Earthquake - Day Four

At one point in the night, amidst the cacophony, there was an aftershock so strong, I went running to the top of the stairs and listened for the others, surely scrambling out of their beds, or at least talking in low tones about whether or not they should do the same. But no, everyone seemed to be fast asleep. Beyond all fear of waking my friends from their much needed sleep, I asked Linda and Lisa frantically if they "felt that." They sleepily replied "no." I crawled back onto the bed. But the peace you feel at night when you lay down to sleep didn't come. A few hours (minutes?) later I heard the Haitian family outside stirring, and I thought it must be about to dawn. In the distance I heard singing and chanting, too. I crept downstairs in the dark and listened. Soft talking, but no light in the sky was appearing (day dawns quickly near the equator, I'm learning). Again, stumbling up the stairs, I find my way back to the bed. Poor Julia, if she had any chance of sleeping, I was keeping her awake. I must be the most fidgety sleeper ever...she didn't move all night.

Finally the sky lightened. Even without sleep, daylight brings relief for some reason. It's like a new chance at a normal day with a normal ending of sleep. We all slowly worked our way to the kitchen, checked our email, and started on our new day. We enjoyed a lovely breakfast provided by our gracious hosts of Steve's homemade raisin bread, jam and an amazing mango.

The day proved to be filled with reading, writing, chatting with Mr. Factoids, walking to Quisqueya, and lots of emailing and facebooking. At one point, one of Odanie's cousins arrived, a doctor who lived a few hours away and wanted to come into PAP to offer help. He didn't really know where to go to treat the wounded and had no supplies. Ruth ran to her medicine chest and brought an armful of bandaids, ointment, peroxide, iodine, bandages, medicines of every kind. We emptied our bags of anything remotely medical in nature. Again, our stuff seemed to multiply and we were able to give him a good sized box. We snapped a photo, then he went out.

We kept communicating through the day with the guys back home in hopes of getting on a flight that night with Missionary Flights International. We were completely at the mercy of others to make our plans for us. We had no ability or power to arrange anything. We went through our suitcases and only kept the bare essentials in one carry-on. Goodbye t-shirts, skirts, and dresses. Goodbye The Book Thief, that I was supposed to read for book club. Goodbye nice beach bag from Stock Building Supply's trip to Costa Rica. Goodbye journal, with your written pages removed.

In the midst of Steve's duties as QCS director-turned-hospital administrator, and comforting his family, he managed to keep us in his plans. He was our only mode of transport to the airport later in the day, and yet we didn't even know which end was up on the plans. Linda's husband Wayne would call and say, "you need to get to the Embassy." Then 30 minutes later, a frantic email from my husband would come in, "have Linda read her email IMMEDIATELY!" Change - "go to the airport. Be prepared to spend the night." Then, "No, stay where you are until I call." It went on like that most of the day.

Eventually, it was firmed up that we would be flying out with MFI, on a private plane that Rick Hendrick Motorsports had donated. When exactly that plane was going to be available to fly out with us on it was way up in the air. Later in the day, after watching poor Ruth struggle with difficult decisions about what to do with her family, Lisa and I offered our seats to the Hersey children. We decided that we were the least "needed" at home, as our kids were all drivers and fairly self-sufficient. She would wait and talk to Steve.

Around 4, we got the "Go." We needed to be at the airport at 5 for a six o'clock departure. We loaded Steve's SUV and headed the back way to the airport. Ruth and the children would come back to the States soon, but not on this flight.

I probably took more photos on that ride to the airport than I had all week. Each time I raised my camera, I felt so conspicuous. I have always wondered how journalists can invade the pain of others. I know it is necessary, and I've watched my own photo-journalist daughter grapple with the same questions. But as an amateur, I didn't even feel like I should, or that I had an excuse. Yet I continued to snap away, trying to hide the camera from view whenever I wasn't shooting. My photos are not all that great for this reason, but I felt I needed to document what we were seeing, so that I could effectively communicate our ordeal, and the plight of the people there to potential donors. I knew our story would carry influence and weight in the fundraising effort.

I captured images of white mustaches - toothpaste spread under the nose to block the smell of death that was rising throughout the city. UN soldiers and police officers with rifles. Masks for the dust. Rubble. Lots of rubble. Heavy equipment beginning the clean up effort. Tent cities. Patient queues for water. Men bathing the dust off in a dirty puddle.

As we approached the airport, lines of folks wishing to exit the country waited outside the guarded doors. I rushed up and asked for the MFI flight, and I asked specifically about the Rick Hendrick's flight. They didn't know what I was talking about. Wayne thought we might need to go into the main terminal and wait, but those in charge (who was really in charge?) wouldn't let us pass. It was decided to go the the Missionary Aviation Fellowship hangar, where MFI usually departed from. When we arrived at the gate, miraculously someone was leaving and we just drove through the otherwise locked entrance. We saw the pilots and went to speak with them. They were amazed that we were able to get through.

They told us that the plane did not receive clearance to land that night but in the morning we had to be there at 9 am. The pilots were the Hersey's close friends, so arrangements were made to actually follow them into the airport's secure grounds so that we could leave. Security was super-loose, pretty non-existent actually.

When we got back to the Hersey's home, we decided to leave our bags inside and take a walk. I think we were all feeling like we were intruding on the Hersey's private life, in the midst of some of the most difficult decisions they were making; to separate their family so Steve could do his job without worrying about them. Again, we would have to impose on them for a place to sleep for the night, requiring the children to give up their beds to strangers once again. Dark was falling, but we strolled the quiet streets and snapped a few more photos.

When we got back to their home, the doctor was back, looking weary. We played with the little boys in Odanie's family, and I held the Down's baby and laughed as he bursted out in a hearty chuckle every time I said, "boo!" Moments of peace and sheer joy.

Time to go in and check our emails again. Sure enough, Wayne had written as soon as we'd left for the airport, that he got the word Stateside, the flight wasn't departing FL. But the pilots had assured us that it would be leaving in the morning, and we needed to be there ready to go. Ruth and the children were also going. They had decided. We notified the men back home that we would be on our way in the morning.

Back to bed...I dreaded climbing in, losing hope that I would ever sleep again. Somehow I had been functioning all week without it. As if on cue by a cruel maestro, the dogs, the mosquitoes, the doves, the roosters all warmed up their voices one by one. Misery. But I managed to get two or three hours.

Earthquake - Day Three

Sunrise, day three. Tony-the-Elementary Principal (not to be confused with long-beard-Tony-the-teacher), led us to his apartment and offered us the use of his bathroom. We felt civilized once again. Then, luxury of all luxuries...he brought us a tray laden with four cups of coffee and cream and sugar! We drank coffee like proper middle-aged ladies, and changed our clothes, brushed our teeth and were refreshed. As we wandered about the school grounds, we spoke with several of the staff. The gals reminded me so much of myself, 25 years earlier. It was a trip down Memory Lane.

We all decided that we needed to send Pastor Val on his way, and reassure him that we could take it from here. We got all the suitcases out and went through everything. We sorted the dental supplies into one bag, the clothing into another. Candy, streamers, party favors and toys in a third. Vitamins, medical supplies, melamine dishes, fabric, sewing supplies. We loaded him up. We gave him gifts and gifts for his sister, Yrma. He proudly put on a new golf shirt as we all signed the North Carolina book we'd brought. Our little refugee family of five - Pappa Val with the four NC moms - posed for a photo together. We all tearfully hugged him and thanked him profusely for taking such good care of us. We pooled our cash and gave him the biggest Holy Ghost handshake we could spare. We urged him to be on his way to check on his home and the orphanage.

The rest of the morning was spent helping to divide up medications for the triage unit Quisqueya was setting up and planning to open the next day. There was a "Command Center" bulletin board, with lists of staff that was accounted for. Sobering. None were lost, miraculously, but we listened to stories of loved ones missing and lost. One little second grader was feared dead. The wife of a missionary was confirmed dead, while her husband suffered terrible injuries and had been airlifted first to Guantanamo Bay, and then to Miami. He still had yet to learn the horrible news.

We told our harrowing story, and listened to theirs. Many had spent the previous two nights on the field at the school. The grounds were miraculously spared any damage. They were converting the chapel into a surgery center. A group of 30 preschool children from an orphanage nearby was staying under the porch of the preschool building. I remember dreaming about teaching in that building when I first visited Quisqueya in 1982 as a college student. It was a beautiful thing to see that staff pulling together to serve their community. Dutch, American, Canadian, Haitian - all working together to be the hands and feet of Jesus. Some of the young teachers made plans to return to their families back home in the US or Canada. Certainly understandable. They were the age of my oldest daughter and I think I would have insisted on the same.

Steve Hersey, director of Quisqueya arrived and we were introduced. Although we felt safe, we still felt responsible for ourselves. We were generally at the mercy of these people; we had imposed upon their oasis in the night. We needed their support as we tried to make contact again with the US and to formulate a plan to get out of Haiti. It became imperative that now that we had separated from Pastor Val, and clearly were not on the course we had set out to be on when we left home, we had to leave. We were a drain on precious resources as we did not have a clear mission or purpose in staying. We would have gladly slept on those picnic tables again and fasted for a few days, but we had to have water. We didn't want to burden anyone with our presence.

We told Steve of our plan to stay at the CSI guest house a few streets away. Everyone began to tell us that it was badly damaged, and that that option was not a possibility. Steve took us there to talk with the guest house directors. They were sitting outside with computers and phones connected by long cords. Communication Central! We were able to make a few calls, send some email and post on facebook. We discovered that our husbands were working feverishly to get us evacuated. We all cried as we talked to our husbands and kids. My oldest, Abby, hurriedly told me of an opportunity she was given as a result of the earthquake: her boss had to give up an important trip to China to find the first child sponsored by World Vision in 1950, so that he could go to Haiti. He offered her the China trip as photographer. She had to know my response immediately as they were preparing visas. She was to leave in just a few days. Of course I gave my blessing; Just one request - get a satellite phone!

Steve quickly offered to take us to his home. He said we could keep his wife and kids company while he stayed at the school. They had been staying home, avoiding getting out and exposing the kids to anything disturbing. When we arrived, Ruth graciously welcomed us and we gathered under a beautiful bouganvillea outside on their patio. We talked of our experiences, how their house was undamaged but the books fell from all the bookcases. Their son, Sebastian had a chess game set up on a table in his bedroom. The table moved across the room but the chess pieces stayed in place. Sebastian entertained us with endless factoids. Suzanna read quietly and engaged us in conversation about her favorite books. Charming children.

Their dear friend of many years and housekeeper, Odanie had 10 of her family members camped out in the front yard. Moms, babies, toddlers and men spread out under tarps. None of the Haitians wanted to be indoors. Maybe we WERE the crazy ones.

The tremors continued, although they were not nearly as noticeable during the day when we were moving about and otherwise occupied. Ruth served us some homemade bread and cheese, and we shared our trail mix and granola bars. We washed dishes, played games and talked and talked. The internet worked off and on all afternoon, and we frantically exchanged correspondence with our families.

As evening approached, Odanie came inside and made spaghetti for us. Again, an incredible and relished meal. Amazing how appreciative you are of food in situations like that. When we finished, Ruth carried the extra outside to Odanie's family. This was their practice at every dinner. The sharing of a meal took on new meaning.

Sebastian and Suzanna offered us their beds for the night. I still feel so humbled by their kindness. They fretfully made the decision to sleep inside, all of them in one room. Unfortunately, Steve and Ruth have a water-bed, so every time Steve moved ever-so-slightly, Ruth panicked that another tremor was happening. Julia and I shared one bed, Linda and Lisa in another. We took very fast cold showers, and felt comfortable for the first time in days. As we laid down, we all looked forward to a good night's sleep.

But it was not to be. Between the constant tremors, the nocturnal fighting/screeching/barking/crying dogs, the roosters (who obviously don't know about sunrise), the two cooing doves outside our window, and the ever present mosquitos...we were kept awake by the cacophony. Now I know that people who live near airports get to the point of being able to block out the noise, but seriously....

Night number four for me without sleep.

Earthquake - Day Two

I lift up my eyes to the hills - where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth. He will not let your foot slip - he who watches over you will not slumber; indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord watches over you - the Lord is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord will keep you from all harm - he will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore. Psalm 121

This is the scripture passage that those precious Christians were quoting all night long in that field. Linda said it was like "sitting in God's lap." Those precious people of God sang and worshiped and prayed and quoted scripture all night. Every time there was a tremor - they shouted hallelujah and praise the Lord and glory to God! Those shouts were like weapons against the fear. Small groups clustered around the field and as one group finished up their song, another picked up a prayer; as they closed their prayers, another quoted Psalms. And at midnight, a revival broke out! Shouts of praise and singing went up into the quiet night. It went on until the sun came up. I can only imagine what Heaven will be like, if that was just a glimpse! Such abiding peace. I hardly knew that chaos was all around us. The Lord knew that we would need a peaceful night for the next day ahead of us. We did not sleep, but somehow we were energized for the day ahead. Now this was also my second night of no sleep, remember?

As the sun came up around 6, the people gathered in one place on the field. They held a little worship service of singing and praying for about an hour. At that point we gathered inside one of the concession stands to the side of the field. Pastor Val was chatting with other men there, and we got bits and pieces of news. The tremors are expected to last until Friday. Planes with aid are supposed to be landing starting today. My family is okay. How's yours? We began to hear planes and helicopters in the distance, and then eventually saw them flying over our field.

After a while, Pastor Val suggested we walk back to his vehicle. In the daylight, it was easier to see, but also brought to light the extent and the horror of the damage. We stepped over power lines, power poles, rubble, a shoe here and there, around broken down vehicles, the injured, dying and dead. It was unimaginable and so enormous. The mind cannot comprehend; we just prayed as we walked and I'm sure the Lord shielded our eyes from too much.

We arrived at the Trooper just as the sun was climbing high into the sky, and miraculously, not a door or window had been disturbed. It was still locked up, our luggage was untouched, and my cash was all there. Thinking we would spend the day back at this location, we began unloading our bags. We were getting thirsty, too, as our water had run out. We had been sharing a liter bottle of water purchased at the Miami airport, although half had been consumed by the time we arrived in Port au Prince. There seemed to be plenty for us all night, but now it was time to find more. We had three water filters for the orphanage, so we opened one thinking we could use it for ourselves. The instructions were complicated and we needed two large containment buckets, which we did not have, nor a source of water, even dirty water. Pastor Val realized our need, and his, and disappeared in search of some. He miraculously returned less than ten minutes later with a huge bag of water pouches. I had been telling the ladies about these, and although I had been reluctant to drink from them in the past, we opened our hand sanitizer and wiped them down and drank deeply from several. We then refilled that liter bottle and shared it the rest of the week.

We changed clothes behind some chalkboards set up in front of the church, and sat down for a rest. Pastor Val, came to us then and announced that we needed to return to the field, that it was safer there. Again, reluctant and tired, and feeling a little lost, we piled our things back in that truck and headed out again.

On the way back to the soccer stadium, we remembered the supplies we had in our bags: band-aids, Neosporin, alchohol wipes, fabric, scissors, 25# of rubber gloves! So we decided that when we arrived we would use these things to help people. At first, one or two people came over and we applied the ointment and band-aids and prayed for them. the rubber gloves were rendered useless, as the bandages stuck to them and made the work difficult. Lisa stayed busy cutting strips of cloth to sling broken bones and hold ointment in place. But soon, we were mobbed with the injured: deep cuts filled with sand and rubble, broken legs and twisted feet, head injuries, the barely conscious. We were overwhelmed with our inability to help. I felt the crowd pressing in and the sun climbing high and beating down on us.

One dear woman had placed a dirty terry-cloth towel on a deep cut on her forehead. Overnight, it had dried in place. I knew that I must remove it before I could apply any antibiotic cream. I poured some water on the towel, and loosened it slightly. Then some ointment. A little more. Then I had to tug, but it wouldn't give. The fibers of the cloth were deep in the cut. I told Pastor Val to tell her that I must pull it off and that it would hurt, to brace herself. With tears in my eyes, I yanked that cloth as gently but as firmly as I could. She winced, but did not cry out. I had to do it a second time and I could hardly see for the tears. Finally that towel came off and revealed a gash needing stitches. All that and I couldn't really help her. I prayed for healing, and placed some Neosporin and a band-aid on her and sent her on her way.

A well-dressed man came to us and spoke in English. "My wife is in labor and close to delivering. I need you to help me." We tried to convince him that we were not doctors or nurses, but he insisted that any help would be better than none. While I bound up the bleeding, Linda and Julia went with Pastor St. Mark across the street to a hospital.

We heard very little by way of crying, moaning, or complaining. Even the little ones they brought us didn't fuss. We ran out of bandaids and ointment, and the crowd dissipated. Thousands of people began to pour into that stadium looking for shelter. They set up makeshift tent with four concrete blocks, four branches, and some sheets. They had a better set up than we did! The babies and children played under those tents with their mammas. The men must have been out helping. Pastor Val offered to move the truck to the other side of the field near his friends.

Lisa and I walked toward the hospital to find Julia and Linda. We were appalled to see many dead lying in the parking lot, on the sidewalk, at the entrance to the hospital. Some were covered up, some had a piece of clothing draped across their faces, but others, including a small boy, were not covered at all. There were also many injured and they called out to us for help. I suppose being white, people assumed the only reason we would be there was because we were relief workers, doctors or nurses. It felt like a violation of their trust to be there, because we could offer no help. We wandered around wondering where the entrance to the hospital could be, and then realized that we may never find them in there. We were both overcome with horror and decided to leave the area and go back to the field. As we walked down the driveway to the stadium a young man held out a baby to us with pleading eyes, "take her." We just shook our heads and said, "we can't." I wish I had taken her.

Lisa and I sat up on the bleachers, and waited, exhausted.

That was my low moment. I had cried the night before, but here we were in the middle of Port au Prince on a field, the US Coast Guard helicopters and planes flying overhead, but we felt so lost, and so unable to help. How would anyone find us here? No one knew where to look. We tried over and over again to reach our families on Pastor Val's phone, but the systems were overloaded and we couldn't get through. Pastor Val told us that the church was preparing food for everyone. Lisa and I sat on those bleachers, unable to rest or sleep, thinking surely the sun would go down soon, and we could at least lie down again.

It was 11:30 am.

We could not believe it. Soon Pastor St. Mark returned for provisions. They needed water. He said that one baby had been born, but his was still coming. He left. Within 30 minutes, he returned again with Linda, and his son had been born. They reached into our bags and gathered water, granola bars, sanitary supplies, and underwear for the mother and the Pastor. Their home had been crushed by the quake and they had nothing. We also gave him some money.

Soon both of our ladies returned, triumphant. Julia, who had been almost silent with fear up until now, was chattering away about her experience. How they had prayed because one baby was transverse and could not come down the birth canal. They watched the baby flip into place after Linda commanded the baby to move in Jesus' name. Julia described how Pastor St. Mark's newborn son peed all over the room upon entering the world. Joy amidst the sorrow. Linda named him, "Judah" which means praise because in the middle of all the pain, there was something to praise God for.

They cleaned up, and sat with us. We spread our blankets on the ground and tried to rest a little. We played with the children and their mammas nearby. Patty cake and "Oui, oui, non" their version of "Duck, duck, goose." We snapped photos of these beautiful people. And then another worship service began. We stood among the people and sang and thanked God for our lives again. Again and again we tried to phone out. Nothing.

And then, at 2:15, Pastor Val's phone rang. It was total stranger looking for Linda. They only spoke for 10 seconds and then it went dead. A few minutes later, it rang again, this time her husband, Wayne. We all cried, so happy that our families knew we were alive. She managed to say that we were on a soccer field on Delmas 33. Then the phone went dead again.

That put wind in our sails. The rest of the day was spent visiting with the people on the field, and playing with the children. Julia still preferred to stay in the truck, but the rest of us laid down on our blankets. Soon, it was time to think about bedding down for the night, so we picked a new spot. The precious church family there, had been preparing food all day in enormous vats. I'm not really sure how much they made, but we estimated 10,000 people on that field. They brought us a styrofoam container of the most delicious rice and beans with fish sauce that I have every eaten. We scrounged around in our bags for some plastic knives we had brought for spreading icing on cupcakes at the orphanage, and used them like chopsticks.

As the sky darkened, threatening storm clouds gathered over us. The wind picked up. The sky was about to open up on us. We ran to the truck for shelter. But no storm came. Just a few drops and then it was dark. We laid down for the night, even though it was only about 7:00. Julia and Pastor Val stayed in the truck. Lisa, Linda and I were on the ground again.

As it got darker and darker and more and more quiet, a few groups of men stopped by our blankets. At first they were asking about our blankets, could they have some, and then they became more bold and asked to lie down with us. Soon after this, about 11:30 pm, someone yelled in the dark, "Allez! Allez! Le mer! Le mer!" I thought I knew what he was saying, but I asked around to find someone who spoke English, and sure enough, they were shouting that the sea was coming; a tsunami. In my heart I knew that it was impossible. We were at Delmas 33 which is well above sea level, probably a few hundred feet. So even if the sea were coming, we wouldn't be affected up so high. But a frantic panic gripped everyone on that field, and all 10,000 people cleared out in 5 minutes. We hopped in the truck and took off as well.

We learned later that this was a ploy by looters to get people to flee, leaving their meager belongings behind. How cruel. But we saw it as the protection of God on our lives, because we were such vulnerable targets on that field for ill-intentioned trouble-makers.

Pastor Val began driving, and we just let him lead us where he wanted to go. He had been so good to us to this point, we trusted him as a father figure. In the dark, we turned onto a familiar street - Delmas 75 - Quisqueya Christian School! I asked him to verify that indeed we were there and he said yes.

It was quite dark inside their walls, so I wondered if no one was there. Perhaps they sustained damage as well and everyone had left. But the walls and the gate were in tact, so I boldly banged on one gate. No answer. I walked to the other gate, and yelled with all my strength, "Help! I'm Kellee Brackett! I used to teach here! We need shelter!" Soon someone came to the gate, and said in whisper, "Okay, come on in, just be quiet!"

A wave of relief swept over me. We were on safe and familiar ground and I just knew, now that we were here, we could work on getting home. We explained our situation to the Elementary Principal, Tony and he showed us to some picnic tables where we could spread our blankets. I stayed up a long time talking to the others, teachers and families that had sought shelter there. No sleep again, but such peace. In the morning, Tony led us to his apartment where we could freshen up and use the bathroom. Ah, what a luxury!

Earthquake - Day One

Many are the plans in a man's heart but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails. Proverbs 19:21.

So true. After a sleepless night, in anticipation of a big missions trip to Haiti with my three friends, Julia, Linda and Lisa, I boarded our American Airlines flight to Port au Prince at 7 am. We enjoyed the comforts of the Admirals Club in the Miami airport and had a delightful salad for lunch. At 3:45 pm on Jan. 12, our pilot came over the loudspeaker in our plane. "Well, we're approaching Port au Prince; and we'll be arriving 15 minutes early, although I really don't know how that happened."

We commented on the new air-conditioned jetway, and the escalators that took us down to the main part of the airport. Someone said they had just been to PAP two months before and none of that was there. It was certainly a pleasant surprise to me; I had just told Julia that we'd have to walk across the tarmac!

We processed through passport control, gathered our bags, navigated through customs, paid a little $3 bribe to overlook our dental supplies and ran the gauntlet of porters anxious for our business. As we stepped outside, the warm air greeted us, and Haiti in all its glory and chaos was before us. Our driver, Pastor Val was late, and we commenced trying to call him. He finally came around 4:50 pm. We loaded our 400 pounds of supplies into his Isuzu Trooper and he parked us under some trees while he ran inside to collect two missing bags from the previous day.

An old, bearded Dutch man approached our vehicle and began chatting with us. As he held on to the door, the vehicle began to rock gently, and we all assumed the porters were back, wanting some more cash. But then the rocking became violent and the trees before us were swaying as if they were being blown by a hurricane-force wind. A suitcase fell from its perch and knocked Julia in the head. We bounced out of our seats. But there was no wind. There were no porters. Sam's face was ashen and he said, "I've been here 30 years and we've never had anything like this!" We looked up into the hills of Port and saw a white dust cloud rising from the city.

It was an earthquake of 7.2 magnitude. The first of its kind in over 200 years in Haiti.

As Sam ran away, Pastor Val miraculously appeared. Shaking and sweating, he began to tell of his terror: blocks were falling from the ceiling, dust was everywhere, people were falling down, he crouched beside a desk. But then he was able to come outside, shaken, but unharmed.

We got back in the truck and started toward our destination. Our plan was to visit a small orphanage near Leogane for a week, delivering supplies, assessing needs, planning for future assistance. But as we approached Carrefour, the epicenter of the earthquake, we were turned away. The roads were blocked, the bridge was out. Pastor Val turned us around and I told him we should head toward Quisqueya Christian School where we could find other Americans and possibly some shelter for the night, as it was fast approaching.

We headed through downtown Port au Prince. The devastation unfolded before us. Cracked and crumbled buildings. People wailing, shouting, praising God, praying and singing. Every citizen untrapped was in the street, as far away from a building as they could get. A naked woman, dashed from the shower, cowered under a small towel. An old woman being carried from a building. Blood. Shock. Power lines. Concrete. Bodies.

We began filming, snapping photos. We opened our suitcases and threw our clothes to naked people. Cars, trucks, buses, motorbikes were driving all over the roads and sidewalks in no particular order. We were just trying to pass. We achieved one mile in an hour. It became evident we would not make it up the Delmas to Quisqueya, 5 or 6 miles away. Pastor Val started thinking of options. He knew of a church not far.

Our mouths gave voice to desperate prayer. They mixed with the noise of the chaos. The Spirit got ahead of the mind and we cried out to God for help, for guidance, for peace.

The Delmas is a road that runs like a spine from the busiest part of the city up the mountain, eventually changing names and crawling up to Fermathe. It is numbered; low numbers at the bottom of the hill in town, Quisqueya is at 75.

As dark settled in, we turned onto Delmas 9. We stopped the vehicle in the middle of the road far from the concrete walls that lined the streets that served as security measures for people's homes and businesses. There was a man lying in the street in front of us. We stayed in the car while Pastor Val got out to see if he could help. One lady was frozen in fear and wanted to stay in the car and lock the doors. She begged us not to begin giving away our supplies, thinking we might be mobbed. We agreed. Due to the shock of the situation, we could think of nothing to sing. I remembered I had my I-pod full of worship music, and pulled it out. I put the earbuds in and just sang to my mates, trying to bring the Lord's peace to the situation. I must have sounded crazy singing acapella to them. But at that point, all sense of propriety was gone; we were desperate for God.

After a while, I got out to see this young man in the street, see if I could help him. He was moving, but it was unclear what his injuries were. I fished one of the 30 blankets we had brought for the orphanage out of the luggage and made a pillow for his head. He seemed incoherent, with a gash on his head and a bad headache. We told him to try and stay awake.

Pastor Val emerged from the church with the news that the church members were walking to a soccer stadium about 30 minutes away. He advised us that we should follow. We were reluctant to leave this seeming secure spot, but eventually agreed to go. In the dark, we gathered a few things for our carryons that we thought we might need for the night: passports, contact case and solution, toiletries, a pair of socks, cameras...what were we thinking? We really needed blankets, food, water, etc. I didn't even grab the $700 in cash I had. We began walking.

We headed back to the Delmas, and were swept up in the darkness and debris. Power poles were knocked down and live wires still zapped. People were camped on the curbing in the center of the street, just sitting on 6-inch wide concrete dividers, babies in arms. Many were praying with arms upraised. There was a peaceful calm, maybe shock, maybe prayer. Some cried. Not many moaned. Cars and buses were all catty-wampas around the roads. Buildings and concrete and blocks littered every square inch. The road was barely visible under the rubble, but we managed to keep each other in view and find our way to Delmas 33. We turned left onto this major road and continued on.

The walk was not 30 minutes, but at least 90. We finally arrived at at driveway, and behind a building a beautiful starlit sports complex greeted us. I felt we walked into Heaven, because there was a beautiful chorus of voices singing and praising God. Loud prayers were going up from another group. Clusters of families and friends sat in groups of 10, 20, 30 and comforted one another. A pregnant mother asked for help, as she was not feeling well. I felt her belly and asked her where she hurt. She was not in labor, but very uncomfortable. Her husband laid with her and spoke to her gently, keeping her warm.

It was the most peaceful night of my life.