I was a month shy of 16 when I traveled with a group of people from our church to minister in Haiti. The party consisted of a faith healer named Rosemary, her husband, son and his girlfriend, a lovely elderly widow named Grace and me. My parents loaned their station wagon so our group could drive to Florida, where we would catch a plane in Miami to fly over to the one of the world’s poorest and starkly beautiful countries.

The dictator of the country, Poppy Doc, died a few months prior to our arrival. His teenage son, Baby Doc, was given leadership. The government was in disarray. Soldiers were everywhere. There were blackouts, curfews and the poverty, jarring.

We settled into an Americanized pension/motel. During the days, we traveled the countryside offering healing prayer services. I played guitar and sang. The people came to be healed by God, through Rosemary. Her husband smiled with pride while her son and his girlfriend smoked cigarettes and scoffed at the religious, while they enjoyed the sight seeing.

A week later I was taken to the orphanage where Pastor Ernie met me and introduced me to the staff, children and facilities. Every building was green and pink. Tropical. The Canal du Sud churned with crystalline beauty behind the orphanage.

I was given my own room and shown where the two hole outhouse was. I was to sleep on a simple metal cot set tight against the wall. I unpacked and tried to imagine what it would be like in the morning. Later, I fell into a fitful sleep, far away from the safety of my family and everything familiar. I had no clue why I was there, except I knew I wanted to help the children. God had called me after all. Why should I be afraid? I tried to quell it.

In the middle of the night I awoke to sensations of tingling and movement crawling over my mouth, over my legs and under my nightgown. I jumped up and switched on the light. I began hopping and screaming. No less than 50 large roaches were crawling on me and the bedding. I violently flicked them off and they scurried to the walls, where hundreds of similar bugs were swarming. I pulled the bed out into the middle of the room, making sure all the bugs were off. Once clear, I gingerly slipped into bed.

I cried myself to sleep.

The orphanage earned its money by selling chickens at the market. Every other morning at 5 a.m. the slaughtering began… outside my window. The shrill cries of the chickens startled me awake.

When our group traveled the route to the city of Port au Prince, it was teaming with soldiers and check points. Gun shots rang out over our heads when we visited the Statue of Freedom that stood across from the Capital. We ducked and ran to our car to leave post haste to safety.