This afternoon,

the children

of the mockingbirds

gathered

on the backyard fence,

speaking

all at once,

as though they knew

someone precious

had come home.

Two little puppies

rested

upon the grass,

their breathing

slower

than the summer wind.

The weather forecaster

spoke

of possible floods.

He did not know

one had already begun

within my heart.

After twenty-five years,

Rev. Tim Riss

sat across the table

from me.

Between Newburgh

and Knoxville,

between the North

and the South,

between yesterday

and today,

there had never been

such a long road.

Yet friendship

remembered the way

without a map.

We spoke

until lunch

forgot itself.

Our words

walked

into valleys

where younger pastors

still waited,

where conference rooms

were filled

with hope

and uncertainty,

where churches

were never

buildings alone,

but hearts

learning

to become

the Body of Christ.

Tim carried

the weight

of bishops,

districts,

pastors,

and congregations.

I carried

the prayers

of local churches,

hospital rooms,

and veterans

whose silence

often preached

better

than sermons.

Different assignments.

The same Shepherd.

He thinks

with remarkable clarity,

moving naturally

between Latin

and Korean,

his eyes

clear

with transparency.

I feel

before

I understand.

His voice

is a quiet stream,

flowing

in wisdom.

Mine,

a hillside waterfall.

Yet God,

who delights

in harmony

more than sameness,

once called us

to stand together,

caring

for those

who were answering

their call

to ordained ministry.

There

we learned

that every candidate

was more

than a file,

every elder,

every deacon,

more

than a title,

every life

another page

of God’s

unfinished Gospel.

Looking at him,

I smiled.

The rounded face.

The shining head.

The years

had become

brothers

before we did.

“My pastor

in spirit,”

I said.

“My brother

in spirit,”

he replied.

No bishop

could have ordained

a deeper bond.

Now

he journeys

north again,

through Asheville,

toward home.

I remain

beneath

the Tennessee sky,

already

missing him.

Perhaps

the mockingbirds

will greet him

when he reaches

Newburgh.

Perhaps

the Easter lilies

will carry

his quiet voice

into my garden

next spring.

Perhaps

this is how

God teaches us

that distance

is only geography,

never love.

Our strength

grows lighter.

Our steps

become slower.

But gratitude

ripens

like late-summer fruit,

sweetest

when the branches

begin

to bend.

The North

and the South

are no longer

directions.

They have become

two chambers

of one

grateful heart.

He travels

toward tomorrow.

I travel

through remembrance.

Both of us

are walking

the same road—

toward

the eternal home

already growing

within us.

This evening,

the mockingbirds

still sing.

The puppies

still sleep.

The rain

may yet come.

But another flood

has already

blessed the earth—

the overflowing grace

of seeing

a beloved brother

again.

And today,

I am

among the happiest

of God’s pilgrims.

— TaeHun Yoon

July 21, 2026

Tim’s wife: Genie Abrams, is the author of few novels, a former journalist and public-relations director for a variety of local, statewide and national nonprofits. She served a term on Newburgh, NY, city council member but is out on parole, and was the Poet Laureate of Newburgh from 2022-2024. She published her poetry in “Pretty Nearly All Natural.”