Coincidence or God-Incidence? A Story of Divine Timing and God Winks
God Winks are those perfectly timed, seemingly coincidental moments that are far too meaningful to be random. These beautiful encounters often leave us with a sense of awe — and a quiet assurance that we are seen and loved.
Many of these stories live on my website, Inspiration and Hope. I invite you to explore them, and if one touches your heart, I’d love for you to share your thoughts and Leave a Comment. Your story matters, too.
A Message at the Perfect Moment
Just the other day, I had one of those unmistakable God Wink moments.
I had been wrestling with fear and anxiety — struggling to find peace — when I received a message from a friend. It was short but powerful:
“Fear is not your friend.”
It arrived at the exact moment I needed it most. That simple message captured what I had been feeling deep inside. And in that moment, I sensed God gently whisper: “Trust Me.”
It felt like He was inviting me to let go of the fear and worry I had been clutching so tightly.
Confirmed by the Word
Later that day, I opened Joyce Meyer’s devotional for June 28, titled “Let Peace Lead the Way.” It focused on 1 Peter 5:14, which in the Amplified Bible reads:
“To all of you that are in Christ Jesus, may there be peace (every kind of peace and blessing, especially peace with God, and freedom from fears, agitating passions, and moral conflicts).”
This verse spoke directly to my weary heart. It reminded me that God uses peace as a guide — a spiritual compass that lets us know when we are walking in His will.
Scripture tells us that peace is the umpire of our hearts. When we’re confused, anxious, or afraid, peace often departs. But when we’re aligned with God, peace abides — and fear leaves.
The timing of the devotional, paired with my friend’s message, felt far too perfect to be a coincidence. But it didn’t end there.
When God Speaks — Twice
I had also been praying and studying about a topic close to my heart: “Hearing from God is Guaranteed.” But honestly, I had been struggling. God felt quiet, and I found myself asking: “Why can’t I hear You, Lord?”
So I asked God for affirmation — a sign that I really was hearing Him. And oh, how He answered.
Wink #1: A Random Page Turn
I picked up my Bible — no plan, no bookmark — and randomly opened to a page.
Of all places, it landed on 1 Peter 5:14, this time in The Passion Translation. The very same verse Joyce had quoted earlier.
Wink #2: Another Bible, Same Verse
Wanting to compare translations, I grabbed my New American Standard Bible and again, without planning, opened to the exact same spot: 1 Peter 5:14.
Two different Bibles. Same verse. No bookmarks. No plan. Just divine choreography.
What are the chances of that happening? Twice?
His Fingerprints, Not Coincidences
These weren’t coincidences. They were God’s fingerprints — tender reminders that He sees, He hears, and He guides.
Yes, it was an answer to prayer. Yes, it was an affirmation of His promise:
Hearing from God is guaranteed — especially when peace is our guide.
And Then… Another Wink
A few days later, I was reading another Joyce Meyer devotional titled “A Contented Heart Is a Grateful Heart,” based on 1 Timothy 6:6.
You won’t believe this, but again — I randomly opened my Bible to Timothy, Chapter 6. Another divine nudge. Another whisper from heaven.
Coincidence? I don’t believe so.
God Is Closer Than You Think
I pray this story reminds you that God is closer than we realize. Sometimes, He doesn’t shout — He whispers. And sometimes, He doesn’t come with thunder — He comes with a wink.
He speaks in moments. In timing. In peace. And when He does, it’s unmistakable.
Have You Had a God Wink?
Have you experienced a moment like this — where God’s timing was too perfect to be random?
I’d love to hear your story. Please share your God-incidence or God Wink in the comments section. Let’s encourage one another and celebrate the ways God speaks, leads, and loves us — one divine moment at a time.
In 1973, my classmate Stan and I had been appointed to music therapy internships at St. Elizabeth Hospital in Washington DC, a government-run psychiatric hospital for treating a wide range of patients, including those who were mentally deficient, mentally disturbed, deaf and blind, and those struggling with drug and alcohol addiction.
During my time at the hospital, the staff arranged for the patients to spend time at a vacation camp nestled in Prince William Forest, Virginia. It was called Camp Happyland—no joke, that was the real name, and it was run by the Salvation Army. The camp provided the patients with fresh air, a change of scenery, enjoyable activities, and a sense of freedom—a temporary reprieve from the usual institutional setting.
While there, I interacted with many patients, each with their own distinct characteristics. Although none of them played pivotal roles in the larger telling of my story, each had a unique quirk that made them memorable.
Camp Life
Bo, for instance, shuffled his feet wherever he went, his movements slow and aimless, as if he were in a world of his own. His IQ was astoundingly low, and although he couldn’t speak much, he could manage one phrase: “Coca-Cola.” Over and over, like a mantra, he’d utter it, his voice almost rhythmic.
Then there was the man I found relieving himself outside the restroom building. I couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t just go inside to use the toilet, so I felt it my duty to inform him. As he finished, he turned slowly to face me.
“Hey, pull up your zipper, man. You know, the restroom is right there,” I said, pointing towards the door just a few feet away.
He seemed completely unfazed, his expression calm.
What is your name? I asked.
“It’s King.”
I nodded. “Well…nice to meet you King.”
With that, he turned and walked away as if everything was perfectly normal.
One of my daily assignments at Camp Happyland was waterfront duty—a task I mostly enjoyed, though it had its moments of unexpected excitement. On one occasion, I took a few patients out in a rowboat to explore a nearby creek. The afternoon was warm, with the sun’s rays filtering through the canopy of trees above. The atmosphere was peaceful as we gently glided downstream, leaving a trail of ripples. The only sound was the rhythmic stroke of my oars breaking the surface of the water.
Out of nowhere, a pair of beavers appeared, gliding effortlessly alongside our boat. They began slapping their tails on the surface, sending up playful sprays of water that drenched us.
Then, just as quickly as they had appeared, they vanished beneath our boat, only to reemerge moments later, either behind or in front. This playful back-and-forth continued for a while. It seemed obvious they wanted to play.
The patients, who had been quietly enjoying the calm, soon began laughing and pointing at the beavers, their spirits lifted by the unexpected visitors. It was such a memorable time. I couldn’t help but smile as I was caught up in the pure joy of the moment..
But what began as a peaceful boat ride quickly turned tense.
Suddenly, I found myself desperately needing to lean, not on my own strength, but on Him. In that moment of rising panic, I knew only God could steady the situation and bring us back safely.
As we made our way back toward the swimming area, we drifted past a dense bush nestled on the bank. It wasn’t until we were right alongside it that I realized it was home to a colony of water snakes. One of the patients, wide-eyed and panicked, stood up abruptly, causing the boat to rock dangerously.
“Sit down right now!” I shouted, panic rising in my voice. “You’re going to tip us over. Sit back down, or we’ll be in real trouble.”
But then things went from bad to worse. In a panicked attempt to stabilize the boat, I instinctively thrust my paddle outward toward the bank, accidentally striking the very bush where the snakes nested. In an instant, it felt as if a hundred water snakes tumbled into the water, slithering and writhing all around us.
When we finally made it safely back to shore, dripping with more than just creek water and adrenaline, I was sternly reprimanded. ” That was a bit too adventurous for waterfront duty,” they told me. I couldn’t argue and was probably dismissed from my post for the rest of the day. .
Amateur night was another unforgettable experience, as I thought it would be fun to practice communicating with deaf patients using sign language. My skills, admittedly, were less than basic; just a handful of expressions I’d picked up along the way—enough to get me in trouble.
As I fumbled through the hand gestures, I intended to convey something friendly and warm, a spirit of warmth and compassion, to the entire group. But as it turned out, just as we were about to find our seats for the event, one of the girls standing next to me unexpectedly thought the gesture was meant for her. She smiled and, to my surprise, reached out to take my hand as if I were her date for the evening. The look in her eyes sparkled with innocence and desire, filled with the hope of being boyfriend and girlfriend, a connection that deep down I knew couldn’t be possible. I could see that this simple, unintentional moment had stirred something far more profound within her. The whole situation was innocent, yet complicated. Her expression told me that words, spoken or signed, carry far more weight than we sometimes realize.
These moments, though seemingly small, stayed with me. They revealed how much the patients at Camp Happyland needed healing, even if they didn’t know it—and, more importantly, how much they needed God.
Lean on Me: A Church Encounter that Changed Everything
It was at Camp Happyland that I became friends with Chuck, a camp counselor whose faith deeply resonated with mine. One evening, he invited me to his small, spirit-filled Pentecostal church in Fairmont, Maryland. Curious and open to the experience, I agreed to go.
Stepping into that church felt like entering another world. I remember feeling out of place, as if I didn’t belong. I stood out like a splotch of white paint on a canvas of black and brown—the only white person in attendance—and my senses were on high alert.
The worship was unlike anything I’d ever known—wild, passionate, unrestrained. Should I run or stay? Something—curiosity or maybe something deeper—compelled me to remain.
People danced in the aisles, spoke in tongues, and a couple lay on the floor, overcome by the Holy Spirit— an image that brought to mind a term I’d once heard: ‘holy rollers.’
At one point, I watched a man roll uncontrollably as two women in long white dresses stood over him, arms outstretched, casting out something that seemed …hideous. His mouth frothed, the foam spilling down his chin and chest like waves washing up on shore.
The whole thing was deeply unsettling. It didn’t feel fake or like some kind of performance. It felt real—uncomfortably real. I couldn’t help but think of that story in the Bible, where an evil spirit threw a boy into convulsions right in front of Jesus. And now, it felt like I was watching the same thing unfold right before my eyes.
Looking back, it’s funny how certain songs seem to show up at just the right time.
Back then, “Lean On Me” by Bill Withers was the number one song on the pop charts. While not originally written as a Christian song, its message of friendship and support carried spiritual weight, a reminder that there is One we can lean on.
Standing in that small church, overwhelmed and out of place, I had no idea just how much I would need to lean on God.
As the service ramped up, I scanned the walls of the church, half-expecting to see something out of the ordinary. My imagination went wild, wandering to unusual stories of churches handling snakes. Was this one of those churches? How many pictures of unfortunate souls would I find hanging on the back wall of the church, of those who didn’t survive their test of faith? Did they get what they failed to heed?
Jesus said, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test” (Matthew 4:7).
Although the extreme ritual of handling venomous snakes was more commonly practiced in churches across Appalachia, in states like Georgia, Alabama, and North Carolina, my senses were on high alert. What other dangers might I encounter? There appeared to be only one exit at the rear of the church; at least, that was visible from where I sat, some infinite number of rows away, or so it seemed. I would make a quiet mental note of it just in case I needed to make my escape.
But before I let my imagination spiral any further, I soon realized that this wasn’t that kind of church.
Still, the intensity of it all left me feeling a bit on edge, uncertain about what to expect next.
The following week, I returned to the church, this time bringing my buddy Stan along. I invited him partly for his company, and partly hoping the experience would give us something to talk about afterward. Well, it certainly gave us plenty to discuss.
Stan wasn’t much of a churchgoer, and this was way outside his comfort zone. We may have made some deal that if he went, I’d do something in return.
I watched as he stood, eyes wide, trying to process it all—the loud fervent singing, hand clapping, and the deep, soulful prayers rising all around us.
It didn’t take him long to make up his mind. He grabbed my keys, made a beeline for the exit, and headed straight to the car, where he waited out the rest of the service. I knew then—I’d be getting an earful. I could already feel it brewing.
For him, it was simply too much, especially compared to the quiet, more formal services I assumed he associated with church. The holiness of the Pentecostal church stood in stark opposition to his nature, which seemed to frighten him away.
Stan never came to church with me again after that night. The whole ride back to camp, he sat in stunned silence. Then finally, shaking his head and staring straight ahead, he said, “Man… I don’t even know what that was.” Despite the awkwardness, we remained friends, though we never spoke of it again
The week after, I brought someone else—Patty. She was more open-minded, and I made sure to explain ahead of time what she might encounter. No surprises this time.
By then, “Lean on Me” had now slipped to the number two spot on the pop charts, but the song’s message still lingered with me. This time, something shifted in me as I entered the church. I felt more at ease. The presence of God felt real, like He was wrapping His arms around me, someone I could lean on.
Maybe it was the lyrics echoing in my head: “When you’re not strong, I’ll help you carry on…”
Pastor Williams, wearing dark sunglasses and singing his message to a jazz organist, suddenly stopped mid sermon and pointed his finger directly at Patty and me. In his deep and confident voice, he declared, “You are going to have a good sleep tonight; one of the best. “
The words hung in the air like a mystery as Patty and I exchanged confused glances at each other. We had absolutely no idea what he meant, but something in the air felt different, as if there was more to his words than we could comprehend.
At the time, I didn’t know what to make of it. Later, I realized he wasn’t just speaking scripture; he was including us, reminding everyone that God’s house is truly for all people of every race and color.
With that, Pastor Williams picked up right where he had left off, preaching and prophesying to the congregation as if nothing had interrupted his message.
After the service, we said goodbye to Chuck, who had invited us, and said we’d meet him back at Camp Happyland. We travelled in separate cars. With my windows rolled down in my 1968 Volkswagen Beetle, the wind tousled my hair and drummed my ears, offering a small relief from the oppressive heat of the night. The cool breeze felt like a temporary escape, but I still couldn’t shake the question regarding the pastor’s declaration. This couldn’t be what the pastor meant, could it?
The drive back was filled with more questions than answers, and for Patty, the whole evening had been just as unfamiliar as it had been for Stan. But, unlike Stan, she was more open to it,`. While Stan had bolted for the exit, Patty had stayed, absorbing every moment. She may not have fully understood the experience, but she also didn’t recoil from it as Stan had. Yet, the service, the prophecies, the strange happenings—were all too much to fully comprehend in the moment. It was a lot to take in. Could it be that God had used that service and the strange events of the night to reveal something deeper? Something I couldn’t see yet?
Unsolved Mystery or God Wink?
It wasn’t until we were back at Camp Happyland that the realization of what the pastor had prophesied became clear, evidence of the power from above. Every night was sweltering from the heat and humidity, with no air conditioning to offer relief. On this particular day, the heat index reached a staggering 103.4 degrees Fahrenheit.
When I walked Patty to her cabin and she opened the door, a breeze hit our faces. There, in the center of the room, stood a fan—blowing cool air.
“Where did that come from?” she asked, wide-eyed.
We both stood there for a moment, and just stared. No words, just the gentle hum of the fan, whispering something we couldn’t explain.
Yet somehow, it felt like the fan had been placed there just for her. She smiled. We said goodnight, and I returned to my cabin while she went into hers.
The cool breeze from the fan gently stirred Patty’s curtains. Later, Patty told me that as she lay down, the quiet hum and cool air wrapped around her, lulling her into a restful sleep—unlike the usual sweltering heat of the night that left her tossing and turning. She would have the best sleep ever that night.
The next morning, I learned that the fan had gone missing from the dining hall, and no one seemed to know how it ended up in Patty’s room. Word spread quickly, and before long, there was an inquisition. I, for some reason, was their number one suspect in the “Case of the Missing Dining Hall Fan”, despite knowing nothing about it.
The fan was promptly returned to the dining hall where it belonged, and the fuss over it gradually died down; however, there were still unanswered questions. For some, it may remain one of life’s “Unsolved Mysteries.” Yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something deeper was at work in it all—something that connected the fan’s strange appearance with the pastor’s words and the miraculous night of rest Patty experienced.
Winks from Heaven: A Love That Heals Every Heart
To some, it might be an unsolved mystery. But for Patty and me, it was more than a coincidence. It was a God-wink.
God’s small miracles are often proof, not just that He exists, but that He cares for us and that He is present in our lives.
Patty came to that service as a skeptic. But the prophetic word—and the mysterious appearance of the fan—left a mark. It stirred something deep.
These winks are like a smile from Father God, as if He is saying, “I see you, I know you, and I’m always here.” They come in ways we don’t expect, just like Pastor Williams’s prophetic word to Patty. Yet, they are always meant to cause our hearts to turn towards Him- a wink that stirs something deep within us, calling us to know Him more intimately.
Reflecting on my experiences at both Camp Happyland and the Pentecostal church, I realized that, despite their differences, both groups were ultimately seeking the same thing: healing and deliverance in one form or another. Whether it was the patients at the camp searching for mental and physical relief, or the congregants at the church crying out for spiritual freedom, they all shared a common need for God’s love and compassion.
God revealed that His love was the key to healing—body, mind, and soul. In both places, the need was the same: a longing for wholeness that only His love could provide. And I came to realize that His love is the thread that connects not only their struggles but all of ours, offering hope and transformation, even for Stan, whom Christ would never stop pursuing. It became clear to me that no matter where we are, who we are, or what we’re going through, God’s love is the healing power that can restore us in ways beyond our understanding.
Copyright 2015 by Bill Hutzel
Revised 2025
CREDITS
“Camp Happyland” was written by Bill Hutzel
.Voiceover was by Eleven Labs
“Lean On Me” musical segment was performed by Al Jarreau
Grace is not just a word; grace is not just a noun; grace is God’s supernatural enabling power and His favor that gives you the strength to be an overcomer of your circumstances. The Lord gives grace to the humble. He will give you more grace. Just ask him. (by Yvonne and Sarah Jane Svitlik from Thirty Days with Jesus in the Secret Place )
Grace is not just a word; grace is not just a noun; grace is God’s supernatural enabling power and His favor that gives you the strength to be an over-comer of your circumstances. The Lord gives grace to the humble. He will give you more grace. Just ask him. (by Yvonne and Sarah Jane Svitlik from Thirty Days with Jesus in the Secret Place )
.. Having experienced God’s grace in countless ways, my wife and I attended a Global Awakening conference in 2019, seeking to deepen our understanding and connection to His power. .After the first day’s session, we were encouraged to pray for the person standing next to us. The man beside me, whom I will call John, offered to pray for me first.
When it was my turn, I asked John what he needed prayer for. He shared that his eyesight was severely impaired; leaving him with mostly blurry vision. Although he could still discern shapes and movement, he struggled with everyday tasks and navigating his surroundings. Due to time constraints and the need to vacate the auditorium, I suggested we reconnect the following day, and John agreed.
Overnight, at 4:20 a.m., overcome with emotion for John’s situation, I found myself weeping into my pillow for him. Embarrassed, I turned away from my wife, not wanting her to see or hear me in such a vulnerable moment. In the quiet of my heart, I distinctly heard God’s voice, clear and unmistakable, calling me to play Amazing Grace for John.
It all became clear then as I recalled the line from the song, “I was blind, but now I see.” God was calling me to play my flute to convey the Father’s heart of love and compassion and to bring healing
Music, particularly frequencies like those of the flute, has been shown to affect the body in ways we are only beginning to understand. When I play under the anointing of the Holy Spirit, the pure, heavenly tones invite God’s presence, moving in a powerful way. The flute, with its ability to carry these divine, angelic notes, serves as an instrument of God’s grace—a prayer offering in the form of music, releasing healing frequencies into the atmosphere and inviting restoration.
This calling didn’t come as a surprise; God had already been preparing my heart for it. To provide some context for this divine prompting, let me share a little background.
In October 2017, I attended Awaken the Dawn on the National Mall in Washington, D.C. This was a grassroots movement of 24/7 day and night praise and worship and intercessory prayer to bring a new awakening of the presence of God, America’s Tent of Meeting. The Awaken the Dawn movement was being referred to as a Jesus Woodstock for a New Generation. “Bring your voice.” “Bring your song.” And “bring your flute!” I heard.
God had been preparing me for this moment for years. In 2017, at Awaken the Dawn, I received a prophetic word that laid the foundation for what was to come in 2019. A pastor prophesied over me and shared her vision of me playing with the anointing of Almighty God. She described a fiery wall of protection surrounding me, along with a shield of Goodwill, Pleasure, and Favor. She saw that when I played, the heavens would open and saw the smile of Jesus with tears in the corner of His eyes. Demons would flee at the sound of my playing, and people would be delivered, healed, and slain in the Spirit. Doors would open for me that I must walk through, and if I didn’t, those people would suffer.
God was beginning to use me in this powerful way.
One Sunday morning in 2019, my friend Martin approached me after the service with something incredible. He shared a vision he had received. He saw musical notes rising from the top of my head, floating upward toward heaven, before gently descending upon the people gathered in the room. Amazingly, this vision mirrored exactly what I was seeing in my spirit at that very moment.
And as we worshipped, a fiery wall of protection surrounded me and the room. No enemy could penetrate God’s protection. People worshipped with hands raised and shouts of praise, bowing down, some fell prostrate, some danced, and occasionally the sound of someone blowing the shofar summoned all present to greater awakening and awareness of the Holy Spirit’s presence.
Then, to my astonishment, Martin handed me a sketch of the entire scene on a piece of 3-hole punch-lined paper, just after the service.
In bold, large letters, was the word war, an acronym for Worship and Rise. I’ve kept this drawing on my desk under a clear desk blotter as a constant reminder that the act of worshiping and arising releases God’s power to shift and transform our circumstances.
Martin’s vision revealed that my role, my calling, was not only to worship, but to arise with my flute as a weapon of transformative change. It was more than just playing music; it was a sacred act. It was the very act of worshiping and arising, engaging in a spiritual war that releases God’s power to have sway over the circumstances in and around us, bringing healing to both our souls and bodies.
The year 2019 also marked the Jewish year 5779, a time signifying open doors and the fulfillment of prophecy, when God was positioning me to step fully into my calling, a new season in my life, of ministry, where the doors to my destiny were being opened wide. And if I didn’t step through them, people would suffer.
As Martin and I parted ways that day, he said something that has stuck with me ever since: “Take your flute everywhere with you, Bill.” It didn’t feel like a casual remark; it felt prophetic—something God was speaking directly to me.
Fast forward a few years, after a service, a man named Shep approached me. “My name is Shep,” he said, extending his hand. I introduced myself in return.
“Can I share something with you?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied, intrigued by what he had to say.
Shep then proceeded to share a vision he had of musical notes rising from my head and floating out into the congregation. It was exactly what I experienced as I played with God’s anointing. I invited the Holy Spirit to come, and as I did, it was His melodies, His expression, and frequency that flowed from my flute.
It didn’t completely surprise me, though. I remembered Martin’s prophetic drawing and the similar words and visions I had received back in 2019. Yet, hearing Shep speak it once more, felt like a powerful confirmation, a reminder that God was moving through the sound of my flute, that His presence was moving powerfully among His people.
Some months later, Shep shared with me that God had a “special musical note” for me. I was intrigued but confused. What in the world could he mean by a “special musical note?” I sometimes experiment with different fingerings on the flute to create unique effects, but I couldn’t imagine what he meant by a special musical note. For the next week or two, I kept asking God, “So, what’s this special note you have for me, Lord? “But I heard nothing. Crickets.
Then, one day while standing at the altar, I heard in my spirit, “Holy Spirit wind.” Three times, the words were repeated. Without really thinking, I brought the flute to my lips and blew air across the blow hole into the microphone, creating a soft, breathy sound—a sound more like the wind than music.
After the service, Shep approached me. “The funniest thing happened while I was worshiping,” he said. “I felt a wind pass by me.” He paused, looking around. “I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. There were no doors or windows open.”
I smiled, realizing that this was the very note Shep had prophesied: “Holy Spirit Wind.”
I’ve digressed a bit from my original story, but I wanted to share some background on God’s calling in my life. With prophetic words and visions like the one’s I’ve shared , I felt a sense of divine anticipation. The next day, as I entered the convention hall, I focused my attention on one thing: finding John.
The center was alive with activity. The hallways were filled with people sharing their spiritual gifts and praying in the Holy Spirit for one another. Laughter and the sound of prayer filled the air as the Spirit moved through the crowd. There was one group so deeply touched by the Spirit that they would fall to the floor, laughing uncontrollably as the Spirit ministered to each one of them.
In the midst of all of this, my wife had set up a folding step ladder, which served as a podium for making announcements. She encouraged me to climb the ladder and play my flute, but the idea made me feel uneasy. Initially, I did, but feeling uncomfortable, I quickly climbed back down.
So, Peggy, seeing my unease, took matters into her own hands. She climbed the ladder herself and called out John’s name above the noise of the crowd, inviting him to meet us where we were.
When John finally made his way to us, I suggested we head downstairs to find a quieter place. At first, we talked to get to know each other, sang songs, and worshipped together. Eventually, I felt led to ask him about the cause of his blindness. He shared a startling revelation. His blindness wasn’t something he was born with; rather, he believed it was because of a macumba curse, a form of black magic like Voodoo, placed on him several years earlier during a mission trip to Brazil. He explained that Macumba, an Afro-Brazilian religion known for its strong connection to dark spiritual practices, was the source of his affliction.
I felt an overpowering urgency in my spirit to see God’s healing power and the restoration of John’s sight. But first, I needed to get a baseline of what John could or couldn’t see. I held up two fingers with my right hand, then five with my left. In both cases, John couldn’t see how many fingers I was holding. This was new territory for me. I had prayed for small things in the past, but this was huge—I had never prayed for someone who was blind before.
I began by telling John how God had awakened me in the night and instructed me to play “Amazing Grace” for him. He eagerly welcomed the idea. As I yielded to God’s leading and began to play the melody on my flute, I felt the Holy Spirit’s presence sweep over me, empowering me to play with confidence. As I played, John received God’s amazing grace, and in the authority I had been given in Christ, I boldly commanded healing for his eyesight in the Name of Jesus. It was a powerful reminder that when we step out in faith, even in our vulnerability, God’s power moves through us, enabling us to fulfill His purpose and bring restoration where it’s needed.
Afterward, I tested his vision again by holding up the same number of fingers as before. This time, he was able to identify them correctly. He also mentioned that he was able to make out my facial features, which had been blurry before. Although his healing wasn’t fully complete, he believed that God had started the process and was confident that his sight would be fully restored.
John 14:12 says “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.”
Though John hadn’t experienced complete healing yet, the improvement was a significant beginning. While I had hoped for immediate restoration, both of us knew that we needed to continue trusting in God’s goodness for the full restoration of his sight—even when we don’t have all the answers. When we rely solely on our own strength, often the healing process doesn’t make sense. This is because God’s faith goes beyond our own; His faith operates supernaturally, beyond the limitations of our natural understanding. To have such faith is truly Amazing Grace.
CONCLUSIVE THOUGHTS:
“That’s Amazing Grace” is one of those miracle stories that continues to inspire me, and it’s a testament that God’s healing power is alive and active today. It offers hope to everyone that they, too, can do all things through Christ who strengthens us. So, be encouraged. There’s no reason to doubt your ability to pray for others—you absolutely can. Amazing Grace is God’s supernatural enabling power and favor, providing you with the strength to act. Just ask Him.
Copyright 2023
CREDITS
That’s Amazing Grace was written by Bill Hutzel
.Voice over by elevenlabs io
Flute arrangement and solo flute by Bill Hutzel
Produced, arranged, and recorded by John D’Elia, Such Clay Productions
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 rises in the east. Listening to the waves roll in and the simple joy of looking for sea glass have always been cherished pastimes of mine since I was a little boy. Even now, in my later years, it remains one of my favorite things to do.
For example, I would fill my pockets with a rainbow of colored sea glass polished by the sea, frosted blues, aquamarines, pinks, and other unexpected treasures. The joy of finding these gems, their edges worn smooth by the surf, never faded, no matter my age.
Then, when I met Peggy, I couldn’t wait to share this special part of my life with her. One afternoon, we drove to Bay Head, eager to experience the peace of the shore together. Upon arrival, we found a quiet, secluded spot on the sand, far enough from the water’s edge to escape the crowd so we wouldn’t be disturbed. It was the perfect place for reminiscing and exchanging stories.
We laid out a couple of towels and settled in. The air and the sand were warm, with not a cloud in the sky. The gentle lull of the waves transported me back to my younger years, flooding my mind with fond memories that I eagerly shared with her.
As we sat there, getting to know each other better, what stood out most to me about Peggy was her profound intimacy with God, a connection far deeper than anything I had ever known. With kindness and a genuine desire for me to experience that same closeness, she gently invited me into that depth, encouraging me to explore the quiet places within where God waits to be found.
In her gentle, caring way, she asked me to close my eyes and envision where I could see Jesus. Where is Jesus right now? she asked softly. Her voice was calm, stirring something deep inside of me. I didn’t resist her invitation, though normally I might have, held back by my vulnerability and doubts that often stifled the freedom to let my imagination wander freely, unrestrained by the walls I’d built around it. But with Peggy, I felt a quiet peace. Instead, I allowed myself to be drawn into the deepest recesses of my mind, where God was calling me to meet Him.
As I listened to the waves, watching them wash up on shore, I became mesmerized by their ebb and flow, imagining them gently lapping at my feet while we sat further back from the water’s edge. The beauty of the waves and the soft sound of their crashing drew me in, allowing me to go deep, blocking the distant hum of passing cars, the cacophony of chatter from beachgoers, and the distractions of this world. Gradually, Peggy’s voice began to fade as I found myself transported, lost entirely somewhere else, in the stillness where God was waiting for me.
In my mind, I saw myself drifting far out in the depths 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, tender and caring, like the soft stroke of a woman’s hand upon my arm.
At that moment, I became lost in my thoughts, focused solely on God’s calming presence. He did not seem troubled by things I am frequently troubled by. Instead, He spoke to me with love and compassion. “Go deep,” he whispered. “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 to a place deeper than my feet could ever tread, to an intimacy I had never experienced before.
The lyrics from the song Oceans by Hillsong beautifully capture the depth of my feelings in that moment. As I was called to step into the unknown, I found God’s presence waiting for me in the deepest waters.”
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.
God wanted me to be alone with Him, inviting my attention and worship in the quiet of my mind and spirit. As I surrendered, 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. I couldn’t help but wonder, How could anyone not marvel at the glory of God’s creation?
Copyright 2019 (revised 2025)
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 was processed at check in, then led to a small, curtained waiting area. The space felt sterile and impersonal, and where time seemed to stretch and blur. I was briefly examined, then X-rays were ordered. But then came the hardest part: waiting.
What followed was an agonizing stretch of time that seemed to crawl with the weight of uncertainty and concern about how I’d be able to afford my hospital visit without medical insurance. The fear of the unknown loomed larger with each passing second. In my pain and depression, I prayed to God for a miracle, but it seemed as if He did not hear me as my mind was a jumble of unrelenting chatter and noise. To use a metaphor, it was like trying to tune in to a radio station, only to hear the maddening buzz of static. That was me. I couldn’t tune into God’s wavelength. His signal, the peace I longed for, was lost in the din of my own anxious thoughts.
The room where I waited was relatively quiet, except for the soft footsteps and murmured exchanges of nurses tending to other emergency patients, their anxious thoughts palpable, each one trapped in their own world of worry and pain. This only added to the strange solitude I felt.
My own thoughts spiraled, dwelling on the pain in my wrist and the questions that hung unanswered. I felt separated from the world outside by a thin white curtain and seemingly an endless wait for results that would eventually reveal the next steps in this unwished-for journey.
When the surgeon finally arrived, he pulled back the curtain and entered, holding his clipboard. He was dressed in a crisp white coat, with a stethoscope draped casually around his neck. As I recall, he was about 5 foot 10 inches tall, with a build that struck me as average, and salt and pepper gray hair that spoke of years of experience. He had a kind yet professional demeanor.
“Mr. Hutzel?” he asked, his voice calm and deliberate as if to confirm that I was he.
I looked up at him, a knot tightening in my stomach. “Yes,” I replied, feeling apprehensive.
There was a slight pause as the doctor glanced over his notes, the silence amplifying the tension I felt. 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 from different angles, the surgeon paused, intently reviewing the images. His expression changed subtly, and I could sense his uncertainty.
So, what’s the prognosis, doctor?” I inquired eagerly, filled with anticipation.
His silence lingered a bit longer than expected. Undoubtedly, he was baffled by what he observed, then replied, “Let’s wait and see. Go ahead and schedule a new appointment for next week. And under no circumstances should you drive.” It was evident that he didn’t have the words to explain what he was seeing.
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)
ts to spend time at a vacation camp nestled in Prince William Forest, Virginia. It was called Camp Happyland—no joke, that was the real name, and it was run by the Salvation Army. The camp provided the patients with fresh air, a change of scenery, enjoyable activities, and a sense of freedom—a temporary reprieve from the usual institutional setting.
