INTO THE STORM

CLICK BELOW TO LISTEN WITH AUDIO

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. If I may use the metaphor, I could only hear the annoying “bzzzzzt-bzzt-bzzzzzzzt” of a radio station that I could not tune in. 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 white frock, 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 demeanor, yet professional.

“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, each from a different angle, the surgeon paused to review the images.

So, what’s the prognosis, doctor?” I inquired eagerly, filled with anticipation.

Undoubtedly, he was baffled by what he observed, as he replied, “Let’s wait and see. Go ahead and schedule a new appointment for next week. And under no circumstances should you drive.” I protested, explaining that I was supposed to attend a flute convention in Ohio, yet he insisted; under no circumstances should I be behind the wheel. Despite his advice, I was determined to attend, confident that God had healed my wrist. I arranged for another flutist to accompany me, and we shared the 18-hour road trip to Ohio and back.

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)