After I shared with you about the spirit who had been with me as a child, I promised I would tell you what happened when he came back.
It didn’t happen in some dramatic, lightning-filled moment. No thunder. No warning. Just an ordinary day… which, I’ve learned, is often when the most extraordinary things occur.
A woman named Adele came to see me. She was local, very bright, and deeply interested in anything mystical or intuitive. One of those people who ask thoughtful questions and actually listen to the answers. She brought her 16-year-old daughter with her, and the two of them sat across from me for a session.
As we began, I became aware of a presence.
Now, that in itself was not unusual for me. But this felt different.
I saw a man. Dark eyes, thick, slightly wild hair, and the feeling that he came from somewhere in the Middle East. There was something strong about him, but not overwhelming. In fact, I felt… comfortable. Almost as if I already knew him.
So, as I often do, I asked silently, “Who are you? You’re her teacher, right?” The response came immediately.
“No. I am not her teacher. I am yours.”
That got my attention.
I asked his name, and just before he answered, there was this flicker of recognition—like trying to remember a dream that’s just out of reach. Then he said it.
Ezekiel.
I actually asked him to spell it, which now makes me smile a little. He did, very patiently. I remember thinking, “That sounds familiar… I must have heard it somewhere.” And just as quickly, I set it aside and continued the session.
It wasn’t until after Adele and her daughter left that something shifted.
I went looking for an encyclopedia—this was long before we could just look things up in seconds—and found the name.
And my very first reaction was, “Oh no… I am not going there.”
It felt too big. Too strange. And honestly, I had no interest in being seen as someone with anything “special.” That idea made me far more uncomfortable than curious.
So I did what many of us do when something doesn’t fit neatly into our understanding.
I ignored it.
At least, I tried to.
The next day, while my daughter was at school and my son was napping, he came back.
Very calmly, he said, “Lay down and take a deep breath.”
Now, that sounded reasonable enough, so I did.
That moment was the beginning of something that would continue for the next three years.
We spoke often. Not always in ways that would make immediate sense, and certainly not in ways I would have chosen or planned. Some of it felt natural. Some of it felt… well, let’s just say it took some adjusting.
Adele became part of this in a very grounded, practical way. Months later, when I finally told her what was happening, she offered to help document it. We used a tape recorder—again, different times—and she would take the recordings home and carefully transcribe them.
Looking back, some of those conversations seemed almost impossible to understand in the moment. Not wrong, just… beyond where I was at the time.
And then there was something else I can’t leave out, because it mattered.
I had been cold most of my life. Low blood sugar, low blood pressure—it was just how my body was. Being cold was normal for me.
One night, I could feel that Ezekiel wanted to come closer, to join more fully.
I hesitated. Of course I did.
But I also trusted what I had been experiencing.
So I allowed it.
From that moment on, I was warm.
And I stayed warm.
Now, I know how that sounds. I do. If someone had told me that story years earlier, I would have listened politely… and then quietly wondered what they had been through.
But this is exactly how it happened.
Those three years were not about becoming something. They were about allowing something I did not fully understand—and learning, slowly, how to remain grounded within it.
In the next letter, I’ll share one of the conversations that challenged me the most… and what it taught me about energy, the body, and the responsibility that comes with this kind of connection.
Some experiences don’t ask for your belief.
They simply ask that you listen.
With love,
Nancy
