The call wasn’t completely clear, as the network in South Sudan is far from perfect, but I could hear the excitement in his voice. Blaise had been in South Sudan for several days, leaving Clark and I to survive on our own in Uganda. He was with a short-term mission team, and they had been in Mvolo, making plans for our new radio tower.
When I talked to him that night, they had just arrived in Tonj that morning. I, however, had been at home alone with a three-month old baby for four days. I was frazzled, exhausted, and honestly ready to call the whole thing and go back to the States, where at least I would have family nearby and food delivery services.
But then I heard his voice.
He said that it felt really good to return to Tonj. He said that David and Albino, our radio staff and dear friends, gave him hugs so big that his feet were lifted off the ground. He said he knew that my heart was still aching for Nasir and that I didn’t want to hear what he was about to say. He said that landing in Tonj felt a bit like going home.
Tears slid down my face as I sat there in the dark, baby lying next to me in bed, listening to the fuzzy airwaves and my husband’s voice thick with emotion. He was right. My heart does and will always ache for Nasir, but the tears were not entirely of sadness; they were also of gladness, of excitement, of a sense of calling.
Was there a bit of disappointment mixed in with those tears? Sure. For us, starting over in Tonj means closing the door on Nasir. The dreams I had for life, ministry, and friendships there are laid to rest, but when I heard the sound of my husband’s voice--the steady assurance that this, too, could be home for us--I couldn’t help but dreaming new dreams.