I begin this article with the title, hoping for some inspiration. I realize that a great road has been traveled in order to join the words “ at home” and “in Sudan” together. As I write we are enjoying cool weather and a comfortable abode in one of our homes in Kenya. News of tensions in our area in Southern Sudan comes to us daily on the internet and via email, and we wait for the right time to go back “home.” The reality that we truly have no home in this world becomes plain again. We are but strangers and pilgrims in this land.

I remember a moment five years ago when we arrived in Sudan. I was in our aracuba, the grass shelter we lived in as we constructed the hut we would dwell in for the next four years. I was pregnant and sitting on a small stool washing cloth diapers in a rationed amount of water. It was Sunday morning and I was doing this wash out of necessity because Samuel, two years old at the time, had been having diarrhea through the night. As the flies swarmed and the temperature rose, my discouraged mind wondered, “What are we doing here?” It would not be the last time this question was raised. Then my heavy heart was drawn out of that instance and into yearning for heaven. Over the years the praises of Revelation 7:9-12 have often carried me out of the weighty struggles into the throne room of King Jesus. Those are sweet moments recalling our true citizenship.

Much more frequently, however, I have wrestled with anxiety, anger, extreme fatigue and stress. It is good not to glamorize the missionary experience as super-spiritual and meaningful. We must be sober about humans in any circumstance. Peter Scazzero has said, “It is from the belly of the fish that Jonah begins to wrestle with God in prayer.” For me, life in Sudan has oftentimes been the belly of the fish.

We live in a village called Parot, which we see as a type of suburb of the busier market hub of Wanyjok. We have seen Parot change over the years from a relatively quiet village to a place of increasing population and traffic. It is on a main trail from northern villages to the busy Wanyjok market. It is not uncommon to see, through the day, people heading there and back on business. A man might have a pole to sell while ladies may be seen carrying grass mats, firewood, water or edible goods while looking for a little income to buy kadang (ingredients for sauce to accompany that night’s serving of thick sorghum porridge). In recent years roads have been built, thereby increasing the motorized traffic. Trucks with goods, vans of passengers, auto rickshaws and motorcycles now commonly pass by. The political situation has also pressed thousands of people to come back from exile in the North, as it were. Many are now populating the western side of our village in densely arranged grass shelters.

Our family moved out of our mud and thatch hut last year and into the more spacious and much less populated home of the Stringer family. Life in the hut had us sharing our space with many species of insects, scorpions and reptiles. These are still present in the concrete block and tin-roofed house but in much more manageable numbers. We enjoy the lizards as they help keep the pesky insect population down. As for snakes, any of questionable species found in the house is first killed and then more closely studied for identification. Thankfully our snake encounters are not daily or even weekly, and we’ve become comfortable with our killing techniques. Optimally, one person pins the snake down with a broom or long stick, preferably near the head but not on it. Then another person cuts off the head with a large knife or kitchen scissors. This allows us to study and properly identify the snake later. If a larger venomous snake is encountered outdoors, then anything goes; even the car has been used to run over a big cobra.

We have learned to appreciate the simplicity and the work that each day brings. Our water supply comes from two sources. The nearby community hand-pump supplies us with good water from 60 meters below. Abuk, our faithful water lady, brings water in 20-liter jerricans. She keeps our in-house, plastic reservoir full, and we use this for drinking, cooking, and dishes. We do not have plumbing, so we use a jug to fill basins for dish washing and the filter for drinking. There is a reservoir with a tap sitting on a stand for hand washing.

We also collect rain in large cisterns. There is a pump from one of the cisterns that brings in cool water for showers. We also use the rainwater for laundry and for watering plants in dry times. Laundry is all done by hand and hung out to dry, which can be as quick as 20 minutes in the dry season! Abuk comes twice a week to help with this, which liberates me for homeschooling and other tasks.

Homeschooling has gradually occupied more of the daytime over the years. Samuel (7) will begin grade three this year and Zakari (5) is looking forward to learning how to read. Amina (3) is working on compliance and is often trying to help with housework. This keeps us busy most of the morning and a good part of the afternoon. It is truly a great joy to share the learning with our children. We give thanks to God in prayer each morning for the great privilege of a full-orbed education and for the treasure of our books. We pray that one day our neighbor children will have such opportunities.

The climate in the State of Aweil is semi-arid, meaning that half the year is very hot and very dry. The other half blesses us with dust storms, torrents of rain, greenery, swarms of insects and hot humid days. The occasional gray or cool day is truly a big relief. We have the most impressive shows of lightning and thunder. When the first rains come in April, it is customary for our children to whip off their clothes and run out in the rain with gleeful excitement. The muddy ground provides a perfect place for belly sliding and wrestling matches. When they are cold, they take a roof-drip shower and come in for hot chocolate and popcorn.

We have the benefit of solar electricity for light bulbs and computer and such. We do not have appliances, so we do most things by hand. There’s no refrigerator, so we’ve learned to cook the right amounts and not have too much left over. Some of you more mature readers will perhaps remember a similar childhood. We feel like we live in the dirt, so cleaning the house has to be done with an understandably lower standard. We have little access to medical care so we’ve learned to assess and treat many of our own illnesses.

People drop in throughout the day for various reasons, some just wanting a cup of water on the way to the market and others with various requests. It is customary in the Dinka culture to make requests of neighbors as a way of securing a bond of relationship. We Westerners often idealize the relationship aspect of these African cultures. The reality is that relationships are a matter of practical existence and often survival. We, among the wealthier members of this society, therefore receive many requests. These range from a cup of tea or sugar to clothes, food, a basin, a hut door, medical help, etc. Many have mastered the art of persuasion and persistence.

There has been an ongoing dilemma for us over the years: to give or not to give? When does it stop being helpful? This post-war people have become accustomed to foreign aid. We have seen firsthand how this has fostered dependence, a diminished work ethic and sense of dignity. Not wanting to make this an anthropological study, suffice it to say that, on a daily basis, I reply both yes and no to neighbors, and both responses usually illicit some pang within me. Am I really showing the love of Jesus?

These interactions have perhaps been the most difficult part of village life in Sudan. They revolve around the gift or the lack thereof. Our village relationships are not really getting to know one another and the sharing of the heart. There is a chasm of cultural differences that is so difficult to cross. Quite honestly, far too often I have treated people poorly with lack of patience and with annoyance at being interrupted all through the day.

There are the times when we do not question, like the time I delivered a baby in a field nearby. And there are times we yearn to help and our response in Dinka is, “We have no power.” It was one of those instances recently when Ayii, a 5-year-old boy, was brought to us. Ayii was grossly malnourished and his little body was failing. His parents had tried various avenues of intervention, from visiting the hospital in Aweil to soliciting the witch doctor. They were at the end of themselves. As I stared, my heart wept and I said, “We have no power for this one.” One of our workers, Akec, said, “They are here for prayers.” Ashamed of my self-reliant response, I called Vince to pray in Dinka and he encouraged them to seek the church for the same. Ayii did receive medical care and has improved. He is but one of many whose lives we are brought into because of dreadful circumstances. We are not always able to help, and tragically we see much death from causes that are preventable.

We know, however, that in this life there is much tribulation and that our ultimate hope is not in the lengthening or improvement of it. All must die. The message of Christ is the hope for fullness of life and for eternity. Vince recently came home after a funeral service saying, “Julie, if you ask yourself why we are here, I wish you were there to see.” He went on to describe how Alou, our church elder in Parot, preached a simple message to the group of unchurched people. He was holding a clump of dirt in his hand saying, “We came from this dirt and to this dirt we will return.” Then he led them from Creation and the Fall on to Christ and His victory over sin and death. Praise the Lord, death cannot hold His children captive! “But a son abides forever. Therefore if the Son makes you free, you shall be free indeed” (John 8:35-36). They will be free indeed.

I need frequent reminders that this is why we are there, in the dirt, so far from our loved ones, hearing rumors of war, living a life full of transitions and questions. God’s unquestioning, unstopping, unfathomable love sustains us. I am a weak vessel and I am continually learning to rest in this love.

—Julie Ward

Julie Ward is an RPCNA missionary in the Republic of South Sudan. Her husband, Vince, is a pastor. An RP Global Missions feature appears semiannually in the Witness.