Camp Happyland

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.

Bo, for instance, shuffled his feet wherever he went with an air of detachment, 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 of 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 that I enjoyed for the most part, 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.

Suddenly, 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 suddenly 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 had started as a peaceful boat ride soon became tense. As I rowed 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 what seemed like 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 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.

After safely returning to shore, 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 experience that stands out, where I thought it would be fun to practice communicating with the deaf patients using sign language. My skills, admittedly, were less than basic, just a handful of expressions I’d picked up along the way.

As I fumbled through the hand gestures, I intended to convey something friendly and warm, one of goodwill and affection, 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.

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 an entirely different world. I remember feeling out of place, like I didn’t belong. Not only did I stand out like a splotch of white paint on a canvas of black and brown, being the only white person in attendance, but my senses were on high alert.

The worship was unlike anything I had ever known, extreme and unrestrained. Should I run or stay? Yet, curiosity- and perhaps something deeper- compelled me to remain.

People danced in the aisles, spoke in tongues, and a couple writhed on the floor—hence the name “holy rollers.” At one point, I watched a man roll uncontrollably, while two women in long white dresses stood over him, arms outstretched, casting out what seemed to be something hideous. His mouth frothed, the foam cascading down his body like ocean waves washing onto shore.

The whole thing was deeply unsettling. It didn’t feel fake or like some kind of show—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 moment.

At the time, “Lean On Me” by Bill Withers was the number-one song on the pop charts. While not originally written as a religious song, it went on to become a popular Christian song depicting a God whom we can lean on and who would be our friend to help us carry on. Little did I know that evening as I stepped into that small church, God only knew how much I would need to lean on Him.

As the service ramped up, I scanned the walls of the church, half-expecting to see something out of the ordinary. My mind wandered 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, in Matthew 4:7, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.”

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 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 the 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. I think we 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 to make a beeline for the exit. It was just too much for him. He grabbed my keys and headed straight for my car, where he waited until the service was over. I knew, then, that I would be on the receiving end of a loaded shotgun of complaints.

The whole experience was far too extreme for him, 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 following week, after I’d had time to process the experience, I returned to the church, but this time with someone other than Stan. Patty was open-minded to the experience, and I made sure to share upfront what to expect, so there would be no surprises.

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, almost as if He were wrapping His arms around me, someone I could lean on for strength.

Maybe it was the lyrics to “Lean on Me” still 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 in the middle of his 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.

He then continued, his gaze locking onto mine with a piercing intensity as he recited Isaiah 56:7 – “These I will bring to my holy mountain and give them joy in my house of prayer. ” I didn’t know what to make of those words at that moment, allowing them to slip from my mind. It wasn’t until later that I realized the pastor wasn’t just speaking generally; he was including Patty and me, the only two white people in the congregation. “Be joyful for you are in My house of prayer … for My house will be called a house of prayer for all peoples, for all races and colors.”

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 our goodbyes 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 experience was equally as unfamiliar as it had been for Stan. But, unlike Stan, she was more open to the experience. 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 unusual experiences—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?

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.

I walked Patty back to her cabin and was just about to say goodnight when something unexpected happened. When she opened the door, she found a fan in the middle of her room, blowing cool air. “Where did that come from?” she exclaimed in disbelief. We both stood there for a moment, completely caught off guard and unable to explain how it had appeared. 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.

For many of us, God’s small miracles are a revelation, proof that He exists, that He cares for us, and that He is actively involved in the details of our lives. But they are also evidence of His goodness, power, and majesty.

For Patty, who attended the service out of curiosity and skepticism, the pastor’s prophetic word and the unexpected appearance of the fan in her room were proof for both of us that this was not a coincidence but rather a God-incidence or God wink. 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 by Eleven Labs