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Today we begin our journey back to the States.

Because the airport in Port-au-Prince is closed for commercial flights, we are driving the five (read: nine) hour drive back through the Dominican Republic to Santo Domingo, where we will be staying tonight. We fly back to Miami, and then to our respective homes on Wednesday.

However, this story does not end.

When I went to Uganda, it took me a month or two to process what I experienced and how it changed me in the context of my life in America. We quit our jobs and moved to Nashville.

When I went to India, it was a little bit different. I connected on a deeper level with my Compassion child and his father, and that has changed my heart.

However, Haiti has been more like Uganda because it has changed me in a completely different way. It has motivated me to become more active in our political systems to ensure aid is delivered when people need it.

How this looks like in my life? I have no idea.

I’m also thinking about how to engage this “blog family” into Haiti. For some reason, it seems like so many of you connected with the stories we were telling maybe even a bit more than other trips I have taken.

As I said before, what we need is real people on the ground who are courageous, compassionate, and willing to pray for people and help distribute supplies. Maybe help rebuild and clean up.

So, the story will continue. The end of our trip is not the end of our mission.

While we are traveling, I may not be able to post again until I’m home on Wednesday or Thursday. I can’t express how grateful I am for your prayers and support as you have shared the story of such a hopeful and messy and redemptive story.

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I encourage you to check out my trip mates — my brothers — that have been with me since the beginning. We bonded so well and supported each other and sacrificed for each other.

Yes, I was the only girl.

But they treated me just like one of the guys.

And that too will take some processing.

And quite possibly therapy.

Read their blogs, and hear their stories from the trip.

Rhett “The Only One I Knew” Smith (Twitter)

Lars “Has a 39 year old body” Rood (Twitter)

Jeremy “Abercrombie” Zach (You pronounce it ZOCK!) (Twitter)

THE “Walking Evangecube” Marko

Adam “Does Not Live in a Basement” McLane (Twitter)

Chef & Chief Seth Barnes (Twitter)

Ian “The Boy in the Hole” Robertson (Twitter)

Tim “Are You Like Hitler?” Schmoyer (Twitter)

Clint “PREACH IT” Bokelman

A variety of media, videos, pictures, and thoughts can also be found on the Facebook Page.

Thank you again.

Love you guys.

We went into the tent city today wondering what would happen.

Thousands of people last night had flooded Twitter with pleas to media and NGOs to help get food, supplies, and medicine to this community we had found yesterday.

Thank you for so quickly falling in love with the families we met that needed so much.

When we arrived shortly before 9 am, the people had planted a church – various tarps and sheets with a small area to use as a stage. Music began immediately, and people filed in singing, dancing, and thanking God for the help that was to come.

The tent city is in a valley, a flood area. To get to it, you walk down a paved road and turn down a dirt road full of rocks and head down an incline. As people kept singing “God is my provision” and “I have no other source but God” I kept looking up from the valley, up the hill, waiting for a caravan of supplies or media to show up.

The verse went through my head, “I lift up my eyes to the hills–where does my help come from?”

I began losing faith.

An hour had passed, and nobody had met us.

We began praying for hundreds of people in the church – they lined up for our team members, and each of us with a translator would hear their request, and we would pray for them. For healing, for protection, for food. I even dedicated a baby (as you can see, she was thrilled).

I kept looking up the hill.

Nothing.

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Adam came up to me and asked if I had seen the Cuban Medical team arrive on the other side of the camp.

Seriously?

I took off, alone, but armed with Lars’ iPhone (mine broke on the trip the second day) and hiked the quarter mile through the dust to the other area. Sure enough. A medical team from Cuba was there and had set up shop, looking at people, and giving antibiotics and vaccinations and water.

Help had come.

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By the time I returned to the church-side of the tent city, half of our team decided to go to the airport – where all the official relief was being coordinated – to get some supplies and help. They worked their way in, cut through red tape, pretended to know more than they did, and were able to register the cities to receive official help.

They weren’t able to get food though.

And that wasn’t acceptable.

So they did what they could.

They went to the grocery store and spent $60,000 Haitian dollars on food. That’s about $2000 US. And they took it back to the tent city to distribute it through its leaders.

Help had come.

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As our team drove away from the tent city, now with medicine, water, and food to make do until they begin receiving official assistance, a UNICEF truck was pulling in to take an assessment.

Help had come.

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As I said in the earlier post, we didn’t know what today would look like. We just knew we needed to show up. We prayed and worshipped with our new friends, waiting for help.

Help had come.

What was desolate and unknown yesterday has now been provided for today, and will receive provision in the future. Those who were forgotten are now known.

Faith wins.

Again.

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After our first day in Haiti, I described it as an emotional roller coaster, riding up high on hope and going so fast and so low into despair that my stomach was often left in my throat. The ups and downs screwed with the wiring of my fairly stable American brain.

With each day, it seems like the peaks have gotten higher and the valleys lower.

Yesterday was Sunday, and as we drove to a church service, we saw people dancing and singing in the streets, holding signs that said in Creole, “Haiti for Christ, Christ for Haiti.” ?My friend Lars compared the people pouring into the streets in the same way I mentioned the rubble pouring into the streets. Both come crashing around every corner and every turn.

We joined a celebration where the Haitians were literally going crazy with praise. I pulled out my trust Flip camera and like any American blogger would do, captured the experience to share. Having no rhythm whatsoever, when I was encouraged to dance by a large man in a bright orange shirt, I laughed and shook my head. I began clapping my hands a little bit.

I did grow up Baptist, so I thought this was a fair enough compromise.

As two boys came up next to me, they didn’t dance. Only stared. Two older women began dancing around me, trying to get me to engage. I took one look at the boys and made a motion that essentially said, “If you do it, I’ll do it.” and we all started jumping up and down and spinning around in circles.

Five minutes later, sweat was forming a river down the middle of my back and I had a heart rate watch on. 158.

That should make my trainer proud.

I was blown away by how quickly their hope moved me from a spectator in to a celebrator.

These people were alive!

These people were free!

These people have a hope and purpose!

I’m alive!

I’m free!

I have a hope and a purpose!

Our gratitude and faith united us.

We continued on to a church service. ?At the church, Rhett, Lars, Jeremy and I were quickly escorted to the front and asked to individually share. “You come to my church, so you will preach,” the pastor told Rhett. Gathered under tarps and sheets, we each spoke about what we have been learning in Haiti. I told them,

“I do not have the words to express how deep my sorrow is for your loss. I also do not have the words to express how grateful I am for the gift of your hope that you have shared with us.”

Their eyes shined with hope and it was apparent they were so thankful to be alive.

The sun became more intense as we drove to a desolate part of Port-au-Prince. As we walked down to a massive tent city, my eyes watered from the dust being blown around and the brightness of the sun beating down on my face. Jeremy and I broke off from the group with our translator and went tent to tent, hearing about what had happened to each family, and what their needs were.

Our first family was hopeful, even though they were completely lost and without any possessions — even a tent. As we went farther in, we found two women and two children. We learned there has not been any food or medical aid that has assisted the community, as the woman showed us where her leg had been trapped under debris. She had an infection and fever. ?We asked how old her children were. One was six, and one was three.

The six year old looked to be only two years old, so our translator asked her several times, “are you sure he’s six?” and she said yes, over and over again. He had contracted malaria at an early age, had finally received treatment, but because of the damage it had caused, he can’t eat. He can only drink water. He was so malnourished, his body had stopped developing.

This city is in a flood zone, and March is the rainy season for Haiti. There is no proper drainage and as soon as the rain comes, because of the location of this community, what little the do have will be washed away. The diseases will spread quickly, and another tragedy will strike.

Supply trucks and relief organizations drive by this city every day and don’t stop. We’re about to return and are praying for a miracle. We’ve been in touch with almost every organization we could contact with the exact location and needs, and we can only hope someone shows up with food. We’ve been in touch with media, and we can only hope someone shows up and is able to tell the world of this desperate need of 5,000 displaced Haitians.

We’ve also been in long, loud, united prayer — in touch with our Saviour — who loves the people of this city deeply. We don’t hope he will show up. We know he is already there.

In just a couple of hours we don’t know what we will encounter when we return. I am praying for a miracle for these people, whether it is while we are there or after we return to the states.

And I hope you will join with me on this prayer.

I’ve sweat out the same amount of water that I’ve had to drink today.

Trust me.

There are ways of knowing this, and they involve three 16oz empty water bottles, an empty 32oz Camelback and only one small trip to a squatty potty (of which I am becoming quite skilled at mastering).

Although they only say it’s in the mid-nineties, the sun scorching my German-inherited pasty skin tells me the temperature is probably closer to six hundred and forty or so. Don’t worry, mom. (And Karen. And Gail.) My 100 SPF sunscreen is applied often.

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After the sun rose this morning, we piled into our van and drove through the city. The closer we got to the epicenter of the quake, the more and more buildings were flattened, concrete pouring onto the streets like ocean waves crashing into jetties.

It is just as devastating in person as it is on the other side of the TV screen. Except with CNN, you get quick cuts to other stories, or to Anderson Cooper’s superhuman biceps.

When you’re driving 5 mph on a gravel road, dodging piles of rebar and mounds of rubble, you’re forced to stare into each building. You notice things left behind, like office chairs and plants that by some odd force of nature, stay in their exact locations while the rest of the building fell on top of the people inside it.

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Today was Haiti’s National Day of Prayer – a day the government refused to have, but the people made it happen anyway. We visited three of the gatherings, one with six thousand people and at the President’s Palace, one with sixty thousand.

My friend Rhett and I paired up, and learned from our translator Augustave that churches never had services like these before. These people were desperate for hope, and were so thankful to simply be alive. The heat, the lack of space, the lack of toilets…nothing kept them away from being together…being grateful.

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After the prayer services, we drove into a neighborhood that had been almost completely devastated by the quake. Most people had moved into tents as everyone is terribly afraid to sleep under anything that could possibly fall on them. Even Augustave, who lost his house but none of his family or friends, confessed to sleeping under the stars every night because of his fear.

Rhett, Augustave and I wandered through a maze of rubble and tents made of sheets, gathering a crowd behind us wherever we went. We stopped to talk to a few families, including one family – a family of nine with a newborn (born outside on a cement slab, assisted only by neighbors, merely five days after the earthquake).

He showed us where their home used to be, now with walls crumbled and debris scattered. Then he showed us their new home.

This is it.

A family of nine with a newborn sleeps here.

We kept walking deeper and deeper into the tent city, more and more people following us, touching our skin; the children grabbing on to us and giggling, whispering in Creole.

We assessed this community’s needs; they hadn’t been seen by any relief teams and some had gone without food. We met with families, looked at some minor medical problems, and soon, it was time to head back to the van.

Before we could head out, a man stopped us and wanted us to meet his family.

The roads became smaller and more difficult to walk on as we were quickly taken even farther back into the tent city, the man speaking so fast in Creole our translator couldn’t translate until he finally stopped to take a breath. He was the father, maybe grandfather, of a family of twenty five who were all living in a tent, not unlike the one which housed the family of nine.

The mother and father both began talking passionately at the same time, moving their arms around wildly. Whatever they were saying didn’t sound good. They kept looking over at Rhett and me with wide eyes and determination. For the first time since arriving in Haiti, I was a little bit scared. After listening a bit longer, what I thought was anger was merely desperation.

They needed food. And medicine.

We could have spent days in this tent city, hearing people’s stories and helping them in the small ways we are able until specific teams arrive. And the thing is, there are hundreds of these cities all over Port-au-Prince.

It’s endless.

Yet as I meet more and more people — from the story of the woman in the hospital yesterday to the families of nine and twenty-five today, I realize they are no different than I am.

I think I’ve been so mistaken by believing poverty is a disease which I’ve been fortunate enough to escape, but as I’ve looked into the eyes of so many beautiful people I’ve realized that they are just like me. And I am just like them.

We love and hurt and hope. We are all rich and poor. The various ways that poverty expresses itself are the only thinsg that make us different.

While they may need more food or some way to build a home again, I have realized my need for the hope they are so rich in – the thankfulness and joy they have, even though they’ve walked deeply inside the valley of the shadow of death.

May God be with each of us as we realize our responsibility to carry each other, and our common dependence on faith.

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Please continue to pray for us — our health and strength (physical and emotional – the heat only amplifies the emotional experience of what we are seeing) — for our hands to be open and our hearts too. The needs are so great here, but I can’t express how much hope there is in the midst of it. ?If you’re interested in seeing how you can help by using your skills or donating, click here.

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We spent last night in Santo Domingo and left at 5:30 am to head out to Port-Au-Prince, where we’re staying for the next four nights. It was a long, bumpy, funny drive — full of conversations you can expect from nine guys and a girl.

On the way in, we made several stops, including one where I met this charming young fellow.

Once we got through the Haitian Border (it looks like a one lane road with a metal gate, nothing like I had imagined) that’s when the roller coaster began.

We haven’t gone too far into the city, so we haven’t seen much damage yet. Even so, I was completely shocked at the lack of aid heading into the city. We saw one UNICEF camp and one UN truck actually inside Haiti. The rest of the time, we saw Haitians trying to put their lives back together. I heard reports a few weeks ago about the traffic, and there were hardly any cars on the road.

It was so much quieter and emptier than I thought it would be.

We met Pastor Prophet and his wife, and they shared about the thousands of people that took refuge on their property. They were one of the only places that were open. In spite of the death and chaos they experienced, they radiated joy.

We then went in their clinic, which was mostly empty today. One woman was there however, with her husband. She told us her story.

She was in her house when the earthquake struck, alone with her two twin 17 month old boys. The tremors hit, and her house collapsed directly on her. She tried to save her children, but they were crushed. One, she said, was broken in three parts. The other passed away shortly, and she had to literally “toss them away” from her, because their bodies were crushing her chest and she couldn’t breathe.

Her husband had gone by the house, but seeing it flat, assumed his family (including this woman’s sister) was dead and didn’t see her. Praying to Jesus, she was found, and rescued with some significant leg injuries.

She told us this story very stoically, and her husband sat behind her silently. We asked her more questions, and asked to pray with her. In the middle of our prayers (being translated into French), her husband started shaking violently and mumbling French I couldn’t understand. Finally, he began yelling, “Why, Jesus?” over and over and over again, loudly…

Why, Jesus?
Why, Jesus?

Mourning…

Grieving…

Why?

Tears and sweat streamed down my face, my heart groaning with his desperation. It was a time of no words. Simply grieving.

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We continued on to meet with fifty Haitian pastors to hear some of their stories and determine their needs. The first pastor who shared with us was young, twenty-six.

He told us how his wife had died.

The next pastor who spoke, his wife was miraculously saved.

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I think I’ve said this on every international trip, but there is so much contrast, this time between hope and despair. It was a long day that felt like three or four, so I am really looking forward to spending some time with more people in PAP tomorrow and attempting to wrap my head around this strange and tragic event. My brain (if you couldn’t tell by the disjointed blog post) is just a little fuzzy right now.

It’s bed time, and because I really have no way to end in a proper manner, so I will leave you with this…knowing redemption is in all we see, whether overtly sorrowful, or beautifully full of light.

When I turned twenty, I was your typical former pastor’s kid living in rebellion – alcohol, clubs, bands, and a peer group nobody’s parents would approve of. Two months before my twentieth birthday, I had just ended a long term relationship – a month before we were supposed to get married.

It was rough. I remember returning home the night of my twentieth birthday after having friends visiting throughout the week. My apartment door was wide open and nobody was inside. Littered on the floor were liquor bottles and pizza boxes. It took me three trips to the shared dumpster to empty out all the trash.

Exhausted, I collapsed in my bed and cried myself to sleep.

I was alone.

I was twenty.

And I needed to grow up.

As I drifted off, I wondered what the week leading up to my thirtieth birthday would look like. Would I be married? Would I still be living in Dallas and working at an upscale internet company with an incredible salary?

Would my stupid friends be more thoughtful and not trash my apartment on my birthday?

Maybe I would take a trip to somewhere romantic when I turned thirty – like Paris or Rome or Madrid.

An exotic trip to ring in my thirties…Now that sounded like a good plan.

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Ten years later, here I am. I turn thirty next Friday, and the last decade has been filled with a million lifetimes. I sobered up. Moved around and now live in Nashville. I got married. Lost and found my faith a few times. Became a self-employed author with state-provided health care and no stock options. I traveled to Uganda. Then the Dominican. Then India.

And because of the beautiful people I’ve met along the way, I’ve made a promise to tell the stories of people living with nothing to people living with everything.

These two contrasting worlds need to collide. Because oftentimes, we confuse what having nothing and having everything look like.

Ten years later, here I am. And I’m taking a trip for my thirtieth birthday.

But instead of some idyllic European destination, I’m headed to Haiti.

Following the recent earthquake, I felt numb.? It had been a long time since I had been angry at God, and do I dare even say doubt his sovereignty, but that’s where my heart teetered for the first week.

It seemed hopeless.

Sometimes, it still seems hopeless.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to help out in Haiti with an organization called Adventures in Missions. They’ve been on the island of Hispaniola for years and have been working through local churches there long before the earthquake.

Without a doubt, I knew I needed to go. Every obstacle in my way divinely disappeared, and I have to believe God’s been preparing me for this for a long time.

I said yes. And so I’ll be in Haiti until February 17th – just two days before my thirtieth birthday.

I realize it’s an honor to be able to serve in such a unique way, but there are bits and pieces of me that want nothing more than to stay home.

Quite honestly, I’m terrified.

If I think about it too long, or watch too much CNN, it just paralyzes me.

However, I’ve vowed that when fear, or comfort, or some other little obstacle contrary to the Kingdom pops in my head the correct response is to do the exact opposite.

Fear says, ?Haiti is dangerous. You have to take those malaria pills that make your stomach hurt and what if there?s another earthquake while you?re there? What if you get shot at? ? and Comfort says, ?You won?t have your choice of firm or soft pillows and it’s gonna smell like the rotting stench of death. You will see dead bodies. And you’ve never seen a real dead body before.?

The people of Haiti didn?t plan to have their lives destroyed a few weeks ago.

This is a whole new part of their story.

As I spoke to my friend a couple of days ago when we were working on some of the details of the trip, we realized Haiti is never going to be restored.

Haiti is going to be reborn.

It has to be.

And we all get to be a part of that story ? whether it?s by donating money or supplies or by getting on a plane at some point to help out using whatever skills you have.

I?m grateful that it?s not only Haiti?s story, and it?s not only yours and mine, either.

I have to believe that this is a story of a sovereign God who has a plan and purpose beyond anything we can imagine. And I?m grateful his breath is woven through each and every letter of each and every word of this new story as it is being written.

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(To read all Anne’s posts from Haiti, click here. You can also follow her on Twitter for updates from on the ground. The whole team can be found here on Facebook.)

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