleys…”

“Good morning, Clift, Edna.” They were cheerful as always—perhaps even more radiant that day. “Good morning! Do you know what time we woke up today? We forgot to reset the old camping clock from last summer, so we woke up at 4:30 a.m.! But it worked out—we cleaned the entire kitchen!”

Sure enough, the church kitchen sparkled like a newlywed home.

“Wow… it really does look like a newlywed kitchen! You must be exhausted.” Their faces, both in their sixties, showed clear signs of fatigue.

“Yes, we’re tired,” Clift said, “but I’ve never had a morning so joyful and fulfilling in my entire life. Serving others with our own hands—now I understand the depth of that joy.”

Edna smiled and blew her husband a gentle, agreeing kiss.

“You should go home and get some rest.”

“Yes, with this rain, it’s a perfect day to sleep!”

We exchanged warm hugs and returned to the parsonage.

I could still hear the sound of their car engine starting when the phone rang. Edna’s voice—calm, heavy, trembling—burst through the receiver, utterly different from her cheerful tone moments earlier.

“He… he had a heart attack…”

Her words were unbelievable. A storm of prayer rose within me—“Lord, how can this be?” We had faced many deaths in ministry, but the sudden passing of someone who had shown not even a shadow of death twenty minutes earlier was a shock beyond words. For the church, losing a devoted leader—someone who had been the pastor’s right hand—was a deep wound.

Clift had parked his car in the driveway, turned off the engine, and in that instant, suffered a heart attack and was called home to God. Human hearts always break before death; we had turned away not knowing it was our final farewell. Yet perhaps real farewells unfold slowly through time—when the place someone once filled becomes empty, the ache of loss deepens.

As he had long wished, Clift donated all his organs and his right eye (the left had nearly lost vision due to diabetes). His body was cremated and laid, without any marker, beside the church lawn where he had served lovingly for decades.

Most church members never knew how much he had suffered physically. He had battled asthma, diabetes, and arteriosclerosis, yet his face was always bright, always ready with humor. Everyone remembered the day he wore a yellow wig and tight clothes, singing beside the piano. Everyone loved the sound of his saxophone. He befriended everyone—becoming the closest friend to Black members who first stepped into a white congregation, and a beloved companion to every child, whose tears stopped the moment they saw his playful face.

Four years earlier, doctors had told him both legs needed to be amputated. Blood no longer circulated properly, his legs were swollen, and he felt no pain even when injured. Wounds would not heal. The pain was rising toward his upper body, and the doctor urged amputation. Preparing for the worst, he even moved his bedroom downstairs, knowing he might never climb stairs again.

But the pastor honored the couple’s desire to avoid amputation and walked with them in prayer.

“Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord…” (James 5:14–16)

The pastor urged the church leaders to pray earnestly for his legs. When the final X‑ray results came in, the doctor took the pastor aside and, tilting his head in amazement, explained that the condition had improved. Surgery might no longer be necessary.

Clift, who had once wished for amputation just to escape the pain, returned home with unbelievable joy. That night, he and Edna played music and danced in the living room until late. He exercised daily, sensing God’s power at work in his body. Once, he had sat silently all day staring at his feet, refusing even to speak to his wife, imagining himself confined to a wheelchair. Now he was alive again.

From then on, the couple became faithful servants held firmly in God’s hands. Clift, once content with surface‑level relationships, now had his spiritual eyes and ears opened. He shed his old habits and stepped forward—into Bible study, into service, into quiet leadership. Every Wednesday, he prepared meals for the elderly: shopping on Monday, cooking soup on Tuesday, and serving as kitchen leader on Wednesday, walking on his once‑threatened legs. He was like a young man newly awakened, full of fresh vigor.

At his funeral, friends lined up to see him one last time. Edna, now a widow, stood courageously before hundreds and testified:

“Of our 37 years of marriage, the last four were the happiest and most blessed. For four years, we lived in the deepest peace and the richest life of the soul.”

Those who attended left with a renewed understanding of life’s true purpose.

This year again, new green shoots rise everywhere. Even through the fierce winter storms, the earth faithfully prepares for spring. Squirrels hurry across the branches, and birds lift their clear songs into the air. Spring raises its face.

Clift, God’s child who left behind the spring of this world to greet the glorious spring of heaven—his ashes still rest beside Edna’s bed.

“The ground is still frozen,” she said softly. “I can’t bury him yet. When the day comes when the fragrance of flowers fills the earth—on that day, I think I’ll return him to the embrace of the soil.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes like a rising spring.

Ah… this spring, the longing for those we cannot meet becomes a fragrance that pierces my heart.

— Yoon Wan‑Hee, Those Who Remained in the City, Gift, 2001