My father and his brother Tom were very close growing up. Dad once quipped that my uncle only entered the seminary because he had. I am unsure if that was true, but it always made for a good story. My father found his calling outside religious life, but my uncle, on the other hand, found his vocation and was ordained Father Edgar Hughes in 1957, the year I was born.

Friar Edgar had a passion for missionary work. His goal was realized when he was given his assignment to Northern Rhodesia, soon to become Zambia, Africa, in 1961. Leaving Southern Indiana with little more than his faith, none of us realized that this would be the last time any of us would ever see Friar Edgar alive again. My recollection during this time was vague since I was only four years old. I cannot remember anything he said or did, but I do remember how he made us feel. He had a broad smile, and everybody seemed to have a better time when he was around. My memory of my uncle became more vivid as his work and time progressed. We would closely follow the building of his church in Mwinilunga and the stories he would tell of the people he had encountered and the adventures that he had endured through his writings. His letters gave me an appreciation for the person he was, the work he was performing, and the tasks remaining to be completed. This abruptly came to an end in 1966 when he died suddenly of an aortic aneurysm at the age of 35. My uncle’s passing was an emotional time capsule, a defining point on the timeline. At nine years old, I remember the grief that my father felt and the empty place that his passing left with the family.

My father always wanted to travel to Africa to visit my uncle’s grave site. Since he could not be there for his younger brother during his final moments, I always felt that dad wanted to make the journey to bring himself some sort of closure. My father’s health, precarious at best, prevented him from making the trip. His desire to go was tempered with his knowledge that this would be a dream unfulfilled.

In October 2023, the opportunity was made available for me to be the first member of my family to visit Africa since my uncle made the initial journey some 62 years prior. Being named after both my father and uncle, it was probably appropriate that I make the trip. As my wife Kathy and I stood at my uncle’s headstone, we heard Fr. Ferena Lambe provide a history of the time and background of the friar’s mission in Zambia. Br. Tony Droll, who actually knew my uncle, traveled with his body to the hospital and his final interment. He provided me with a firsthand account of the events as they transpired. It was the first time I was told, in detail, what had happened and not in broad secondhand generalities. It was reassuring to hear that the person that I remembered and imagined was the person they knew, and he existed. As I began to say my goodbyes, it was the conclusion of a journey that began in 1966. My uncle was not physically there, but he gave me a guided tour of his Africa through the people he touched and the memories that he left behind. Knowing that I drove on the same roads that he had, some of which I’m sure haven’t changed much since his time, helped give me a sense of perspective. Thinking about both my dad and my uncle, if we were sitting around a table, I’m sure Fr. Edgar would have asked, “What took you guys so long to visit?” My uncle has now been in Africa almost twice his lifetime. Edgar was right, I should have come to visit my second family long before now.