Chapter 1: The Divine Anhinga

Six years ago, I was lost in one of the strangest seasons of my life—a time when I chased signs like a man possessed. Every bird that crossed the sky, every flicker of light, every random thought carried cosmic weight. If an egret flew west, I felt compelled to follow. Sounds, sights, whispers—they all screamed meaning. It was exhausting, even torturing, and it eventually spilled me out into homelessness and wandering. Looking back, I see how God, the world, and the enemy all had their hands in it, yet somehow He redeemed every step.

One afternoon, driving the Manatee causeway toward Anna Maria Island, I spotted an anhinga floundering in the road. Those long-necked, dark-winged birds are common there, drying their feathers on the railings like living crucifixes. This one had caused a small fender-bender; cars slowed, hazard lights blinking. I pulled over, scooped the dazed creature into a towel, and carried it to the water’s edge. One of the drivers, a bartender from The Doctor’s Office—a craft cocktail lounge on the island—thanked me and said, “You should come by tonight. Good crowd, good vibes.” It felt friendly, not flirtatious, but in my sign-chasing state, it landed like prophecy.

Because to me, that anhinga represented the woman God had placed deeply in my heart.

I can’t fully explain the logic now—it wasn’t linear—but in that moment, I knew the bird embodied her. Fragile, beautiful, in need of rescue. And the invitation to the lounge that night? It meant she would be there. She lived hours away in Gainesville, but none of that mattered. The signs had spoken.

Later that evening, I took a modest recreational dose of DXM—not enough to lose myself, just enough to soften the edges—and called an Uber to the island. (I no longer ascribe to any drug use like this; Jesus has completely delivered and saved me from all of it. Amen.) The driver and I exchanged a few pleasantries, then I closed my eyes for the rest of the ride. What happened next has never happened before or since.

As the car moved forward, I was suddenly pulled into an inner vision: a vast, luminous tunnel of sacred geometry—fractals unfolding in perfect, infinite patterns, radiant with color and light. I was traveling through it at the speed of the Uber, yet it felt like God Himself was escorting me through time itself, forward into a future He wanted me to glimpse.

When the car slowed and the vision faded, I stepped out in front of The Doctor’s Office. The place was nearly empty—just a few locals and the warm glow of pendant lights over the bar. Sean Murphy, the legendary restaurateur who’d owned the beloved Beach Bistro (where my dad, an executive at Tropicana, had taken me a couple times as a teenager), was tending bar that night. Without any prompting, he looked straight into my eyes with unmistakable recognition, reached across the bar, and shook my hand firmly—as though greeting someone he’d been expecting. That steady, knowing gaze felt almost like a premonition of what was to come later that night across the street. In a town that remembers its own, it was startling, almost supernatural.

I ordered a Coke, admired the stunning artwork on the walls, and waited. There was a baby grand piano in the corner—I’d imagined playing it for her when she arrived. But she didn’t come. After a while, disappointed yet still compelled, I stepped outside and crossed the street to a bench that faced the lounge. From there, I watched the quiet comings and goings, the island settling into night.

Twenty minutes passed. Hardly a soul stirred. The shops were closed, the street dark and hushed.

Then a single car pulled into the lot.

A woman stepped out, accompanied by another. From two hundred feet away, in the low light, I saw her—and my heart stopped. It was the woman God had never let me release from my heart. Not the version of that present moment, but a perceptibly more mature version: graceful, poised, moving with a quiet confidence that time had polished. She walked slowly toward the entrance, and then—as if the Holy Spirit Himself turned her head—she paused, looked straight across the street, and locked eyes with me.

We stared at each other across that empty distance. Time stretched into eternity. There was no one else on the street, just the two of us suspended in that gaze.

Finally, she turned and glided inside.

I felt the strongest restraint I’ve ever known—not to follow, not to call out, not to break the moment. Just to sit there and receive it.

Years later, through the clearer lens of walking closely with Jesus, I understand what I believe happened that night. She was almost certainly still in Gainesville. But God, in His mercy and mystery, gave me a glimpse across time—a vision of the future He has refused to let me release. A promise that the woman He has guarded in my heart all these years, through every prayer to remove her, through every season of surrender, is coming.

That anhinga on the causeway, the invitation, the tunnel of light, Sean’s impossible recognition and that firm, knowing handshake, and that eternal stare across a dark street—it was all a divine marker stone.

A holy preview.

And now, as Christmas approaches once again, I carry that night not as a question mark, but as quiet, unshakable assurance.

The story isn’t over.

 

Romans 4:17
“as it is written, ‘I have made you the father of many nations’—in the presence of the God in whom he believed, who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist.”

 

Psalm 138:8
“The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever. Do not forsake the work of your hands.”

 

If this story resonates, explore the prints born from these encounters—pieces infused with the same visionary faith and raw emotion.