Has anyone died? I wonder, full of trepidation. Is the new church plant still meeting? Is everyone mad at me? I never can predict how they are going to feel toward me from day to day.

The truck slams into a particularly deep rut in the sea of potholes that passes for the national highway in rainy season. I slow from four miles per hour to two and try to better predict which lake of muddy water will be the shallowest. I’ve been gone on furlough for three months now. Anything could have happened. The last time I left, a kid tripped and fell onto a sharp stick. He bled out just hours before I arrived.

Just then, I spot a familiar face. He’s a friend from my village, out working in the lowlands for the day. His face splits into a huge grin, and my fears start to melt away.

Two hours later, I arrive in Balangabong, bathed in sweat and panting like a race horse. Half the village is meeting in our multi-purpose building next to my house. They receive me with joy and catch me up on the news. No one has died, the new church plant is still meeting, and everyone is glad to see me.

It is good to be home!

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