I will be honest with you. I never wanted to travel to Haiti.

I had heard from so many people that it was one of the most difficult countries Compassion worked in. That it was dark and sad and exhausting and emotional.

And that was before the earthquake.

My spirit was in a constant battle with my flesh over Haiti. After the earthquake, I felt like I should want to go to Haiti. To report first-hand from the destruction and rubble. I should want to sleep in a tent and hand out clean water and hug on children.

But in my heart, my deepest darkest human nature, I was glad I wasn’t asked to go. Was relieved that they were primarily sending men to the field. That I wouldn’t have to make the decision between my spirit and my flesh.

But last month, 11 months after the earthquake, I was asked to go to Haiti and cover the rebuilding that was happening through Compassion’s efforts in Port Au Prince. And of course I said yes. It was almost as if I had been waiting for it. Waiting for that moment when my spirit and my flesh would duke it out.

I prepared for the trip as best I knew how. I filled my prescription for antibiotics in case I got sick in country. I purchased oral rehydration salts and water purification tablets and a first aid kit. My flesh likes to be prepared.

I enlisted nearly every person I know to pray. I asked for prayers for peace and health and safety. I prayed against a spirit of fear. I prayed for eyes to see and ears to hear. My spirit likes to be prepared as well.

When we finally arrived in Port Au Prince, my flesh and spirit seemed to have taken their respective corners. I stared out of the window of our van, trying to take it all in. The last 11 months had not been kind to the Haitian people. Rows of tents were broken only by piles of debris. Buildings leaned precariously. It was as if a bomb had exploded, and the Haitian people were handed plastic spoons to clean up the rubble.

That first day, we worked.

We traveled to a tent city and interviewed a family. We heard their stories and saw their scars. We didn’t know that would be the last bit of normal on our trip. Just as the sun was beginning its slow crawl over the horizon, we found out that election results for Haiti’s presidential run-offs would be announced that night. After nearly a year of feeling ignored by the government, the Haitian people were desperate for a hero who would rescue them. And later that night, as I sat in my hotel room, the gun shots I heard told me that no hero had emerged.

And my flesh and my spirit wrestled. They came screaming out of their respective corners. My flesh wanted to go home. To feel safe. It was tired, and it wished it had never even come to Haiti. It was selfish and base and miserable. It was controlled by fear.

But my spirit was more tenacious than I had given it credit for. My spirit spoke Truth. It didn’t tell me everything would be okay. It told me that for the people starting those fires and marching through the streets, this was reality. That corruption had pushed them to this place of desperation. That each tent, each pile of rubble was another reminder to them that they had been forgotten. By their own government. By relief organizations that left before relief came. Even by me. The girl who wrote about the earthquake, but then thought about it less and less. The girl who didn’t even want to come to Haiti. Who worried about her own comfort more than she should.

The battle went on all night.

The spirit would take the upper hand, but the sounds of rioting would give the flesh a boost of strength. By morning, my heart felt bruised.

Unlike Jacob wrestling with the angel, I had no discernable limp the next morning. But I knew, deep down, that my spirit had triumphed. My flesh still fought, and I still had moments of fear throughout the rest of the week. But in those moments, I prayed for peace. Not for myself. But for the Haitian people who live in a state of unrest. For the mothers and children huddled in tents while rioting went on around them. For a people who feel lost and forgotten.

And I came home, with a heart full of their stories. To share with you. To help you remember.

May your spirit be triumphant.