As far back as I can remember, I loved walking on the beach in Bay Head, New Jersey in the early morning when the sun was rising in the east. Listening to the waves roll in and looking for sea glass has been a pastime of mine since I was a little boy. Even in my later years, this is one of my favorite things to do. I would fill my pockets with different colored sea glass furbished by the sea –frosted blues, aquamarines, pinks, reds, browns, whites, and greens. Oh, what joy that was!
When I first met my wife, Peggy, I was excited to introduce her to my favorite beach spot. I wanted her to experience the cherished memories I held from those days. One of our first dates was to drive to Bay Head where we sought out a secluded spot on the sand to get to know each other better and for me to reminisce. It brought back a flood of memories from my summers spent there.
We laid out a couple of towels and placed them where we sat. The sand was warm as I let it pass through my fingers. As we sat on the beach, we chatted, and after a while, Peggy encouraged me to go deep with God. Watching the waves wash up on the shore, I was captivated by their power, imagining them gently lapping at my feet. The beauty and the sound of them crashing drew me in, allowing me to go deep and forget the noise of civilization, of car horns, the cacophony of people talking and yelling, of children playing, and of the concerns of this world. At that moment, I was lost entirely somewhere else.
I imagined myself out in the deep of the Atlantic Ocean. It was peaceful, and as I listened, all I could hear was God’s soothing voice. HIS gentle waves caressed me like the soft stroke of a woman’s hand upon my arm, tender and caring. I became lost in my thoughts, focused solely on God’s calming presence. He did not seem concerned about anything as I am frequently, and He spoke to me, “Go deep,” he said. “Go deep, go deep. I love you. I want to reach deep inside you and reveal myself to you in a more powerful way than has ever been revealed to you before. Go deep, go deep, and meet me where I am. Don’t be afraid. I will swim with you. I will uphold you. You are tethered to me. You cannot be lost or pulled from my arms. You are mine, always. Go deep and meet me where I am. Don’t hold anything back. Swim with me, won’t you? Don’t hold on to your surfboard; dive into my presence. I am your safety now.” He was calling me deeper than my feet could ever tread.
You call me out upon the waters The great unknown where feet may fail And there I find You in the mystery In oceans deep My faith will stand.
And I will call upon Your name And keep my eyes above the waves When oceans rise, my soul will rest in Your embrace For I am Yours and You are mine.
Your grace abounds in deepest waters Your sovereign hand will be my guide Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me You’ve never failed and You won’t start now
And I will call upon Your name And keep my eyes above the waves When oceans rise, my soul will rest in Your embrace For I am Yours and You are mine. (from the song Oceans by Hillsong)
God wanted me to be alone with Him, inviting my attention and worship in the quiet of my mind and spirit. He washed over me as waves of joy, and I was filled with awe at the beauty of His creation, the ocean, the waves, the sky, the sand, and the woman beside me, whom I would soon marry. And I thought to myself, how can people not marvel at God’s glorious creation?
Copyright 2019 (revised 2024)
CREDITS
“Take Me Deeper” was written by Bill Hutzel.
.Voice over by Eleven Labs
Musical segment and lyrics from “Oceans” by Hillsong
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The day before Storm Sandy, the second most destructive natural disaster in US history after Hurricane Katrina, I was busy securing all outdoor furniture, loose fixtures, and anything else that could potentially fly and cause damage by hurricane force. The storm was not just a meteorological event but a personal crisis, one in which I could have relinquished to despair and blamed God for the misfortune that would visit me. Instead, something miraculous happened that would change my life.
“Lexi! Go fetch, girl!” I yelled to my dog and threw her a ball. Usually, like a good retriever, she’d eagerly chase after the ball and bring it back. But this time, she didn’t.
The driveway was dry, but it was that time of year when it became treacherous. The five white pine trees that lined the driveway had dropped their needles, blanketing the surface and causing it to become as slippery as a wintry snow and ice mix. I had years of experience walking across patches of snow and ice, but apparently, I hadn’t mastered a slippery slope of pine needles. Watching the ball roll down my long, steep driveway, I got this brilliant idea to retrieve it myself. As I did, my feet flew out from under me, sending me into the air. Instinctively, I threw out my right hand to break the fall—then BAM!
As I lay immobilized in excruciating pain with the wind knocked out of me, I made a feeble attempt to cry for help. As I lay there, I saw that my right hand was unnaturally bent to the right and clearly out of alignment with the rest of my arm. It appeared broken, but I desperately hoped it was simply a severe sprain.
My mind was a relentless barrage of negative thoughts: what if my wrist is fractured and doesn’t heal correctly, or there is permanent damage? I was especially anxious because, as a professional flutist, my primary concern was how it might impact my ability to play the flute afterward.
The situation seemed bleak. I couldn’t squeeze or move my hand, and my wrist was visibly swollen. It didn’t look like I would be performing anytime soon…. But I wanted to believe that God would hear my heart’s cry. “Please, God, don’t let it be broken.”
In the midst of the confusion and agony, I had no idea how profoundly my life was about to change. I managed to lift myself from the ground, secured Lexi, my non-retrieving dog, in the house, and drove myself to the hospital using only my left arm, each bump in the road sending fresh waves of pain through my injured wrist.
After arriving at the ER, I waited briefly before being taken to a curtained waiting area where I was examined and X-rays ordered. However, I would have to endure a lonely couple of hours waiting for the results.
When the surgeon finally arrived, he pulled back the curtain and entered, holding his clipboard.
“Mr. Hutzel?” he asked as if to confirm that I was he.
“Yes,” I replied, feeling apprehensive.
There was a slight pause as the doctor glanced over his notes. My heart stopped momentarily as I waited with bated breath.
”Based on the results of your x-rays, Mr. Hutzel, I’m sorry, but I have some bad news for you. Your wrist is badly fractured and will require a plate and pins. We will need to operate tonight. I’ll have a nurse come and get you prepped. I’ll see you in the operating room in just a little while.”
My heart sank as my worst fears were realized. Before I could think, the words escaped me: I told him I wanted him to set it the old-fashioned way—meaning the traditional method of placing my wrist in a cast.
The doctor looked at me, clearly taken aback by my response, but his surprise quickly faded, replaced by a calm professionalism. He glanced down at my X-rays once more, then back at me.
“Mr. Hutzel,” he began carefully, “I understand your hesitation. But based on the severity of the fracture, setting it, as you put it, the old-fashioned way, is not recommended. “Your fracture is quite severe, and without surgery, there’s a risk that the bones may not heal correctly, potentially causing lifelong deformities and complications. Treating it using traditional methods just isn’t an option. Please, Mr. Hutzel, allow the nurse to prepare you for surgery tonight.”
The idea of surgery made me anxious. I glanced at the x-ray on the screen, the stark image of my broken wrist, a harsh reality of how severe the injury was. Then, my eyes shifted back to the surgeon. What if I just waited to see how it would heal on its own without invasive surgery? I wasn’t ready to surrender to surgery – not yet. With a deep breath, I held my ground, deciding to have him set it the traditional way.
After a moment of consideration, he finally relented. “All right, Mr. Hutzel, we’ll proceed with your request.” He carefully placed my broken wrist in a splint, supporting it with a sling.
As he turned to leave, he paused, and glancing back at me he said, “Be sure to make an appointment with my office for this coming Monday,” his voice firm but not unkind. Then he left, leaving me alone with the weight of my decision.
After getting discharged, I called my daughter Aleigh, who was participating in an equestrian event at her college. Picking up the distraught tone in my voice, she asked. “Dad, what’s wrong? Where are you?” Her voice was filled with concern. I explained that I was at Hunterdon Medical Center ER and that I’d broken my wrist while prepping for the storm. Her worry deepened, and she responded, “Just wait; I’ll come pick you up and take you home. Love you.” “Love you too, Aleigh,” I replied gratefully.
The next morning, I asked my friend John for a ride to church. Usually, I’d be playing my flute with the worship team on Sunday mornings, but my injury made that impossible. I mean, have you ever seen a one-handed flutist? Well, aside from Jethro Tull, of course.
After the service, I asked John if he could take me to another church service I frequented, though not as a worship team member—just as an attendee. He happily agreed.
We found seats at the front of the large auditorium, in the third row on the right, and stayed seated until we were invited to stand for worship. As the singers, guitars, and drums led us in songs of praise, I felt God’s presence surrounding me. With my one good arm raised in thanksgiving to God, I suddenly heard what I believed to be an audible voice say, “Bill, you are healed!” It was so clear and unmistakable that I spun around to see who had spoken. But no one made eye contact or acknowledged the words, leaving me momentarily puzzled. Wondering if I had imagined it, I resumed singing praises, only to hear those exact words again.
Did I really hear from God, or was I just imagining things–or worse, was I simply losing my mind? While many people who read the Bible understand that these biblical accounts of hearing God’s voice did happen, they often believe such occurrences no longer happen today, especially to ordinary people.
It had always been my nature to be overly analytical and second-guess everything, but this time felt different. I sensed a quiet confirmation deep in my spirit that God had truly spoken. Forgive the cliché, but I held onto that feeling as if it were a promise—so, metaphorically speaking, I took that check to the bank and cashed it.
Afterward, I approached the pastor and asked him to pray for me. He took a bottle of anointing oil from his pocket and anointed me with it, and gently placing his hand on my arm, commanded with authority, “In the name of Jesus, be healed.” As he prayed, I felt a surge of intense heat, like fire, coursing through my arm. I took this sensation as a sign my prayers were being answered.
After the service, John drove me home. There, I settled into my favorite chair, the one where I usually prayed, with a sling around my arm. Lexi, my loyal dog, lay curled up at my feet, her silent presence a comfort, and in her eyes, there was a shared understanding of how tough this moment had been.
As I waited for the storm, I thought about the times in the Bible when Jesus healed the sick and when God spoke directly to individuals like Abraham, Moses, and Job. And, I couldn’t help but wonder: Why, out of 8 billion people in the world today, would God choose to speak to someone like little ol’ me? It seemed to defy all logic. And yet, in my heart, I knew it was true.
Overnight Sunday and through Monday, Storm Sandy unleashed fierce winds and relentless rain. When it finally subsided, I stepped outside the safety of indoors to assess the damage to my property. While other homes had sustained damage, I was relieved to find no structural damage to mine. However, I was disheartened to find five trees uprooted, one of which was my favorite: a weeping willow tree. I wept for it as it lay on its side; its long, slender branches, which once elegantly bent towards the ground, would no longer grace my property, nor would birds perch in it. A profound sadness washed over me, like an unsuspecting ocean riptide pulling me deep into a sea of despair.
AFFIRMATION
Despite the overwhelming sorrow I felt, God brought me comfort throughout the week and lifted my spirits. These moments of encouragement, which I call “God-incidences” or “God-winks,” were clear signs from Him, affirming that the healing I experienced on Sunday was truly His miraculous touch. Whenever doubt crept in, especially after I accidentally rolled onto my wrist in my sleep and endured excruciating pain, God would lead me to specific Bible passages that spoke directly to my heart. These verses were undeniably meant for me, offering guidance and reassurance in moments of uncertainty.
The first affirmation was when I randomly opened my Bible to Job 19. Verse 10 immediately caught my eye as if it leaped off the page and into my heart. It read, “He breaks me down on every side, and I am gone, and He UPROOTED MY HOPE LIKE A TREE.” WOW! The profoundness of this verse struck me deeply. It was a comforting reassurance, not a mere coincidence that I had randomly turned to this specific page and verse, which mirrored the incident of the five uprooted trees on my property. This was the first of several powerful affirmations I would receive before my upcoming visit with the surgeon.
The next day, I randomly opened my Bible to Proverbs 3:5-6, which said, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and DO NOT LEAN ON YOUR OWN UNDERSTANDING.” The word “lean,” resonated deeply with me. It challenged me to let go of my natural tendency to rely on my own understanding and, instead, place my complete trust in God. The reference to “lean,” combined with the imagery of uprooted trees toppled by the storm, further deepened the significance of this verse. It reminded me that trusting in God requires standing on a firm foundation and not leaning on my own understanding, or else I, too, could be shaken.
Later, Proverbs 3:8 and Isaiah 58:11 further strengthened my faith, offering a promise of healing: “Then you will have healing for your body and STRENGTH FOR YOUR BONES.” This clearly got my attention in a profound way, filling me with awe and inspiration. It didn’t feel like a mere coincidence—it felt like a personal message, reinforcing my belief that God had heard the deepest desires of my heart for healing.
Then, a timely post from my brother further addressed my lingering doubts. The email, titled “The Voice in My Head” wasn’t a religious article, yet it struck a chord with me because it addressed the very doubts and questions I’d been grappling with. It began with the words, “I hear a voice in my head. No, I’m not crazy!” In that moment, the message served as a subtle yet profound reminder that God’s guidance comes in the most unexpected ways, just when we need it most.
These moments weren’t just random coincidences but clear signs of God’s presence, reaffirming my faith and strengthening me as I awaited my follow-up with the surgeon.
AGAINST THE ODDS
Bolstered by the bounty of God winks I received throughout the week, I was eager to hear what the doctor would say about my prognosis.
On Monday, over a week after my first consultation with the surgeon, I arrived at an unusually quiet office. The road closures and power outages had impacted his practice, so I felt fortunate that the roads were clear and there was no wait.
“It’s been over a week now. Let’s examine your wrist,” the surgeon said. “Please place it on the X-ray table.”
After taking three X-rays, each from a different angle, the surgeon paused to review the images.
So, what’s the prognosis, doctor?” I inquired eagerly, filled with anticipation.
Undoubtedly, he was baffled by what he observed, as he replied, “Let’s wait and see. Go ahead and schedule a new appointment for next week. And under no circumstances should you drive.” I protested, explaining that I was supposed to attend a flute convention in Ohio, yet he insisted; under no circumstances should I be behind the wheel. Despite his advice, I was determined to attend, confident that God had healed my wrist. I arranged for another flutist to accompany me, and we shared the 18-hour road trip to Ohio and back.
That’s me at a rest stop phone booth in Ohio
At my next appointment, the surgeon scheduled two additional follow-up visits. Despite the X-rays showing that the fracture had healed, he wasn’t entirely convinced it was fully recovered. He seemed clearly puzzled, as this was an outcome he had never encountered before. I also suspect he was cautious because if he cleared me too early and the fracture reoccurred, he might be held responsible.
During my subsequent visit, to my surprise, the doctor asked, “What color do you want?” His question completely caught me off guard.
Erring on the side of caution, he explained that, despite the X-rays looking good, he was going to put me in a hard cast as this was the standard protocol.
“So, what color do you want?” he asked again.
Disappointed, I answered, “Blue.” He assured me that this was standard procedure.
“You can expect to wear it for about six to eight weeks, with a full recovery taking up to three months for someone your age,” he said.
“Are you kidding? Six weeks? But I was just—” My words were cut short as the surgeon continued to counsel me on what I should expect next.
“Although everything looks good from the X-rays, it still may be fragile. I want to be sure that your wrist is completely healed,” he said. So, I resigned myself to wearing the cast but remained confident in God’s healing.
Two weeks later, at my follow-up appointment, the doctor, noticeably puzzled, stared at the X-rays, then looked at me, his brow furrowed in disbelief. “It’s remarkable” he muttered, as if grappling with the sheer impossibility that my wrist was truly healed.
“How would you like to remove this thing?” he asked with a small smile. I was surprised by his words, especially considering that just two weeks earlier, he had told me I would need to wear it for an extended length of time. This exchange filled the room with a sense of awe and wonder, affirming the miraculous nature of the healing that had occurred.
“Doc, do you believe in miracles?” I asked.” Again, in his characteristic manner, he scratched his head in wonderment and responded with a heartfelt “amen to that.”
Defying the prognosis of a three-month recovery period or the need to wear a cast for six to eight weeks, I performed a concert just one week after the cast was removed. My healing is a clear testament to God’s miraculous intervention.
REFLECTIONS
As I reflect, I realize that life is analogous to the sea and its waves, and I am like a broken piece of sea glass. God has shown me that the sea tumbles and polishes these shards, gradually removing the rough and jagged edges until each piece is refined and smooth. This was the work that God was doing within me, refining and shaping me through every experience.
From breaking my wrist to experiencing God’s supernatural healing, I’ve come to realize that my experience wasn’t just a series of random events but rather acts of divine intervention. The signs and “God winks” were all part of a plan to renew my spirit and strengthen my faith. I’ve been reminded that God is always guiding me, and true faith means trusting Him fully—even when I can’t comprehend His ways.
Looking back, I see that the true healing didn’t just happen in my wrist, it happened in my heart. Through this journey, I learned to trust not only in my limited understanding but in a greater plan that transcends fear and doubt. While my wrist had been miraculously healed, it was the unseen wounds of my spirit that were truly restored.
I pray my story brings hope and inspiration to you as you navigate circumstances in your own life.
Copyright 2024
CREDITS
Into the Storm was authored by Bill Hutzel and collaborated with and edited by Peggy Hutzel
Voiceover by elevenlabs io
Musical segment from A Celtic Storm by Emily Blair https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ch2lX7tbfX4
Listen to A Celtic Storm by Emily Blair, Movement no. 1 in its entirety below (Length: 5 minutes, 10 seconds)
It was the early 70s. The Beatles, public demonstrations and disorder, gas shortage lines1, and the Vietnam War were in full swing. It was the “sign of the times.” It was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius and long beautiful hair.
In 1971, the Jesus Revolution was Time magazine’s featured front cover. It was a period in history of soul searching, of looking inward. We were trying to figure out who and what we were, and where we were going as a human race.
In January of ‘72, I became a believer in Jesus Christ during the Jesus Movement. The ‘turn on, tune in, drop out’ counterculture was discovering a new way to live as many “long beautiful hair … shoulder length or longer” haired hippies began to embrace the gospel. I was now getting high on Jesus, Peace and Love. And hey, what about “God is groovy” and “Smile God loves you”? They were slogans all part of the vibrant scene.
On my college campus, I made friends with a charismatic group of Jesus People who believed in miracles, signs and wonders, faith healing, and powerful works of the Holy Spirit. Many testified to having supernatural experiences similar to those recorded in the Acts of the Apostles. I wanted what they had. And so, I began attending a church that operated in the gifts of the Holy Spirit.
At first, my faith to believe in miracles was … well, let’s just say, challenged because the church I used to attend taught the cessationist belief that miracles, signs, and wonders ceased with the apostles.
MY FAITH IS CHALLENGED
Eddie Smith, an evangelist faith healer from England, was coming to Kearny, New Jersey to lead a weekend healing revival service. While I had heard of faith healers like Smith Wigglesworth, Oral Roberts, and Kathryn Kuhlman, this would be my first opportunity to witness a faith healer in person. I had heard that their ministries were often accompanied by numerous claims of divine healing. Now, I might get to see one.
I wondered: Do miraculous healings still happen today? Is the kingdom of God now in its fullness, meaning that all the gifts of the Holy Spirit are available today and not just when we are resurrected with new bodies? Perhaps these questions would be put to bed after this weekend. No more questioning. proof that miracles, signs, and wonders are indeed for today!
I asked my younger brother, Jamie, if he would like to come along.
“Hey Jamie, how about attending a revival meeting tomorrow evening? It’s supposed to be a healing service.
“Wow. Do you really think someone is going to get healed?” his voice conveyed both wonder and a bit of skepticism, as if unsure whether to be intrigued or doubtful.
“Yeah, maybe,” I said. It might be fun to go check it out. What do you think?
Jamie paused for a moment, then said, “Yeah, why not? I’m curious to see what it’s all about. Plus, I’ve never been to one of these before, so it could be fun. Yeah, I’ll I go with you.”
So, the two of us, on a Friday evening, hopped in my Bright Orange 1974 Volkswagen Beetle and drove to the church where the revival was happening. If you weren’t looking for it, it was easy to pass by. The small suburban white clapboard church on Elm Street had no parking and was nestled between houses just 20 to 25 feet apart on a tree-lined street, resulting in it blending in with the other houses. The church was neither attractive nor spacious, although it comfortably accommodated a small congregation of people just under a hundred. There were no ornate stain-glassed windows, church bells, or an inviting entranceway or vestibule as many might be accustomed to. It was plain to look at on the outside, but on the inside, something extraordinary was about to happen.
My brother and I entered under the aluminum awning behind other attendees where a man warmly greeted us. “Welcome. Glad you could come. We have a good crowd tonight, so if you need help getting seated, someone will be glad to help you find seats.” We acknowledged his greeting and then went inside.
From what I observed, the room was nearly packed to overflowing, with mostly college-age attendees. We were fortunate to find a couple of seats on the end of a pew about eight rows back from the front, where I could stretch out my long legs into the aisle.
There was a buzz of excitement in the air with some engaged in lively conversation while others sat in quiet expectation, all eagerly awaiting the start of the service. Shortly, thereafter, the pastor of the small church on Elm Street quieted the room and opened with prayer and singing before introducing Eddie Smith.
Eddie Smith kicked things off by telling a classic British humor joke. “Who here has a crick in their neck?” he quipped. A guy in the audience stood up unabashedly and acknowledged the invitation. “Well,” Eddie Smith replied with a sly smile, “will you please ask your wife to approach the altar?” Sounds like Smith was trying to get to the hidden source of this guy’s “pain in the neck.”
In a shift to a more serious tone, Eddie Smith transitioned by inviting the Holy Spirit’s presence, setting the stage for miracles to unfold. Eddie Smith was a heavyset man with an authoritative presence. As I looked on curiously, he confidently invited members of the audience to come forward for healing and prophesied words of knowledge to those present. A word of knowledge is when someone knows something about another person that God reveals to them, information that the giver of the word wouldn’t have known otherwise.
“Who here is suffering from one leg being shorter than the other?” he inquired. Unequal leg length is a condition where the legs are either different lengths or appear to be different lengths because of misalignment. “Won’t you please come forward? The Lord wants to heal you,” he proclaimed.
As he made his way to the front of the room, the man’s stride was marked by an abnormal gait. “What is your name, son?” Smith asked. “It’s Tom,” he murmured softly. Eddie Smith reassured him, noticing that he was visibly uncomfortable. “So, how long have you had this condition, Tom? “Since birth,” he replied. “Well, good news, Tom, Jesus loves you and wants to heal you tonight.” “Is that okay?” Tom nodded affirmatively, indicating a yes.
Smith invited him to take a seat and stretch out both legs so that he could assess his condition. As he began calling on Jesus to heal him, there was an expectancy in the room that something miraculous was about to happen.
To the amazement of everyone present, the shorter leg began to elongate until it matched the length of the other. The room erupted in loud shouts of praise and raising of hands. Many more healings also occurred throughout the night, leaving me inspired by what I had witnessed. This made me want to come back the next evening. What miracles would God do again on Saturday? I looked forward to coming back.
The second evening of meetings was once again filled to capacity. You could just feel the excitement and anticipation. Much the same as the previous night, Eddie Smith shared words of knowledge for those in attendance who needed healing, and once more, many were miraculously healed.
Amidst the fervor, I heard him ask, “Who here has plantar warts?” I was stunned, shocked in disbelief. How could he possibly know that I suffered from this condition?
Plantar warts are small growths that usually appear on the heels or other weight-bearing areas of your feet that can cause extreme pain. It was true that I suffered from them, but I thought Eddie Smith couldn’t mean me. I reasoned it must be someone else. And so, I did not respond, nor did anyone else answer the invitation to go forward for plantar warts. When no one responded, Eddie Smith continued inviting others to come forward for various healings.
Why didn’t I go forward? I didn’t like being the center of attention, but I believe it was mostly to deflect disappointment if I was not healed.
Later that evening, Eddie Smith again extended the invitation to someone with Plantar warts to come forward. Nothing. Crickets. No one moved. Deep inside I knew the invitation was for me, but I still didn’t respond. “Nope! Can’t do it. No way!”
FINAL INVITATION
As the evening drew to a close, Eddie Smith extended one final call to anyone with plantar warts. “This is the 3rd and last time I will make this invitation to someone here with plantar warts. The Lord wants to heal you. Won’t you please come forward?” Eddie Smith asked, pausing momentarily for someone to respond. “That’s you, bro. You have to go up,” my brother Jamie nudged me, insisting. Stubbornly refusing to move, Jamie then got this brilliant idea to push me out of my pew. Before I knew it, I stood frozen like a deer caught in headlights, attracting everyone’s attention. It was too late for me to retreat, so, I nervously approached Eddie Smith.
Just as he had done with others before, Eddie Smith kindly reassured me of God’s love and His desire to bring healing to me. Standing there, Eddie Smith laid hands on me and called on all of heaven and the Name of Jesus to heal me from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet.
While some prayers are eloquently reverent and formal, invoking the vastness of God’s grace and wisdom, like: “O Divine Creator, in the vast expanse of Your boundless grace and infinite wisdom, we humbly gather before Your presence. As we stand in awe of the majesty of Your creation, we bow our heads in reverence and gratitude and beseech Thee, should it be Your will …,” Eddie Smith’s prayer was instead commanding and authoritative: “In Jesus’ Name, plantar warts, leave right now! GO! In the Name of Jesus, be healed!”And that was it—just simple and direct. There was no reservation or doubt in his voice, only complete and unwavering faith that I would be healed.
What was I feeling? To be honest, I felt nothing short of nothing. Crazy, huh? I didn’t fall to the floor and start to shake and roll. I didn’t feel a surge of electricity go through me or tingling in my extremities. My eyes didn’t flutter, nor did I hear God speak audibly or even in a small still voice to my spirit. I felt nothing. I heard nothing. Absolutely, NOTHING! But what I did feel was self-conscious about being the focus of everyone’s attention, so I moved rather quickly back to my seat after Eddie Smith finished praying for me. Phew! That was embarrassing.
When I got home that night, I went straight to my room to get ready for bed. As was my usual routine, I sat on the edge of my bed and began to remove my socks. As my hand brushed against the bottom of my foot, I was stunned. I was completely taken by surprise. Miraculously, the bottom of my foot felt smooth and without blemish. God had completely healed me of plantar warts! Remarkably, to this day, they have never returned!
MULTIPLE FAITHS AT WORK
Matthew 17:20 highlights the enormous power even a tiny amount of faith can have in overcoming obstacles and achieving miraculous outcomes according to God’s will. It states, “if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.”
God works in miraculous ways despite our inadequacies and little faith. Did I believe in healing for myself? I wasn’t sure. That day, if my brother and I had not exhibited even a tiny amount of faith, we might not have attended. But, we did!
It took my brother’s small mustard seed of faith to push me and encourage me to move from my seat so that I might experience more of God.
It took Eddie Smith’s great faith to command, with the authority he had in Jesus’ Name, “Be healed!”
Sometimes it is also through God’s prophetic word and others’ testimonies of personal healing that move us to greater faith to believe.
Ultimately, however, it was because Eddie Smith heard the Father’s heart for me. It was because of the Father’s tender kindness, His grace, His compassion, and His constant love for me that He wanted to demonstrate.
Has this whet your appetite to hear more? I want to create in you a hunger to desire more Holy Spirit just as it did for me.
Just as the disciples were empowered to do the things that Christ did, so are we empowered. John 14:12-14 is a wonderful verse that we must believe is for TODAY – “I tell you this timeless truth: The person who follows me in faith, believing in me, will do the same mighty miracles that I do—even greater miracles than these because I go to be with my Father! For I will do whatever you ask me to do when you ask me in my name. And that is how the Son will show what the Father is really like and bring glory to him. Ask me anything in my name, and I will do it for you!”
God desires not only to save us but also to empower and commission us to do the things Jesus did. It is God’s will for you to grow in faith. He wants to bring healing to both your body and your soul. Take a moment now, close your eyes, sit quietly, and open your heart to receive the love that the Father and Jesus have for you, beloved.
Copyright 2024 by Bill Hutzel Edited by Peggy Castorri Hutzel
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Have you ever desired to hear God but found yourself unable to do so? This is not an uncommon problem for the average Christian. Not hearing God’s voice, however, was never intended by God. Learning to discern and hear His voice is invaluable. I came to realize this during a vacation in Arizona in September 2019.
Wavering on where to go or what to do, my wife Peggy got this brilliant notion that it would be fun to tune into spontaneous flow and let God guide our journey. By “flow,” I mean Peggy wanted God to decide and navigate for us, and so she turned off the GPS. Initially skeptical, I reluctantly agreed but struggled with doubt. Peggy persisted, challenging my faith. Then, a seemingly coincidental encounter—a passing car bearing the license plate “SKEPTIC”—forced me to reconsider my disbelief. This encounter prompted reflection on trusting God’s guidance, leading to a shift in my mindset. Yet, despite lingering doubts, I gradually began to embrace Peggy’s desire to allow God to guide us, culminating in a moment where we trusted an exit number received through prayer. This experience led to a newfound appreciation for listening to God and stretching my faith.
Now, several months later, I find myself reflecting on that seemingly coincidental incident once again.
Just like TV and radio transmissions are continuously broadcast 24/7, we can only hear them if we turn on the device. The same applies to hearing God’s voice. We can only hear God’s voice if we intentionally tune into Him. God is always transmitting. How is your reception?
Although traffic was heavy, I left with plenty of time to arrive at International House of Prayer Eastern Gate by 6 o’clock for the Thursday evening service, and so I wasn’t particularly anxious; YET! I was looking forward to playing in worship and was earnestly seeking Him and connecting with Him on my drive there.
UNTIL ….
Traveling a route I had never traveled before, I depended on my GPS device to get me to my destination. Typically, the GPS is very reliable unless it loses its signal or malfunctions, which is very infrequent.
The road was heavily traveled with lots of stops and starts due to lights and a large number of cars and trucks on the road. It was “rush hour. Often, cars would cut in front of me to get into my lane. “Okay, Bill, take a deep breath and count to 3,” I heard. I eased back on the accelerator and put a few car lengths in front of me, although what I really wanted to do was ride this guy’s tail and lay on the horn. I didn’t, however, remembering to BE FILLED with the Holy Spirit (Eph. 5:18) rather than be filled with the flesh.
The female voice on my GPS calmly alerted me to a turn coming up. Unlike my demeanor right now, there was no alarm in her voice as she matter-of-factly said, “Take next right turn in 500 feet.” I’ve gotten used to her British accent, and I must admit I rather enjoy it. She’s become a reliable companion during car rides. Though I haven’t given her a name, I’ll just refer to her as SHE. And so, I obediently listened and followed her instructions.
But SHE’s instruction had to be wrong. It was too late; I had already committed to making the turn. Why did SHE put me on a jug handle to go in the opposite direction from which I was traveling? My frustration showed as I told her so in so many words. Have you ever had your GPS take you in circles as if it were confused? I certainly have, and so I thought this was one of those times. Disregarding her guidance, I instinctively returned to our original route. Surprisingly, SHE did not attempt to correct me and simply allowed me to continue on. I discounted the mistake as a malfunction.
Sometime later, SHE instructed me to get in the leftmost lane. Following her guidance, I found myself in the left two lanes designated for the Holland Tunnel to New York City. “What!? I’m not headed to New York City,” I exclaimed in disbelief. “What’s going on with SHE?” Alarmed, I quickly activated my right blinker and maneuvered my car into the middle lane. Still signaling, I attempted to move over into the rightmost lane to get on to the Pulaski Skyway to New Jersey. As I inched forward with the traffic, I abruptly came to a halt when all vehicles ahead stopped. When we started moving again, a driver beside me refused to allow me to merge, adding to my frustration. “C’mon!,” my frustration showing again. Typical New Jersey driver! Ugh.
“Alright, enough of the horns already!” No one was allowing me to merge into their lane, so I momentarily held up traffic in the middle lane until someone was kind enough to let me get in front of them. Or perhaps it was my own assertiveness that prompted me to cut slightly in front of another car until they had no choice but to yield.
By this point, I no longer sensed God’s presence. Although my initial instinct was to lean on the horn in frustration, I refrained. In New Jersey, if you annoy the driver in front of you, they will personally see to it that it takes you twice as long to get to where you are going. Can any of you New Jerseyans relate?
The Pulaski Skyway is a 4-lane highway that runs for 3 ½ miles over two rivers and the New Jersey Meadowlands where rumor has it, Jimmy Hoffa’s body is buried underneath. It soars 135-feet into the air bypassing railroads, interstates, factories, oil refineries, and canals. Trucks, pedestrians, and bicycles are prohibited on the skyway because the four-lane highway, two in each direction, barely fits onto the structure, leaving no room for a shoulder or sidewalk. At one time, there were over 400 crashes a year on the highway, which is why commercial vehicles and pedestrians are prohibited today..
Tuning into God’s Frequency: Lessons from a GPS Mishap
Talk about not hearing from God. Ever found yourself in that place where you’re not just worried about being late, but you start imagining worst-case scenarios, like not getting there at all? Yep, my frustration had gotten the better of me. We’ve all been there, done that. It’s a reminder to step back, take a breath, and realign ourselves with a more positive mindset, especially when it comes to our spiritual journey.
More than an hour into my journey, SHE suddenly alerted me: “Route Memory Full.” And just like that, my GPS stopped working. The maximum available memory had been exceeded. Why is this happening to me? If SHE were a real person I might have wondered, was SHE angry at me for something? Or was she just having a bad day and malfunctioned? We humans sometimes malfunction too. I was having one of those malfunctions right now and could not hear God as He had designed me to hear Him.
What do I do now?” I thought. I was completely lost without my GPS. But then I was quietly reminded in my spirit of my vacation in Arizona when my wife Peggy and I heard God’s voice for guidance. So, why not now? I thought. I needed to rely NOT on my GPS device but God’s Positioning Satellite instead.
It wasn’t so easy, though, especially under duress and the incessant chatter in my head. Instead of hearing God’s voice, I kept hearing in my head – “You are going to be late; really late!”
“Are you delusional?” I thought. “You can’t hear God for directions.” “How foolish of you to think that God would supernaturally guide your way.” How foolish to think that God would supernaturally guide my way.” Wouldn’t it be best to stop at a gas station and ask for directions.?
Ooops, I just passed one a half mile back.
Then I thought I had heard in my spirit, “Take the next right.” But then again I was too late to respond and kept going.
As I approached the next right-hand turn, I questioned whether it was truly God guiding me or just my imagination. Seeing signs indicating that the upcoming turn was a dead-end only added to my doubt. Despite this, I continued onward until I ultimately decided to commit to the next right-hand turn. It felt like the most logical choice and, I hoped, pointed me in the right direction.
Hearing God was difficult. It felt too much like rowing an 8-man 60-foot long sculling boat against the tide and wind all by myself. Where was my coxswain to encourage and guide me? If you don’t know what a Coxswain is, it is the person in charge of the boat, particularly its navigation and steering. During a race, a coxswain is responsible for steering and calling the moves. “LET IT RUN; LET IT GLIDE.”
My journey felt far from smooth sailing, and the finish line seemed nowhere in sight. Was God even listening to my cry for HELP? Had my coxswain fallen overboard? NO, it was clear that the problem wasn’t with God, but with me.
It would have been so much easier if my scull, metaphorically speaking, was equipped with sails to catch the wind, analogous to catching the Holy Spirit’s wind. Coming into alignment with the Holy Spirit then would be just like sailing, not by my own strength, but effortlessly with His breath. Things could then happen in our life that would otherwise not be possible, such as asking for small, even unorthodox things like this, not just the big oines. “Give ear and come to me” (Isaiah 55:3) – in everything!
The circumstances were indeed different from when Peggy and I were on vacation in Arizona, where there was no urgency to be anywhere. Yet I can’t say that hearing God’s voice was not without some resistance, even then. It was just different. Given our unfinished spiritual condition, we often resist God and withdraw from what He wants to show us. So, this is where I had mentally retreated in my moment of panic.
Listening, like most disciplines is a skill we develop that comes from a deeper relationship with God that is developed by actually engaging with Him, by finding intimacy with Him.
By the way, my GPS device did eventually come back online, although it only worked sporadically. As a result, there were a couple of wrong turns along the way. Yet, despite the challenges, God still managed to gety me to IHOP with seven minutes to spare. I felt a sense of relief knowing that God came through despite my victim mentality to succumb to negativity.
In retrospect, as I look back. I am convinced that God was always in control even though I wasn’t. When it seemed like I was facing obstacles at every turn (forgive the pun), I needed to be reminded of how God saw my situation. I needed a fresh perspective, a different thought process, a language nothing the world had ever heard before. Here’s what Graham Cooke articulated in his video “The Language of Heaven.” “No problem can come to us without a provision and a promise attached to it. A problem is meant to move us into God’s provision. What if a problem is so big? Then the promise is bigger than the problem. Imagine! It’s a new way of thinking. Every problem comes with a promise and a provision. Convert your negatives into something brilliant because Christ doesn’t want us to be victims of negative situations. We need a new mindset. We need a new language that describes who God is for me.”
It’s a powerful journey, learning to step into God’s fullness amidst life’s challenges. With each problem I encounter, big or small, I’m discovering how to embrace my inheritance in Christ. Every situation I face in life, whether small or large, is an opportunity for growth, an invitation to become more like Jesus.
Have you set your sails, or are you still rowing under your own power? Is God your coxswain?
If you haven’t already read: “Adventures Flowing in God,” Parts 1, 2, and 3. Click on links below. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Copyright 2024 by Bill Hutzel
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During the height of the COVID-19 pandemic in April 2020, assisted living homes implemented strict visitation protocols that prohibited family members from seeing their loved ones. However, despite these restrictions, my wife Peggy and I were given special permission to visit my mother who was close to dying. It was a difficult time, but we were grateful for the opportunity to be with her in her final moments.
Upon arrival at the front desk, we signed in, had our temperatures taken, and were given masks to wear. “97.1,” the receptionist said. “You’re good to go.”
Peggy and I saw no other visitors as we got on the elevator and rode it to Mom’s floor. When we arrived, we heard the elevator bell ding and announce… “third floor.”
We exited, then buzzed ourselves through the automatic doors to the Alzheimer’s wing. There was not a soul to be seen. The hallways were empty as all residents were restricted to their rooms, creating an eerie stillness.
Mom’s room was just around the corner.
A photo of a much younger woman was hanging on the door to her room. How beautiful she was, I thought. But what matters most “is not your outer appearance—the styling of your hair, the jewelry you wear, the cut of your clothes—but your inner disposition. Cultivate inner beauty, the gentle, gracious kind God delights in.”Mom was still beautiful, despite her age. She was ninety-five.
The door was slightly ajar, so Peggy and I pushed it open and quietly entered. The room seemed dark and lifeless as Mom gently slept. Only her soft breathing could we detect. It was the same room we had always visited in the past, only it seemed different this time. She did not greet us. There was no “Hello, Dear. How wonderful to see you!” Instead, Mom lay with the covers pulled up to her neck; a stuffed toy animal nestled against her cheek. Her face appeared drawn and sallow, her body thin and frail. It was difficult seeing someone you love die, although thankfully, it did not seem that she was suffering.
As I looked around the room at the many family pictures hanging on the walls and her dresser, one picture stood out to me – it was of the house I spent my childhood. It was a 1920s tutor-style home, originally stained in a dark “chocolate” brown, which was now beige. However, the picture seemed incomplete without the tall oak tree Dad planted when we first moved to 223 Mountain Way. I vividly remember watching that tree grow from a sapling to maturity before a storm uprooted it. The backyard now looked empty without it. How profound, I thought. Just as the tree was a memory, Mom would be too, and so would our life be empty without her as well. Ecclesiastes 3:1-3 says, “There is a season for everything, and a time for every event under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot what was planted.”
As I stood by Mom’s bedside and Peggy sat, we took turns gently rubbing Mom’s arm and squeezing her hand. Mom squeezed back. She was grateful for our presence.
It had been several weeks since Peggy and I saw Mom last due to COVID-19 regulations. When we finally got to visit her, we were only allowed to stay in her room. Despite this, we still cherished our memories of taking Mom for strolls outdoors or down a long corridor with big windows. We would sit there, talk, reminisce and I would play my flute for her.
Mom used to enjoy listening to me play my flute, as did the patients and visitors who passed by. They often stopped to make song requests, which I always obliged. It felt like a mini concert! Mom just loved, loved, loved it! Sometimes I would bring the flute my mother had bought me in high school – a 1968 golden-era professional Haynes flute. To my surprise, Mom remembered it, even though dementia had erased much of her memory. I would ask her, “Mom, what would you like me to play for you?” and suggest some songs. She would always respond joyfully, “Oh, yes dear, that would be wonderful.”
As always, I played my mother one of her favorite songs, “Over the Rainbow.” I never thought much about the lyrics before, but they seemed to have greater meaning now. The Bible describes such a place as an eternal place of splendor and paradise, much like the one described in the song. Can you imagine a place such as this where “troubles melt like lemon drops,” where over the rainbow bluebirds fly? A place where every tear is wiped from your eyes and “Death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore.” The thought of it is wonderful, yet sad to see Mom leave us.
As I played my flute for her, I struggled to hold my emotions together, knowing that Mom’s dream of somewhere over the rainbow would soon be a reality. My lips began to quiver, and tears welled up in my eyes. I realized this would be the last time I could ever serenade her.
The notes seemed to waft in the air as if on doves’ wings, bringing an angelic atmosphere to the room. She lay peaceful and calm, her breathing shallow. Yet, a small smile appeared in the corners of her lips as I played for her.
DON’T YOU SEE THEM?
Suddenly, Mom became alert and began pointing. Her hand slowly moved upward toward the corner of the room, then to the left, and then to the right. As her gaze roved back and forth, her hand followed. She wanted us to see what she was seeing. I felt a chill go up and down my spine. “Mom, what are you seeing?” Even though she did not speak, I could imagine her asking with her eyes wide, “Don’t you see them?” What she was looking at, I instinctively knew, was incredibly beautiful. It is common for angels to visit people preparing to crossover to the other side of eternity.
But then, moments later, her demeanor changed from one of elation to one of terror. She pulled her blanket tightly around her neck. We followed her gaze but didn’t see anything. Interestingly, this incident reminded me of a vision my father had one week before he died.
NIGHT TERROR
It was 1962, a couple of weeks before Christmas, that Mom was startled out of her sleep when my father suddenly awakened in a cold sweat, frozen in terror. He was pointing at an ominous, black-cloaked, hooded, featureless figure standing in the corner of their bedroom at the end of their bed. As I was young and impressionable, hearing this scared the bejeebers out of me! Had I not already been afraid of going into our basement at night or walking up the stairs to the attic where a life-size doll named “Peter Doll” greeted me and whose eyelids blinked, compounded what I was already predisposed to, fearing the unknown and what could be lurking in the dark. Was the visitation foreboding of something bad to happen or something else? Mom said that Dad believed for quite a while that he was going to die prematurely. Dad died at the early age of 37 a week later.
DECEMBER 19, 1962
It was Christmastime in our neighborhood, a quiet tree-lined street of Sycamores in a small suburb of New Jersey just outside of New York City where, from my bedroom window, I could see the Empire State Building, the tallest building in the world. Houses across the street were decorated with brightly colored lights. Occasionally you could hear carolers singing. As in past years, Christmas was all about making memories, love, laughter, and happiness. It was to be a joyous time with family and friends. The Christmas tree was adorned with glistening balls and lights, and we were looking forward to opening gifts, and enjoying homemade cookies and milk by the fireplace. This year should have been no different, but tragedy struck 6-days before Christmas.
It was a cold and wintry night in December when suddenly our quiet neighborhood was startled out of the warmth and comfort of their homes by sirens, flashing lights, and emergency vehicles, while I sat in the seclusion of my basement watching Dragnet, a police drama on our small RCA wood grain veneer black and white console television set with rabbit ears for an antenna. I was so engrossed in the show that I didn’t even notice the loud, high-pitched sirens of police and ambulance vehicles outside. They were drowned out by the “Waaaaaahhhhhhh” of police sirens on the TV inside.
Earlier in the day, Dad visited our family doctor with my brother Bob, both with flu-like symptoms. However, instead of Dad going home to bed afterward, and because of his unwavering devotion to his students, he returned to conduct the high school Christmas band concert that evening. By the concert’s end, he was feeling much worse and left immediately without speaking to anyone. I didn’t hear him come home that night.
A sudden rush of cold air hit me when I came up from the basement. The front door was wide open, and to my horror, police and ambulance workers were scrambling in and out of our house. A gurney was being brought up our front steps through our front door, and although the sirens had all but stopped, a single red beacon light that sat on the top of each emergency vehicle continued to flash. The red domed light, sometimes called a gumball light because it resembles the dome top of a gumball machine, flashed ominously.
People in the neighborhood were starting to gather outside. “Mom, Dad!” I cried out. But there was no answer from either of them. Our next-door neighbor came running through the front door, half-dressed with just a towel around his waist, having just gotten out of the shower.
I was 11 years old and scared beyond words. I froze momentarily, but not from the frigid air. Terror permeated every part of my being as I looked up in disbelief at my mom standing at the top of our hallway stairs outside their bedroom. “What’s happening?” I cried out, fearing something awful. Our eyes met, and then, instinctively, I knew something terrible had happened. She didn’t have to say a word; I knew my dad was gone.
It was a reaction to penicillin that claimed my father’s life—a sudden and severe anaphylactic response that left his vocal cords constricted, obstructing the passage of air to his lungs until he could no longer breathe.
My Aunt Sis had just arrived. She ran to me, placing an arm around my shoulder; she quickly took me aside, out of the way of the emergency responders. Aunt Sis got my coat. “Let’s go for a walk,” she said. My Dad’s sister wasn’t crying, although I could sense her sadness. As we walked around the block, she kindly and gently explained to me that my dad had passed away and gone to a better place. Tears filled my eyes and streamed down my face. The pain I felt was unbearable. I was devastated and heartbroken. I asked once more, “Where’s Daddy, Aunt Sis?” She replied softly, “He’s in heaven.” I looked up at the sky, full of stars on this cold wintry night, and wondered if my father was looking down on me from above.
Aunt Sis and I must have walked for a long time as the ambulance and police cars had already left. The carolers had gone home, and the neighbors had already returned inside to the warmth of their houses. While we were walking, I remembered walks I took with my father when I would ask him questions about God. My father would tell me that God is everywhere, in everything, even in the trees he created.” I looked up at the star-filled sky and thought about heaven being there. “Is that where Daddy is, Aunt Sis?” My aunt nodded affirmatively. I missed him deeply and cried out to him, but there was only silence. I began to shiver, and my Aunt Sis held me closer. “Let’s go home, Billy,” she said.
ANGEL OF DEATH
Some people believe that the Angel of Death, not to be confused with the Angel of Darkness, appears to a person just before they die. This angel is regarded as benevolent and serves as a messenger and servant of God. Its role is to warn people of their imminent death and to urge them to get their affairs in order. I personally believe that my father had an encounter with this angel.
Colossians 2:14 teaches us that God is merciful and desires for no one to perish. Jesus’s sacrifice on the cross allows for the forgiveness of sins and eternal life. Therefore, Satan has no power over those who have accepted Jesus as their savior. Jesus’s sacrifice has canceled out every transgression and arrest warrant on our record. “Then Jesus made a public spectacle of all the powers and principalities of darkness, stripping away from them every weapon and all their spiritual authority and power to accuse us. And by the power of the cross, Jesus led them around as prisoners in a procession of triumph. He was not their prisoner; they were his!” Christ was victorious over death.”
A STUDY OF SIGNIFICANT EVENTS, DATES AND NUMBERS
A few years ago, I came across my father’s small pocket testament, which had his written confession of faith. It was comforting to know that he had been born again in the Spirit. What struck me the most, however, was that my father’s spiritual birth date and death date were on the same day of the month – December 19, 1937, and December 19, 1962, respectively.
While studying the numbers 25 and 37, I discovered some exciting revelations about and connections between significant life events in my father’s life – his physical birth, spiritual rebirth, and death.
In 1925, which I will refer to as ‘25’ from here on, my father was born. In ‘37, he experienced a spiritual rebirth into the Kingdom of Christ according to his confession of faith. In 1962, he passed away and entered the heavenly embrace of the Father’s arms. He was 37 years old when he died, exactly 25 years after his spiritual rebirth.
It’s interesting to note that when you add 25 and 37, the sum is 62, which happens to be the same year my father passed away. What’s also interesting to note is that this realization came to me in 2024, which is precisely 62 years after his death.
The number 25 also symbolizes “grace upon grace” in the Bible. The number combines 20, meaning redemption, and five, meaning grace or grace multiplied (5 times 5). It’s amazing to see how all these numbers align providentially in my father’s life as if it were meant to be.
“I don’t believe that these dates were a coincidence, and I don’t have an explanation for his untimely death. However, it is not a matter of chance or accident when someone passes away. The Bible clearly tells us that our lives are in God’s hands, and He knows the time of our death, having already appointed it. The Bible says, “Man’s days are determined; God has decreed the number of his months and has set limits he cannot exceed.”2
WE SAID OUR GOODBYES
When Peggy and I sensed Mom’s terror, we instinctively knew what it was. Without hesitation, we called out “In the Name of Jesus” and prayed for the Father’s Love to surround and comfort her. As a result, Mom became peaceful again and her breathing slowed.
As it was getting late, we knew it was time to say goodbye. We squeezed Mom’s hand for one last time and kissed her gently on the cheek; we said our goodbyes. As we closed Mom’s door behind us, we instinctively knew that this was symbolic, not of the end of a story as the world would define the end of life, but rather the continuation of life into the embrace of the Father’s love, a new chapter.
Peggy and I walked silently down the hallway. making our way toward the elevator. No one was seen or heard except for the faint sound of televisions playing from other residents’ rooms. It was a somber moment for me as I knew this would be the last time we would see my mother alive. Later that night, we received the heartbreaking news that she had passed away and gone to be with her heavenly Father.
