Pictured from right to left, Cathy Barlow Garrison, Nancy Shearer, Jenny Cline, and Bill Hutzel (center) … Photo by Jack Shearer
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In memory of Cathy Barlow Garrison, who passed away on Wednesday, November 23rd, 2016.
Cathy always seemed to celebrate life. So it was fitting that the ceremony in her honor… was called a celebration
And yet— I was deeply saddened to see her go.
Even knowing she had gone to a better place.
It’s a perfect place
where there is no pain…
no suffering…
no disability…
no sickness.
It’s hard for me to fully comprehend such a place. Because I am still of this world, and I cannot yet see God clearly.
But it is described as something picturesque and glorious.
Grander than anything I’ve ever imagined.
Angels on white clouds… playing music… skateboarding down streets of gold—and other depictions from movies I had seen.
Joy was everywhere!
And I imagine Cathy there.
Playing in a glorious flute choir.
No more endless practice. No more striving for perfection.
Now, anything she picks up… she plays beautifully.
Effortlessly.
The church was standing room only.
Tears were everywhere.
But even then… Cathy reminded us to look on the bright side of life.
As we said our goodbyes the ceremony ended with a song:
“Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” from Monty Python’s Life of Brian.
Go on” said the priest
Sing it, Sing it, everybody!
And as we sang along to a recording played through the church’s sound system, I thought that Cathy must have been laughing at our heartfelt attempt to sing the lyrics:
“Always look on the bright side of life, de-dum .. de-diddly-dum-de-dum.”
Cathy would have wanted that.
She would have wanted us to sing and rejoice.
But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t sing.
I couldn’t even whistle.
My lips were trembling.
I was just trying to hold it together.
That song…that was her choice.
Of course it was.
She had a marvelous and wonderfully zany sense of humor.
Even near the end of her life, she could still laugh.
When a Facebook glitch mistakenly changed people’s Facebook profiles to memorialized, Cathy joked about checking her page to make sure she wasn’t dead yet.
You have to laugh.
Her email handle was: “cheerfulflutist.”
And that’s exactly who she was.
Cheerful.
And, she inspired all of us to be the same.
The song in the background of this audio recording is entitled “Alleluia” by Ralph Manuel and performed by Flutatious! members Cathy Garrison, Jenny Cline, Nancy Shearer, Flora Pollack, Bill Hoff, and Bill Hutzel. This musical offering, offered in love and remembrance, was shared at Cathy’s Celebration of Life, with one cherished member absent.
The photograph was taken by Jack Shearer. Jack, thank you!
Copyright 2016 by Bill Hutzel
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Every now and then, life hands us an opportunity that feels bigger than we are—an open door we didn’t expect, a moment that stirs both excitement and a touch of nervousness. Those are the places where God often draws near.
The story you’re about to read is one of those moments.
In 2017, I was asked to perform with Robin Mark, an Irish Christian singer, songwriter, worship leader, and recording artist from Belfast, Northern Ireland. His music had been sung around the world. With thirteen albums and more than two million sold, he was well known—just not one I recognized at first.
Still, without hesitation I replied, “Sure, I’d be glad to accompany him,” even though I would have only two and a half weeks’ notice to prepare. Even though I wasn’t familiar with who he was, I rarely turned down a playing opportunity. I was looking forward to it and was confident in my ability to perform.
Who’s Robin Mark?
That’s the question I asked myself after I agreed. I was told the music would be provided, but what landed in my hands were simple song sheets with guitar chords—nothing close to what I needed. I needed to hear the songs and let them take root. But with only two and a half weeks to prepare, I began to get a touch of nervousness.
So, I contacted the radio station affiliated with our church and managed to obtain three of Robin Mark’s recordings. That’s when I realized I had my work cut out for me. Irish Celtic music wasn’t a genre I was used to playing, but I knew I could learn the flute parts straight from the recordings, but I’d really have to dig in.
And honestly, the challenge didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. If anything, it made the invitation even more meaningful. It was an honor to have been asked—especially knowing I was stepping in for Robin’s regular Irish flutist who couldn’t make the trip to the United States. This wasn’t just another gig. It was an opportunity, and I wanted to rise to it.
For the next two and a half weeks, I immersed myself in the playlist. Morning, noon, and night, I listened to nothing but Robin Mark’s music, letting every phrase settle into me until it felt natural.
Just before the concert, a prophetic word of encouragement came—one that reached straight to my heart, as if God Himself were cheering me on:
“Bill, you have an audience of one—it’s Me! Keep your eyes fixed on Me. You don’t have to impress anyone. I gave you the flute and the ability to play. My angels are surrounding you. Keep your eyes on Me, not Robin Mark or the band. Your future is in My hands. Your melody flows on earth and in the heavens. You are My instrument. I am pleased with you. My peace replaces fear. Enjoy the concert. Enjoy My presence! Have fun as if you and I are the only ones.”
Those words steadied me, filling me with a sense of peace and confidence that I carried onto the stage.
When Robin Mark arrived one hour before the concert, we managed a quick warm-up —barely enough time to get acquainted and just skim through a handful of pieces. It wasn’t nearly enough time to digest the two full hours of music ahead of us, but it was all we had.
It’s Showtime
As the concert kicked off, I could feel that familiar mix of excitement and nerves—the quiet signal that you’re stepping into something bigger than you imagined. But as the music unfolded, I felt myself settle. Hours of practice at home had given me confidence, and listening to his recordings beforehand allowed me to flow naturally alongside him.
Midway through the concert, Robin Mark—clearly picking up on my growing confidence—decided to have a little fun with me. The song Days of Elijah featured a lively Celtic jig, the kind usually played on an Irish flute. Wanting to stay true to the original sound, I had originally borrowed one from a friend. But with so little time to get comfortable with its wider tone-hole spacing, my fingers wouldn’t quite cooperate. So, I used my wooden flute instead—different instrument, yes, but still carrying that warm, wood-toned character that fit the moment perfectly.
After I played it through once, Robin looked over and motioned, “Do it again.”
And then again.
Each time faster than the last.
By the final go-around, he had left center stage, moving toward me, leaning in, pointing the neck of his guitar as if daring me to keep up. By that point, I was just holding on. Any faster, and… well, let’s just say the wheels might’ve come off.
Phew.
After the concert, I asked him, “What was that all about, Robin?”
He grinned and said with a laugh, “I was just having some fun with you, Bill.”
Closing Reflection
I’ll never forget trying to keep pace with that jig while Robin marched toward me, pointing his guitar like a Celtic ringmaster daring me to go faster and faster. And somehow, in the middle of that whirlwind, I held on as if for dear life life—and strangely enough, it felt as though heaven leaned in for the fun.
Because the truth is, we’re never playing solo. Maybe there really were angels close by, just as was spoken over me—cheering me on, laughing and joining me in the joy (and sweat) of that unexpected moment.
Either way, the lesson is the same: we are never alone. We are instruments in His hands, and the music we make—whether it comes out smooth or wildly offbeat—is always part of His plan.
Copyright 2025 by Bill Hutzel
Live mobile phone recording made at Zarephath Christian Church, New Jersey
Bring your voice. Bring your song. And yes—bring your flute, Peggy said to me over the phone. Of course I wanted to play. And I especially wanted to see Peggy again.
It was 2017, and she was inviting me to Awaken the Dawn, a gathering on the National Mall where tens of thousands of worshippers and 1,700 worship teams converged for a weekend of 24/7 praise, worship, and intercessory prayer. Some were already calling it a Jesus Woodstock for a New Generation, America’s Tent of Meeting. Whispers spread even before the crowds arrived: could this be the next great Jesus Movement? I didn’t know yet. But I was about to find out.
When the Door Closed, Love Opened Another
Although it was uncertain whether I would be able to participate, Peggy encouraged me to apply to perform with one of the worship teams. I submitted my application—hopeful, but unsure.
A few days later, the reply came: Application denied.
Then came another obstacle: there were no accommodations available anywhere near the event.
Peggy had already booked her flight. She was scheduled to land at Ronald Reagan Airport at 1:30 p.m. on Friday, October 6.
“Would you consider meeting me there?” she asked. As a single woman attending such a large event on her own, she was hoping for spiritual support. Even if you can only stay for a few hours,” she continued, “your being there and lifting me up in prayer would mean the world to me.”
How could I say no? My heart longed to see her again, even if I could not stay. I was resolved to go.
“I’d love to,” I said. “I look forward to it!” And I truly did. I was genuinely excited to see her again, even if only briefly.
The drive from New Jersey passed quickly, carried along by one thought: Peggy.
When she arrived, I spotted her and waved. She smiled.
“So good to see you,” I said, then took her bags and gave her a warm hug.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Anywhere,” she said with a smile.
We found a park nearby on the Potomac River with picnic tables. It was a beautiful fall day, warm temperatures in the 80s, with a few clouds floating lazily overhead. We ate lunch and prayed together before her event.
Time slipped away from us, and before I realized it, it was too late for me to make the drive back to New Jersey. Without a hotel reservation, I was unsure what to do—until Peggy suggested that I ask at the Airbnb where she was staying.
Thankfully, they could accommodate me.
And yes—I had packed clothes… and my flute.
Flute in Hand, Faith in Motion
The next morning, we stumbled upon a COSI restaurant for breakfast before heading to the Georgia tent, where Peggy was scheduled to speak.
I hung around for a little while, but eventually set off on my own to explore with my flute in hand, hoping for an opportunity to play.
I wandered from one state tent to another, listening to singers, musicians, and worship leaders perform. At the Eastern Regional tent, I poked my head inside and asked the sound guy, “Hey, do you mind if I join you guys?” feeling confident that I could lend my flute to familiar worship songs I had played before.
I held up my flute, but he shook his head. “Sorry, fella. You have to get permission from the main registration tent.”
Disappointed, but not discouraged, I moved on. Eventually, I wandered to the New Jersey tent, where a small, casual group of musicians had gathered to perform.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked, hopefully again.
They welcomed me warmly, and I joined in. But as time passed, my enthusiasm slowly began to wane.
I felt disconnected from the group, hoping for a deeper, more inclusive, and rewarding experience.
The session felt too casual, almost like a way to pass the time. I guess I had been longing for something more challenging and inspiring. But this wasn’t it.
That’s when my phone buzzed. It was Peggy: “Where are you?” She asked. I have an assignment for you. And hurry!”
I packed up my flute and quickened my pace, sometimes walking briskly, sometimes breaking into a light jog, as I made my way back toward the Georgia tent, wondering what this urgent “assignment” might be.
The question kept pressing with every step, making me all the more eager to find out.
The First Time God Used Me
When I arrived, Peggy introduced me to a woman who was cradling a broken wrist in a cast. “Would you pray for her?” she asked.
I blinked, “Seriously?” I was completely caught off guard. I had never done anything like this before, and did not feel qualified. But then Peggy reminded me, “She has the same injury you had. And God told me you’re the one to pray for her.”
And just like that, it hit me: my own fractured wrist, Hurricane Sandy, and how God had miraculously healed me when I cried out in desperation. (See chapter titled “Into the Storm”)
Peggy looked at me, then said, “That same anointing is now on you.”
I looked at the woman’s right wrist. It was the same one as mine had been. I hesitated. Doubt crept in. What if nothing happens?
Somehow, Peggy must have sensed my unease. Without my saying a word, she reassured me, “The healing is never up to you. You’re just the conduit; God does the healing.”
I took a deep breath, gently placed my hand on the woman’s wrist, and, together with Peggy, we prayed in the Name of Jesus for her complete healing and full restoration.
Already sensing in her spirit, Peggy asked the woman, perhaps for my benefit more than hers, “Did you feel anything? Any tingling sensation, any warmth … anything at all?
The woman nodded. “Yes,” she said. I felt warmth right where you laid your hand.”
Her words immediately brought me back to my own healing during Hurricane Sandy. I had been in desperate need of healing when I, too, had broken my wrist. I still remember the moment hands were laid on me and the fire I felt coursing up and down my arm. It wasn’t my imagination; it was real.
Now, here I was, years later. I felt the Lord had drawn me full circle, connecting my healing to hers, as if He had woven both moments together for His purpose.
.Then, Peggy asked her, “Can you do something now you couldn’t do before?”
The woman carefully raised her arm and began to turn her wrist, testing it. I held my breath, just hoping, hoping against hope, as if there was the possibility of a miracle happening right before my eyes.
Then, a look of wonder and a smile came over her face. “No pain!” she exclaimed, “It doesn’t hurt anymore!”
I stood there stunned. I had just witnessed a miracle.
And as it turned out, this was just the start of what would become an incredible weekend, full of moments just like this.
If God Wants You to Play
That afternoon, still riding the high of seeing the woman’s healing, Peggy and I made our way to the main registration tent, hoping that I might finally get permission to play. But, once again, the answer was still “No.”
I was disappointed, but Peggy, undeterred, said, “Listen, if God wants you to play, which I believe He does, then no man can keep you from playing.
Back at the Georgia tent, a Cherokee Christian band was warming up. A crowd was gathering. Peggy nudged me.
“Hey, why don’t you ask if you can join them?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, initially feeling anxious about possibly being rejected again. “What if they say no? Besides, these guys were really, really good.”
“And you aren’t?” she said, eyebrow raised. “Oh well, your loss. Do what you feel is right,” Peggy said.
She was right. What did I have to lose? If I didn’t take this chance, I’d miss the very reason I brought my flute to the event. So, summoning my courage, I took my flute out of its case and raised it as a silent question to the lead singer.
He looked over, smiled, then waved me over. “Sure, join us!”
Surprisingly, as soon as I stepped in, I found myself lost in one of the most spontaneous and Spirit-led sets I had ever played. My flute exchanged improvised passages back and forth with the saxophone player, creating a musical conversation I’ll never forget.
Afterward, the lead singer came over to me.
“Hey man, you killed it!” “How would you like to join us tomorrow morning on the Eastern Regional Stage? “
My heart leapt, and without hesitation, I enthusiastically replied with a big “Yes.”
I turned my head to look at Peggy, and she had the biggest smile on her face and said, “See what God did right there?”
Stage Fright and Surrender
The next morning, there I was standing on the Eastern Regional Stage, amazed at how God had turned everything around. Isn’t that just like Him? Taking me from feeling downcast and out, to opening doors that were once closed.
How cool is that?
But as more band members took their places, musicians I hadn’t played with the day before, a nervousness gripped my stomach. There would be no warm-up, no rehearsal before the concert. Jumping in with an established group that already has chemistry felt… well, uncomfortable. I couldn’t help but wonder how I would fit into their flow.
And to add to my nervousness, unlike yesterday’s relaxed, informal jam, I was now on a large stage set inside a massive tent, in front of hundreds of worshipers gathered for the concert. It wasn’t the casual setting as it had been the day before.
This was real, public, live before a large audience.
The weight of it all began to settle on me: No script, No second chances. Just faith, trust, and the music we’d create in the moment.
And I hate to admit it, stage fright? Yep, it crept in.
As a performer, it wasn’t unusual to experience a touch of anxiety before facing an audience. But usually, I’d rehearsed my parts, enough to build some confidence.
This time, though? There was no sheet music. No rehearsal. No safety net.
Just a flute in my hands… and faith in my heart.
But, instead of turning my focus to God, my old self got in the way. I found myself slipping into old habits, worrying about what the audience might think. Their approval had become my measure of success, my reassurance; and, ironically, my limitation.
So here I was again, looking outward for validation, when I knew deep down, I should have been looking up, seeing myself through the eyes of the One who called me here in the first place.
When God Orders Our Steps—and the Sandwiches
The Monday after the event, it rained. “Let’s go back to that restaurant we ate breakfast at yesterday,” I suggested to Peggy. We circled the block endlessly in search of parking but came up empty. So, we decided to try a different location for the same restaurant instead.
Eventually, we finally found a spot, three blocks away.
By now it was just drizzling. “Should we go for it or find a closer place for breakfast?” I asked. We paused for a moment, then agreed to walk the distance. Little did we know, it was destined to be a God-ordained moment, perfectly timed with our arrival.
When we got inside, two women were standing in line ahead of us. They invited us to go ahead of them since they were still undecided about what to order. We moved in front of them and placed our orders. Always eager to help, Peggy turned back to suggest a couple of menu items before we left the line.
The two women soon followed and took their seats at the table just behind ours. When their food arrived, they offered a blessing and concluded with a heartfelt, “Amen.”
Then, one of them turned to us and asked, “Would you like to join us?”
It was the perfect segue. With a perfect sense of knowing, Peggy asked, “Were you both at Awaken the Dawn this weekend?”
They nodded in acknowledgement, and one said they’d visited the Georgia tent.
Peggy lit up. “Did you hear the Cherokee band?”
“Yes!” they said.
Then one of them recognized me. “ “Wait—you were the flutist, weren’t you?”
We all laughed, and introductions followed. Their names were Linda and Kathy.
Interestingly, Linda shared that she had been scheduled for surgery that weekend but felt a powerful tug from God to attend the event instead.
What happened next was nothing short of miraculous.
Peggy, having no prior knowledge of Linda’s condition, suddenly sensed something deep in her spirit, specifically Linda’s hip. This prompting is referred to as a word of knowledge, an insight from the Holy Spirit to reveal something that would otherwise not be known. Trusting this inner whisper, Peggy spoke up and mentioned it to Linda, then kindly offered to pray for her healing.
Linda, who was herself a pastor, recognizing Peggy’s ability to hear in the spirit, accepted her invitation to pray. As part of their conversation about Linda’s injury, Peggy felt led to go deeper, gently asking Linda if there was anyone she needed to forgive, a step that, in many cases, unlocks the door to healing.
With tears in her eyes, Linda shared something deeply personal and offered forgiveness to someonme who mattered deeply. Then, we prayed.
Afterward, Peggy encouraged Linda to test it out. Linda stood up from the table, took a few steps, and then began walking. Her stride grew steady, confident, her gait completely normal. Overwhelmed with emotion, she laughed as the reality of what had just happened sank in. The pain and limitations she had been living with were gone. She had been healed, all in the powerful Name of Jesus!
As she moved freely around the restaurant, Linda received a prophetic word for me. When she got back to our table, she shared what would lay the foundation for what was to come for me
She described a vision, an image of me playing the flute.
But it wasn’t just skill she saw. It was the anointing of Almighty God through me as I played.
This is what she shared:
“Jesus has delivered me from the fear of man today and forever, I play with the anointing of Almighty God in the office of a psalmist. There is a fiery wall of protection around me, a shield of Goodwill, Pleasure, and Favor. When I play, the heavens open, and I see the smile of Jesus and tears of joy in the corner of His eyes. Demons flee at the sound of my playing, and people are delivered, healed, and slain in the Spirit. Doors open for me that I must walk through. If I don’t, Jesus will not be allowed there, and those people will suffer. Red Rock, The Philharmonic, and Carnegie Hall are only a few. To God be glory forever.”
A Sidewalk Wedding
When it was time for us to leave, we stepped outside the restaurant. As we stood on the sidewalk, Linda suddenly turned to us and asked, “Are you two planning on getting married?”
Peggy and I exchanged surprised glances and nodded. We hadn’t expected the question, but yes, we were.
But still, it wasn’t something I was planning on rushing into. I figured we’d wait a couple of months, at least long enough for me to give my family a heads-up.
Besides, they hadn’t met Peggy yet, and I wanted their blessing and support.
And I could already hear the questions in their minds: “Bill, do you even know this person? What’s the rush? Why don’t you give it a year; get to know her better?”
All reasonable questions. But deep down, I knew. She was the one.
“Well, then … why not now?” Linda asked, as if it were the most natural, obvious thing in the world.
I thought: Married? Just like that?
It completely caught me by surprise, and I didn’t know what to say.
Peggy, ever the steady one, squeezed my hand. Maybe she sensed my unease. Maybe she felt my hesitancy. But, just maybe, she believed deep down that it was the unfolding of God’s promise, even if it meant starting the journey a little early.
Before we could even respond, Linda said, “Bow your heads. I now pronounce you married.”
Then, perfectly serious, she added, “You may go now and consummate your marriage.”
Wait …what just happened?!
I was stunned. It had all happened so fast; I could hardly wrap my mind around what had just unfolded. Honestly, I didn’t know whether to laugh or pretend it never happened. I felt strangely uncomfortable, and truthfully, nothing felt different.
I caught Peggy’s eye. She seemed just as surprised as I was. Though she didn’t say it, I think deep down she was happy, like this was a pre-ordained moment, even if it wasn’t at all traditional.
I smiled and squeezed Peggy’s hand. We said our goodbyes to Linda and Kathy, then parted our separate ways, or so it seemed, for the time being.
And just to be clear, no, we didn’t consummate a marriage. Let’s get that straight!
Peggy and I would officially tie the knot on December 3rd in Georgia. Reverend Linda Kelley Smith, the very same woman we met at the COSI restaurant who performed our sidewalk wedding, officiated the ceremony in front of witnesses, making it all official at last.
But our weekend didn’t end there. It would not be complete without another series of powerful healings, one of which occurred shortly after our informal sidewalk wedding.
Peggy and I were both casually strolling towards the White House when Peggy got a word of knowledge for a pastor standing nearby. With boldness and compassion, she approached him, shared what God had revealed, and offered to pray for him. He was so deeply touched by the encounter that he fell out in the spirit, right there on the street with people milling all around.
That’s my Peggy’s heart of compassion, boldly speaking life into anyone, anywhere.
Oh, and remember how I mentioned that we were fortunate to find a parking spot? Well, turns out, we had unknowingly parked in a towaway zone. Hours later, when we returned to our car, it was still there, miraculously, as we arrived just in the nick of time. As we approached, we noticed valets busily parking cars next to our spot by the curb.
With our hearts pounding, Peggy and I dashed to the car and took off, just ahead of a tow truck arriving on the scene.
We both let out a deep sigh of relief, laughing at the absurdity of it all, and marveled at how God had brought us closer together that weekend.
What a weekend. A sidewalk wedding. A prophetic word. Healing in the streets. And a nearly towed car.
As we drove away, our hearts were too full of wonder at the unexpected twists of the day, healings, a prophecy, and perhaps, the first steps into a lifetime together.
Once again, His protection was evident in the smallest moments. We couldn’t help but marvel at His faithfulness, even in the most unexpected circumstances. It was yet another reminder that God’s timing is perfect, and He is always looking out for us, guiding us, and delivering us in ways we can’t always foresee.
That weekend, I thought I was just showing up to support Peggy. But God had other plans.
He healed. He opened doors. And He spoke through strangers
What a mighty God we serve, one who sees the whole picture, moves in the unseen, and meets us right where we are.
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.â€
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.â€
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).â€
This verse spoke directly to my 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?â€
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.â€
I nodded. “Well…nice to meet you King.â€
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. Â 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?Â
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…â€
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 Fanâ€, 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.â€Â 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
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.