In 1963 my father died an untimely death and was buried in an obscure graveyard in an obscure rural area of what most Westerners consider an obscure country, Tanzania. To go that area, called Ihanja, you must go to what seems the middle of nowhere, then keep going. Yet to the many people who live there, it is home, the center of their world. And my father is legendary. Finally, after sixty-two years, I made a pilgrimage back to visit his grave. I also got to sleep in my childhood bedroom of the home where we lived; I preached in…