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 beside 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,

Linguistically includes Latin and Korean

with eyes of transparency.

I feel

before I understand.

His voice

is a quiet stream,

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.”