The Divine Anhinga – Anna Maria Island Vision
Part of the Marker Stones series (1 of 4)
Six years ago, I was lost in one of the strangest seasons of my life—a time when meaning seemed to hunt me from every direction. Everything felt charged. Every bird crossing the sky carried cosmic weight. An egret flying west could derail my entire day. A flicker of light a command. I couldn’t tell the difference between a sign and an invitation. Sounds, sights, whispers—everything demanded interpretation.
It was exhausting. Torturous, even. Eventually, it spilled me into wandering and homelessness. Looking back now, I can see how God was still present in every step—even when the world, and the enemy, seemed determined to pull me elsewhere.
One afternoon, biking across the Manatee Causeway toward Anna Maria Island, I saw an anhinga struggling in the road. Those long-necked, dark-winged birds are common there, often perched with their wings spread wide, drying in the sun like living crucifixes. This one had caused a minor accident. Cars idled. Hazard lights blinked.
I wrapped the dazed bird in a towel, called Florida Fish and Wildlife, and carried it down to the water to wait for help.
One of the drivers—a bartender from The Doctor’s Office, a craft cocktail lounge on the island—thanked me. As we talked, she smiled and said, “You should come by tonight. Good crowd. Nice vibes.”
It felt friendly. Maybe a little flirtatious. But in my state of mind, it landed with impossible gravity. Suddenly, the anhinga wasn’t just a bird. It became a sign. A messenger. A marker stone. I believed it pointed to the woman God had placed in my heart years earlier—the one He had never allowed me to release. Beautiful. Set apart. Quietly wounded.
If the invitation existed, she would be there. Distance didn’t matter. The signs had spoken.
Later that evening, sunk deep in depression, I reached for something to dull the ache. I called an Uber to the island and closed my eyes for the ride. What happened next has never happened before or since.
As the car moved, I was pulled into an inner vision—a vast tunnel of light, luminous and ordered, fractals unfolding endlessly in radiant color. I traveled at the speed of the car, yet it felt as though I was being carried, escorted through time toward something I was meant to glimpse.
When the car slowed, the vision released me. I stepped out in front of The Doctor’s Office.
Inside, the bar was nearly empty. A few locals. Warm pendant lights. Sean Murphy—the legendary restaurateur behind the Beach Bistro—was tending bar. I’d met him only briefly as a kid, yet he looked straight at me and shook my hand firmly, without hesitation. Steady. Familiar. Like greeting someone he already knew.
In a town that remembers its own, it stopped me cold.
I ordered a Coke and took in the artwork lining the walls. A baby grand piano sat in the corner. I imagined playing it when she arrived.
She didn’t.
After a while, I stepped outside and crossed the street, sitting on a bench in front of the old laundromat, directly across from the lounge. From there, I watched the island settle into night. Twenty minutes passed. The street grew quiet. Hardly anyone stirred.
Then a single car pulled into the lot. A woman stepped out, accompanied by another. From a hundred feet away, under a dim streetlight, I saw her—and my heart stopped.
She was her. Or something so close it undid me.
The woman I’d always known—graceful, composed, moving with quiet confidence—yet something about her felt slightly out of sync, like time itself was misaligned.
She walked toward the entrance, then paused. She turned and faced directly toward me across the empty street. True eye contact wasn’t possible in that light, but something far deeper passed between us—a recognition that bypassed sight entirely.
The street disappeared. Time thinned. There was no one else. Just the two of us suspended in that moment.
Then she turned and went inside.
I felt the strongest restraint I have ever known—not to follow, not to call out, not to interfere. Just to sit there and receive it. The weight of what I’d seen and felt pressed in quietly, insistently.
Not long after this night, the absence of that kind of restraint—fueled by drugs and alcohol I had never touched before and never would again—would lead me into one of the most painful consequences of my life. That contrast taught me, more than anything else, the mercy of divine boundaries.
Behind me, in the same strip as the laundromat, was a bar called D Coy Ducks. I hadn’t been paying attention to it—my gaze was fixed on The Doctor’s Office, on healing, on her—but I noticed it. At the time, I thought it was a warning.
Only later did I understand. It wasn’t about that night or that woman. It marked a different season—one I wouldn’t understand until much later. Some experiences carry you for a moment. Others are meant to last. That season taught me how deeply I can love, and I’m grateful for it.
Years later, with clearer eyes and steadier faith, I understand what I believe happened that night. She was almost certainly nowhere near that island. But God, in His mercy, allowed me a glimpse across time—a quiet promise carried through surrender and unanswered prayers.
Taken together—the anhinga stranded on the causeway, the bartender’s gentle invitation, the tunnel of light in the Uber, Sean Murphy’s steady handshake as if he already knew me, and that gaze across the dark street that stopped time—it all formed something unmistakable.
A divine marker stone placed in my path.
A holy preview of what God is still bringing.
Every mercy—the hands that carried the bird, the signs, the restraint—was Him saying, I’ve got you, son.
The darkness tried.
It didn’t win.
He did.
Praise Jesus,
Jason
Read the full series: [1. The Divine Anhinga] [2. Exactly Where the Rain Fell] [3. Frozen Mercy] [4. Savage Nights]