Camp Happyland

While in college, 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 addition.

During my time there, the hospital arranged for the patients to spend time at Camp Happyland, a vacation camp in Prince William Forest, Virginia. No joke!  It was a real place run by the Salvation Army, offering the patients fresh air, new surroundings, fun activities, and a sense of freedom—a temporary retreat from the usual institutional setting.

At the camp, I met many patients, each with their own distinct characteristics. 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 sound of my oars breaking the surface of the water.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a pair of beavers appeared, gliding effortlessly alongside our boat. They then 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 went on for some while. It seemed obvious they wanted to play. The patients, who had been quietly enjoying the calm, were soon 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 towards 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. Your 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 like 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 try 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 gestures, I intended to convey something friendly and warm—a general message 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 to be her date for the evening. The look in her eyes sparkled with innocence and desire, of perhaps 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 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 stepping into an entirely different world. I remember feeling out of place, as if 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 also on high alert. Unlike the mostly calm atmosphere of Camp Happyland, this church crackled with wild energy. The worship was extreme and unrestrained. People danced in the aisles, spoke in tongues, and rolled on the floor—hence the term “holy rollers.” At one point, I witnessed a man rolling on the floor while being purged of something hideous. Two women, dressed in long white dresses, with hands raised, stood over him praying. Foam began to appear from his mouth, cascading over his body like an ocean tide washing onto the shore. It was unsettling, reminding me of the biblical story where an evil spirit threw a boy into convulsions in front of Jesus.

It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. Should I run or should I stay? Yet, curiosity, and perhaps something deeper, compelled me to stay.

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, only God knew how much I would need to lean on Him that evening.

I had invited my friend Stan to join me that evening, hoping he might find the experience revelatory, something we could talk about afterward. But I should have known better. Stan wasn’t much of a churchgoer, and this was well out of his comfort zone. He didn’t last more than five minutes. I watched as he stood, eyes wide, trying to process it all—the extreme fervor of the congregants, singing loudly, clapping their hands, and others caught up in deep, soulful prayers.

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 afterward.  The whole experience was far too extreme for him, especially compared to the quiet, more formal services he might have associated with a church.

For a moment, it also crossed my mind to leave as well, before it really got going. 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?

Although the extreme ritual of handling venomous snakes was more commonly a tradition in churches across Appalachia, 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, after I’d had time to process the previous week’s experience, I returned—but this time with someone other than Stan. Patty was open to the experience which I shared upfront with her, so there would be no surprises. “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. Perhaps it was the lyrics to “Lean on Me” that echoed 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 me and Patty. 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.

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 the time, and thought little of them in the moment, letting them slip from my mind. But something in the air felt different, like there was more to what he had said than I understood. Without missing a beat, Pastor Williams picked up right where he 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, 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 good night, 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 for both of us were proof 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 the differences, both groups of people were seeking the same thing: healing and deliverance in some 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.

Through these experiences, God was showing me that His love was the key to healing—whether of body, mind, or spirit. In both places, the need was the same: a longing for wholeness of body and mind, and comfort only His love could bring. 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. It became clear to me that no matter where we, who we are or what we’re going through, God’s love is the healing power that has the ability to 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