There are some people you never forget. For me, one of them was my cousin Marty
When I was in junior high school, I used to go over to my cousin’s house often. I looked up to my cousin Marty, who was several years older than me. I loved my cousin. We would sit up in his room calling on his HAM radio anyone who would answer. “Breaker, Breaker good buddy … are you out there?” Unfortunately, I don’t think that all were good buddies.
As I entered high school, I saw Marty less and less. Marty was in some type of trouble and had been thrown from a moving vehicle out onto the highway. He suffered multiple injuries. It should have been a wake-up call. Sadly, it wasn’t.
Years later, I ran into Marty just outside of the Port of Authority bus terminal. He was frail, begging on the sidewalk. We spoke briefly. He asked me for a little money and then moved on. It broke my heart to see him that way.
The second time I ran into Marty, we were both crossing at the intersection of Broadway and …, but this time we had no words with each other as he quickly turned away from me, ashamed. That was the last time I ever saw Marty.
Later I learned that Marty repeatedly entered rehab, only to return to his addiction.
Marty’s addiction was visible. Ours may not be.
Pride, fear, anger, unbelief, bitterness—we all have places where we try to live life apart from God. Like David, I’ve learned how easy it is to think I can handle life on my own… until I discover I can’t.
I often wonder what might have happened if Marty had finally surrendered his life completely to Christ. Only God knows.
But one thing I do know is this:
God is still in the business of picking people up.
He picked up David.
He picked me up.
And He never stopped reaching out to either of us.
And He longs to lift up all who humble themselves before Him.
“Humble yourselves before the Lord, and He will lift you up.” — James 4:10
If this story resonated with you, I invite you to listen to the song it inspired.
Let me start out by saying that this is a most unusual story.
In 2018, while taking an online course on inner healing as a part of my Global Awakening School class assignments, I was required to write a letter to a friend. However, I did not have anyone in mind to write to, and my assignment was due in four days. On Sunday morning, during my prayer time, I asked the Holy Spirit to guide me, and I felt a strong urge to call Sam. I heard a voice whispering in my spirit that “Sam is dying.” I was skeptical at first, but the voice repeated the message a couple of times. So, I decided to call Sam, but he did not answer, and I left him a message.
Later that day, not Sam, but his daughter returned my call. She informed me that Sam was admitted to the hospital and that they did not know what was wrong with him. He had collapsed five times over the last couple of days. His prognosis looked grim.
Peggy and I decided we would visit him on Tuesday. At that moment, I knew it was Sam I was to write my Letter to a Friend.
On Tuesday, we started our drive to Greenwich Hospital in Connecticut with my letter in hand. During the last 10 minutes of our 2-hour drive, Sam’s wife Mary called and said Sam had just passed away.
What do we do now? I thought. Do we go back home after traveling this far?
Peggy and I decided to keep going as planned. As soon as we arrived, we went to the reception desk and asked for Sam’s room, which was located on the third floor. However, I started feeling uneasy. I looked at Peggy, wondering if she was thinking what I was thinking. This was undoubtedly one of the most unconventional things we had ever done.
The elevator door opened, we exited, and we walked toward Sam’s hospital room.
Then, looking at Peggy, I sought eye contact, desperately wanting confirmation whether I was to read my letter to Sam or hand it to his wife. I felt very uncomfortable, to say the least. Peggy, however, assured me it was okay to ask Mary’s permission to read my letter to him. “I think we are here for a purpose,” she said.
Outside the room, we greeted Mary with a hug and our condolences. I explained my desire to share the letter I had written to Sam. Sensing my compassion and burden for him, she permitted me, recognizing that Sam and I had a special godly relationship.
We entered the room. Mary stood near the foot of Sam’s bed while her brother stood some distance off but within earshot. Sam’s skin was yellow and ashen, his mouth open, eyes nearly shut, all signs of life gone. Sam had not officially been pronounced dead yet, although it was pretty apparent. His body lay lifeless for more than 20 to 30 minutes before our arrival.
With Peggy on one side of the bed and me on the other, I read my “Letter to a Friend.” I was saddened and tearful as I read it. There were times when I hesitated, my voice breaking. I knew Mary was listening, and as I read on, I noticed she, too, was becoming emotional. At that moment, my heart went out to her, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Sam was listening in as well.
After I read my letter to Sam, Mary left Sam’s bedside. Peggy and I then laid hands on Sam and began ministering quietly. We both felt a strong anointing come upon us to speak life back into Sam. I’ve never prayed before for someone who had died. Courage just took on a whole new meaning for me.
Peggy began speaking, over and over, “Your Father loves you; you’re a good son.” She had no idea why she needed to say it continually, but it felt right.
At that moment, we both saw and felt Sam’s body shudder; his arm jerked under the light touch of my hand on his arm. Peggy and I both looked at each other. “Jumpin’ Jiminy! Did you see what I just saw?”
My expectations were now elevated. I truly wanted to see more. I wanted to see Lazarus raised from the dead. But as we continued to listen and pray, I distinctively heard in my spirit “let him go.” After hearing it again several times, I looked up at Peggy in resignation and said, “Let him go.”
We spoke with Sam’a wife afterward in the hallway. She shared that Sam’s parents had divorced, and his mother never allowed him to contact his father. She went on to say that Sam’s father died of a broken heart, having never been allowed to speak with his son Sam again. On Sam’s deathbed, the Holy Spirit led us to pray repeatedly for the Father’s LOVE to be poured into Sam, saying that Sam is a good son. “Your Father loves you.”
It all made sense now! Isn’t it wonderful knowing that God is still in the restoration business? Even on his deathbed, God was still ministering to Sam, to a place that was an unresolved emotional wound in his heart.
The timing was perfect, even when Peggy had to make a rest stop just before we got the call from Mary. Had we arrived any earlier, we would have run into their priest, and I don’t think I would have had the courage to pray as freely as I did. It would have been awkward. Had I arrived after the physician officially pronounced Sam dead, we may not have had the opportunity to pray for Sam.
We said our condolences and moved towards the elevators, the two of us marveling at the FATHER’s LOVE and desire to love us into eternity.
Coincidence or God-incidence?
The story clearly shows that every event was guided by God’s hand. When deciding who to write my letter to, God intervened by subliminally suggesting my friend’s name by distracting me with the message, “Bill, Sam is dying.” I would not have written my letter to Sam if I had not heard God’s voice. The fact that Peggy and I continued to the hospital after hearing about Sam’s passing and arrived there at the perfect time was not a coincidence. The repeated prayers for the Father’s Love for Sam were not mere coincidences either. God wanted to ensure Sam knew he was a good son, even in death and for eternity.
Copyright 2018 Re-published March, 2026 by Bill and Peggy Hutzel
This audio narration was created using an AI-generated voice model trained on my voice. The content and message were written by me and my wife, Peggy.
Click the play button below to listen to the audio
Before I Knew I was Being Chased
Looking back now, I realize something I couldn’t see then. Long before I ever thought about searching for God, He was already pursuing me. Patiently. Faithfully. Relentlessly.
At that point in my life, college became a new beginning for me.
I found new friendships, and for the first time — unlike in high school — I began to excel in my studies.
Like my father, I chose to pursue a career in music education, with a secondary focus on music therapy. In many ways, I was walking in his footsteps…yet sometimes, the shadow of his absence pressed down on me.
I should have been happier, but I wasn’t.
Instead of feeling connected to the joys of my earliest years before my father’s premature death, I often found myself living under a cloud of negative thoughts. The unresolved trauma and emotional pain from high school still followed me. Shame and fear accompanied me, and anxiety was a constant companion.
So, I kept myself busy. I practiced my music for hours each day on my instruments, hoping the music would drown out the thoughts I didn’t want to face.
Around the same time, I was drawn to the emerging hippie movement, identified by cries of “love, not war,” experimentation, and the search for freedom. Yet in striking contrast was another movement rising: the Jesus Revolution. Some say it was the last Great Revival in America. It was a period in history of soul searching, of looking inward.
Many were trying to figure out who and what they were, and where they were going as a human race. I too was searching—though I didn’t know what for.
Evangelical Christians, also known as ‘Jesus freaks,’ was a term that originated in the late 1960s and early 1970s counterculture, used pejoratively for those who believed in Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord
Jesus’ mission on earth was to seek and save the lost… and that was me!
Oftentimes, God allows us to reach a place of brokenness. I guess He thought it was time to rescue me from myself. He didn’t want me to continue dwelling on feelings of abandonment, hopelessness, dejection, lack of self-acceptance, and fear.
He longed to be the Father I had never fully known or appreciated growing up. And even though I did not yet know Him personally, something within me was still crying out, hoping He would hear.
A musician friend — a fellow flutist — began sharing the Gospel of Christ with me. “Are you saved?” she asked.
At the time, I thought it was just an awkward conversation.
I had no idea that one simple question was about to change the direction of my life forever.
The Pursuit Begins
“Born again, you know. Don’t you?”
I wasn’t sure what she meant at first.
You know. Don’t you?”
“Uhhhh, what?” I stammered. But truthfully, I didn’t know.
That was the moment when God began relentlessly pursuing me—
His love chasing me down—refusing to let me go.
God had me squarely in his sights, and although I ran from Him; he did not give up on me, and neither did my friend. Because of His very nature, which is love, He sought a relationship with me, and He would not give up until I accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior.
“Are you born-again?”
The question gnawed at me.
After a while, it became like a song stuck in my head that goes round and round. One psychologist describes it as an earworm. The most interesting thing about earworms is that they show a part of our brain that is not in our control, and they refuse to leave when we tell them to.
There was nothing I could do to prevent God from pursuing me. No distance could I run that would keep God from loving me. From the moment I was born, God had been pursuing my heart. It was His greatest longing for me to be in a relationship with Him, and because I could not reach him through any effort of mine, He would orchestrate events that would cause me to seek Him.
But questions gnawed at me. Was there really a God and did He have a way for me to let go of all my burdens if I believed and trusted in Him?
Could I have the assurance of going to heaven when I died and not be left behind?
This last question seemed to weigh most heavily on me with a sense of urgency attached to it.
I often visited New York City and waited at the corner of Mrs. McGrath’s house for a bus. It was the last stop before the city, so the buses were usually packed. When one finally arrived, I climbed aboard and spotted a seat toward the middle. Holding onto the overhead metal hand ropes as the bus accelerated, I stepped carefully toward the back.
Suddenly, the bus lurched, and I nearly fell into my seat.
.I settled in, but did not look at the passenger next to me. His head was turned away slightly looking downward, reading something. I glanced momentarily and saw that he was reading a Bible and returned my gaze to my lap. Then he looked up and said my name.
“Oh, hey Mark,” I said, not knowing where the conversation would lead. “You’re not one of those, uh, Jesus Freaks, are you?”
It was rude of me to ask, and I knew it, and I guess didn’t care, else I would not have said it.
But Mark was not offended. Instead, he leaned into the opportunity, and for the rest of the bus ride into the city, he shared the “Good News” of Jesus Christ with me.
By then, I knew something unusual was happening.
No matter where I turned…
God seemed to be waiting for me.
But I still wasn’t ready to surrender.
I thought I could simply move on with my life.
But the harder I tried to ignore Him…
the more impossible it became.
And then something happened that I still struggle to explain.
Running
A few days later, when I sank to a new low, I pulled a favorite Leonard Cohen album from my family’s hundreds of records.
Music had always been my escape.
I slid the LP from its jacket and placed it carefully on our high-end Audio Research turntable, holding it only by the edges to avoid fingerprints. Back then, it felt worlds apart from the old box record players with ceramic cartridges.
I lifted the tonearm and dropped the diamond stylus into a random groove. The speakers burst to life as I turned up the volume.
You’ve got to be kidding, I thought.
No sooner had the needle touched the vinyl than the first words filled the room —
“And Jesus
… was a sailor when He walked upon the water.”
Of all the places for the needle to land, it had to begin with His name. The one name I didn’t want to hear.
. I wasn’t looking for Him. I was looking for escape.
I lifted the needle. The music stopped mid-phrase. The speakers fell silent except for the faint hum of the amplifier — but in my head, His name kept echoing.
This couldn’t be a coincidence.
The words I had been hearing for days — Are you born again? God loves you. Jesus is the way, repeated in my mind like a broken record. I couldn’t shut them off.
Well, that totally blew my mind—a commonplace saying among others like “I really can’t hack it anymore.”
So I hastily lifted the needle from the turntable and ran from the house.
I jumped into my old forest-green ’68 Volkswagen Beetle and backed out of the driveway
Anywhere. Just anywhere. Had to get away.
I was confused and rattled. The music, the questions, the incessant echo in my head—Are you born again?—plagued me. I didn’t know where I was going or what I was supposed to do. I only knew one thing: I had to keep moving.
Looking back, the best way I can describe it is this: it was as though Jesus had taken the wheel, guiding me—without my realizing it—to a place I never intended to go.
It was dark and raining when I pulled up in front of Mrs. McGrath’s house, whom I sometimes called Mrs. M, and parked my car across the street at the curb.
Remember the guy on the bus with the Bible?
Well, Mrs. M was that guy’s mother, and this was his house too.
Coincidence?
For the next few minutes, I just sat there with the engine idling, the windshield wipers hypnotically swishing back and forth
What happened next, I don’t recall. It was as if that entire stretch of time was completely erased from my memory.
The next minute, I was standing at Mrs. M’s back porch.
Found
I must have knocked… hadn’t I?
“Billy, what are you doing here?” Mrs. M asked, surprised.
“Honestly,” I said, “uh, Mrs. McGrath, I don’t know.”
What’s really twisted is that I had no recollection of getting out of my car and walking up to her house.
One moment I was sitting across the street, and the next I was standing at her door.
Now, some of you are thinking that I went off the deep end…
And perhaps I did too at first. Just for the record, I wasn’t taking any hallucinogens, alcohol, or medications. I was completely sober
I tried to make sense of it.
It may sound far-fetched, but here goes. In the Bible, there are accounts of people being translated from one place to another—which, if you “eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” If this were a Star Trek series re-enactment, the dialogue may have gone like this…
“Transporter room, stand by to energize!”
A brief pause.
Then, in a flash I would have dematerialized. My subatomic molecules would have been sent along to another location, then rematerialized. This is the stuff of science fiction, right? Well… hold on to your seat.
Had I somehow been translated from my car to Mrs. M’s porch without realizing it?
In 2 Samuel 3:10, it carries the sense of transferring something from one place to another
And in Colossians 1:13, it describes being moved, delivered, from one condition into another
I didn’t know what to make of it. All I knew was that time — or at least my memory of it — had vanished.
And if it were not for God’s intervention, I had no plans of visiting Mrs. M that evening. When she invited me in, I hesitated momentarily, but by the grace of God I accepted her invitation.
She asked me into her living room where we talked for a while. Then, she asked me if I would like to pray, and I nodded yes.
I was comforted by her soft-spoken voice, and as I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her coffee table, I was drawn to the gentle flicker of candlelight in the room. The only sound was our quiet breathing. For a long moment, no words were spoken as I remained transfixed on the candle flame moving ever so slightly.
There was a silent presence that I could not name, and with it came a hope.
I contemplated what she had said, realizing her focus was not only on rescuing me from a distant place of punishment, but on saving me from a kind of hell already living inside me — the torment, the emptiness, the uncertainty, the loneliness of not knowing Christ, who had given His life for me.
Then, suddenly, the silence was broken.
“Billy, are you ready to accept Jesus Christ as your Savior?” she asked
Tell Him all your troubles, pour out your heart’s longings to Him, and believe me when I say—He will help you! He loves you. It is written: if we confess with our mouth that Jesus Christ is Lord and believe in our heart that He was raised from the dead, we shall be saved
Then, with my head bowed, I prayed.
Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room seemed to change.
I envisioned a pure white dove flying in and hovering above me. The vision seemed so real, that I dared to speak, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Mrs. M., do you see it?” I whispered, wondering if she had seen it too.
She nodded.
“Yes, Billy. He’s with you. He’s always been with you.”
At the time, I had no understanding of what the dove meant. Years later, I learned from Matthew 3:16 that when Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist, heaven opened and the Holy Spirit descended upon Him like a dove — a symbol of transformation and empowerment.
That same heaven that declared, “This is my Son…” awakened me to realize that this, too, was my identity in Christ: a child of God, a son forever held in the Father’s embrace.
Then, a peace unlike anything I had ever experienced before fell upon me. It seemed as if I transcended into His presence as I took wings and went to heaven, got saved, and came back to earth.
Although we really don’t take wings and go to heaven, get saved and come back to earth, it’s merely a figure of speech that shows one’s need to transcend our worldly life to a higher spiritual place in which we meet Christ as our savior. From that day forward I came to know God intimately as my Abba Father.
And so, “In my trouble, I cried to the Lord, and HE ANSWERED ME!” Christ came to rescue me—and mend my heart.
That night I exchanged my life for Jesus Christ’s life and was forgiven for all my sins. Jesus was now my Lord and savior, and I was a new creation.
I walked into that house searching for… I didn’t even know what.
I walked out knowing I had been found.
It would take nearly fifty years before I fully understood what God had been doing all along.
Looking Back
Looking back nearly fifty years later, I can now see what I couldn’t recognize then.
On that dark and rainy night, feeling lost and depressed, I felt quite the opposite now. I left Mrs. M knowing that I had the assurance of eternal salvation.
Instead of feeling downhearted, I felt joy.
Instead of feeling dejected I felt accepted.
Instead of feeling fearful and anxious, I felt peace.
Instead of feeling hopeless, I felt hopeful.
Jesus Christ came to earth, died on a cross for my sins so that I might not only have eternal life after death but also to make a way for me to have an abundant life on earth with Jesus Christ, Here and Now. I couldn’t wait to tell everybody about my experience!
Let everyone give all their praise and thanks to the Lord!
Here’s why—He’s better than anyone could ever imagine
He’s always loving and kind, and his faithful love never ends.
So, go ahead—
let everyone know it.
Tell the world how he broke through and delivered you from the power of darkness.
He has set us free to be his very own.
Life changed almost 50 years ago for me, and I am FOREVER grateful
Copyright 2026 by Bill Hutzel
This audio narration was created using an AI-generated voice model trained on the author’s voice. The content and message were written by the author.
The introductory song passage at the beginning of this story was written by me in collaboration with John D’Elia, who beautifully arranged and produced the piece. His artistry brought the heart of the song to life, transforming what began as a quiet prayer into a musical offering of hope and endurance.
You can listen to We Cry Of … In Quiet Faithfulness in its entirety on Youtube. Click the link at the bottom of the page.
Pictured from right to left, Cathy Barlow Garrison, Nancy Shearer, Jenny Cline, and Bill Hutzel (center) … Photo by Jack Shearer
Click the play button below to listen
In memory of Cathy Barlow Garrison, who passed away on Wednesday, November 23rd, 2016.
Cathy always seemed to celebrate life. So it was fitting that the ceremony in her honor… was called a celebration
And yet— I was deeply saddened to see her go.
Even knowing she had gone to a better place.
It’s a perfect place
where there is no pain…
no suffering…
no disability…
no sickness.
It’s hard for me to fully comprehend such a place. Because I am still of this world, and I cannot yet see God clearly.
But it is described as something picturesque and glorious.
Grander than anything I’ve ever imagined.
Angels on white clouds… playing music… skateboarding down streets of gold—and other depictions from movies I had seen.
Joy was everywhere!
And I imagine Cathy there.
Playing in a glorious flute choir.
No more endless practice. No more striving for perfection.
Now, anything she picks up… she plays beautifully.
Effortlessly.
The church was standing room only.
Tears were everywhere.
But even then… Cathy reminded us to look on the bright side of life.
As we said our goodbyes the ceremony ended with a song:
“Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” from Monty Python’s Life of Brian.
Go on” said the priest
Sing it, Sing it, everybody!
And as we sang along to a recording played through the church’s sound system, I thought that Cathy must have been laughing at our heartfelt attempt to sing the lyrics:
“Always look on the bright side of life, de-dum .. de-diddly-dum-de-dum.”
Cathy would have wanted that.
She would have wanted us to sing and rejoice.
But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t sing.
I couldn’t even whistle.
My lips were trembling.
I was just trying to hold it together.
That song…that was her choice.
Of course it was.
She had a marvelous and wonderfully zany sense of humor.
Even near the end of her life, she could still laugh.
When a Facebook glitch mistakenly changed people’s Facebook profiles to memorialized, Cathy joked about checking her page to make sure she wasn’t dead yet.
You have to laugh.
Her email handle was: “cheerfulflutist.”
And that’s exactly who she was.
Cheerful.
And, she inspired all of us to be the same.
The song in the background of this audio recording is entitled “Alleluia” by Ralph Manuel and performed by Flutatious! members Cathy Garrison, Jenny Cline, Nancy Shearer, Flora Pollack, Bill Hoff, and Bill Hutzel. This musical offering, offered in love and remembrance, was shared at Cathy’s Celebration of Life, with one cherished member absent.
The photograph was taken by Jack Shearer. Jack, thank you!
Copyright 2016 by Bill Hutzel
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Every now and then, life hands us an opportunity that feels bigger than we are—an open door we didn’t expect, a moment that stirs both excitement and a touch of nervousness. Those are the places where God often draws near.
The story you’re about to read is one of those moments.
In 2017, I was asked to perform with Robin Mark, an Irish Christian singer, songwriter, worship leader, and recording artist from Belfast, Northern Ireland. His music had been sung around the world. With thirteen albums and more than two million sold, he was well known—just not one I recognized at first.
Still, without hesitation I replied, “Sure, I’d be glad to accompany him,” even though I would have only two and a half weeks’ notice to prepare. Even though I wasn’t familiar with who he was, I rarely turned down a playing opportunity. I was looking forward to it and was confident in my ability to perform.
Who’s Robin Mark?
That’s the question I asked myself after I agreed. I was told the music would be provided, but what landed in my hands were simple song sheets with guitar chords—nothing close to what I needed. I needed to hear the songs and let them take root. But with only two and a half weeks to prepare, I began to get a touch of nervousness.
So, I contacted the radio station affiliated with our church and managed to obtain three of Robin Mark’s recordings. That’s when I realized I had my work cut out for me. Irish Celtic music wasn’t a genre I was used to playing, but I knew I could learn the flute parts straight from the recordings, but I’d really have to dig in.
And honestly, the challenge didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. If anything, it made the invitation even more meaningful. It was an honor to have been asked—especially knowing I was stepping in for Robin’s regular Irish flutist who couldn’t make the trip to the United States. This wasn’t just another gig. It was an opportunity, and I wanted to rise to it.
For the next two and a half weeks, I immersed myself in the playlist. Morning, noon, and night, I listened to nothing but Robin Mark’s music, letting every phrase settle into me until it felt natural.
Just before the concert, a prophetic word of encouragement came—one that reached straight to my heart, as if God Himself were cheering me on:
“Bill, you have an audience of one—it’s Me! Keep your eyes fixed on Me. You don’t have to impress anyone. I gave you the flute and the ability to play. My angels are surrounding you. Keep your eyes on Me, not Robin Mark or the band. Your future is in My hands. Your melody flows on earth and in the heavens. You are My instrument. I am pleased with you. My peace replaces fear. Enjoy the concert. Enjoy My presence! Have fun as if you and I are the only ones.”
Those words steadied me, filling me with a sense of peace and confidence that I carried onto the stage.
When Robin Mark arrived one hour before the concert, we managed a quick warm-up —barely enough time to get acquainted and just skim through a handful of pieces. It wasn’t nearly enough time to digest the two full hours of music ahead of us, but it was all we had.
It’s Showtime
As the concert kicked off, I could feel that familiar mix of excitement and nerves—the quiet signal that you’re stepping into something bigger than you imagined. But as the music unfolded, I felt myself settle. Hours of practice at home had given me confidence, and listening to his recordings beforehand allowed me to flow naturally alongside him.
Midway through the concert, Robin Mark—clearly picking up on my growing confidence—decided to have a little fun with me. The song Days of Elijah featured a lively Celtic jig, the kind usually played on an Irish flute. Wanting to stay true to the original sound, I had originally borrowed one from a friend. But with so little time to get comfortable with its wider tone-hole spacing, my fingers wouldn’t quite cooperate. So, I used my wooden flute instead—different instrument, yes, but still carrying that warm, wood-toned character that fit the moment perfectly.
After I played it through once, Robin looked over and motioned, “Do it again.”
And then again.
Each time faster than the last.
By the final go-around, he had left center stage, moving toward me, leaning in, pointing the neck of his guitar as if daring me to keep up. By that point, I was just holding on. Any faster, and… well, let’s just say the wheels might’ve come off.
Phew.
After the concert, I asked him, “What was that all about, Robin?”
He grinned and said with a laugh, “I was just having some fun with you, Bill.”
Closing Reflection
I’ll never forget trying to keep pace with that jig while Robin marched toward me, pointing his guitar like a Celtic ringmaster daring me to go faster and faster. And somehow, in the middle of that whirlwind, I held on as if for dear life life—and strangely enough, it felt as though heaven leaned in for the fun.
Because the truth is, we’re never playing solo. Maybe there really were angels close by, just as was spoken over me—cheering me on, laughing and joining me in the joy (and sweat) of that unexpected moment.
Either way, the lesson is the same: we are never alone. We are instruments in His hands, and the music we make—whether it comes out smooth or wildly offbeat—is always part of His plan.
Copyright 2025 by Bill Hutzel
Live mobile phone recording made at Zarephath Christian Church, New Jersey
