After three weeks of constant use of hand sanitizer, bathing out of a rain barrel with a pitcher of water, existing under constant surveillance of my bodily intake due to last time's visit, walking muddy, feces-ridden streets, breathing in belching fumes inside intoxicating, sardine-packed taxis on the way to the college and seminary, I was ready for home. Home visits, although of benefit, seemed to carry a monotony due to my lack of knowledge of the local language. I was ready for hot wings and beer, for the warmth of my wife's loving embrace, and for my children's laughter, smiles, and cuddles. I certainly wasn't despairing of the hardship these people endure, nor was I depressed, downcast, or even lonely. I was simply ready for home. Now, it was our last day of home visits, and I skipped along the road and gave my best Skylar impersonation in a song, with the last word drawn out like a string: "We're weddy to go!" (Skylar is my youngest daughter, who, at three and one-half years, is closely related to the firecracker family). My mood was jovial, and infectious. Still, it rains every day in Addis in their winter (our summer); any semblance of sunshine is an instant boost of joy.