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.