Yesterday, we went to church.The congregation meets in a concrete building surrounded by mango and banana trees. The members only use half of the building, because the other half was damaged in the earthquake.

After services, I interviewed a woman, dressed in an embroidered white dress and big, floppy black hat. I struggled to find the right questions–to balance sensitivity with my curiosity. I should probably take some lessons from her, because Jeudy Marie Beritane knows how to ask the tough questions. As I interviewed her, Beritane said, “I have a question for you: Is the earthquake a natural occurrence or is it God correcting people’s behaviors?”

I thought about how to answer. Finally, I told the truth: “Je ne sais pas.”

It means “I do not know.”

Later, she asked me if people in our country like black people. She’s heard about discrimination. But she does not believe it could be true, because the Americans are always so kind when they visit.

After church, we visit the homes of the church members. They invite us in with warm smiles, and everyone is excited to meet “Pastor Ernest”–the Rev. Ernest Custalow, pastor of Grace Church of Fredericksburg.

The homes are simple, and many have been damaged in the earthquake, even though the epicenter is miles away.

The area has also become a makeshift refugee camp where tents–really, tattered cloths and sheets tied to sticks poked into the ground–line the rocky pathways that make the roads in this neighborhood.

Many of the residents tell Pastor Ernest that Grace Church paid for their simple concrete homes. The church gave money after a hurricane destroyed homes a few years ago. Now, the residents will have to rebuild again.

At every home, the Haitian church leaders sing a psalm or hymn, then someone from the mission team prays for the family in the home.

Children follow us wherever we go. When it is time to get back into the taptap, the young children cry as we say “Orevwa.”

Then we go to a church in Port au Prince, to meet with church leaders and to plan the next day’s clinic. As we finish, the rain starts to fall. During the ride back–sitting in the back of a pickup truck turned taxi–the rain changes to a deluge. The water pours down the roads, trash floating on top. Cars get stuck in the middle of the already crowded roads.

We make it back to Quisqeya Relief Center, our homebase for the week. We run through the rain to dinner, which we eat huddled under an awning.

We chat with other relief workers, who come from all over the United States and other countries.

And then it’s time to get ready for bed. The next day will be the first day of the clinic.

As I lay on my cot, I can still feel the bumps of the taptap ride. My body still feels like it’s rocking. And I am still thinking of all the people we met that day. And the difficult questions I couldn’t answer.