The earliest teachings I received from Ezekiel centered on healing—specifically, the art of absent healing. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the depth of what I was learning. I only knew that I was being shown techniques that required trust, surrender, and a willingness to step beyond what I thought was possible.
One day, while my then-husband was at work, I felt compelled to call him. I asked if his secretary had just learned that her brother had been in a motorcycle accident. He confirmed it—she was crying, and her brother had been rushed to the hospital in critical condition.
I felt that the young man was gravely ill.
Following Ezekiel’s prior instruction, I lay down to begin what he called “soul-to-soul work.” I loosened my clothing, placed my hands at my sides, and stretched my legs straight. I was told he would protect my body as I traveled beyond it.
With slow, deep breaths, I closed my eyes.
Almost immediately, I began to see fields of blue and violet—soft, fluid, like a watercolor painting in motion. Then came a distinct sensation: a gentle tug in my abdomen. In what felt like the same instant, I became aware of a young man lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines. His brain activity was nearly flat.
Though I could not see his energy field clearly, I sensed a translucent presence nearby—his spirit. When I introduced myself, he communicated not through words, but through images and feelings. I saw the accident unfold: a motorcycle, a missed stop sign, a black and red flannel shirt, no helmet. Later, all of this would be confirmed.
But more than the images, I felt his inner state—reckless, angry, hurting. He showed me that this was not just how he rode that day, but how he had been moving through life. There was a deep desire within him to change, to begin again.
Before I could respond, I remembered one of Ezekiel’s most important teachings:
Never give your personal energy—even to those you love. Instead, draw from universal energy.
When I had questioned him before—How will I know the difference?—his answer was simple:
You will feel it. And you will not be depleted afterward.
So I did as I had been taught. I allowed universal energy to move through me. My fingers tingled as I sent healing—not from myself, but from something greater, something connected to all.
It was then that Ezekiel told me gently: this young man would not survive.
My role was not to save his physical life, but to remain present with his spirit—to help guide him safely as he transitioned from the physical plane. He explained that this passage could take several days, and that the state of one’s mind and emotions mattered deeply in that journey.
The following day, while driving home along Route 9 in Peekskill, I suddenly became aware of his presence again. I saw him as he had been—flannel shirt, jeans. I glanced at the clock: 2:43. I called my husband, and he confirmed it—this was the moment the young man had passed.
In the days that followed, his presence would return at unexpected times—while I was driving, shopping, simply living. Each time, I could feel his fear. And each time, I responded with calm, reassurance, and a sense of loving possibility.
I showed him—through feeling rather than words—that while his life had been turbulent, this next journey could be peaceful. Gentle. Surrounded by light.
I experienced that light as a full spectrum—alive, moving, almost like a soft, luminous cloud. As he absorbed it, I felt him begin to settle. To trust. To release.
Ezekiel later explained that I was helping him shift his state of being—guiding him toward peace so that his transition could unfold smoothly.
His description of this journey reminded me of ancient teachings. He encouraged me to read “The Tibetan Book of the Dead”, which offers guidance on the states between death and rebirth.
Reading this text can be deeply beneficial, especially for those navigating loss or seeking to understand what may lie beyond. It provides a framework for supporting the dying and the departed—not with fear, but with awareness, compassion, and intention. Many find that it brings a sense of peace, helping them feel less helpless and more connected during times of profound transition.
Even as I learned and practiced these teachings, I continued to question:
Who was Ezekiel?
That question stayed with me—and in many ways, it still does. Yet I came to understand that sometimes, the value of a guide is not in fully defining them, but in the wisdom they bring and the healing they facilitate.
I also recognize that stories like this can touch deeply—especially for those who have experienced the unimaginable loss of a child. There are no words that can fully soften that kind of grief. But there are spaces where that grief is understood, held, and honored.
One such space is Helping Parents Heal—a compassionate community where every parent involved has experienced the loss of a child. For many, that loss opens a profound longing for continued connection. Some find themselves drawn toward mediumship—not as a pursuit, but as a natural extension of love that does not end.
If you or someone you know is walking through that kind of loss, please know: you are not alone. And there are gentle, supportive paths that can help you navigate it.
If this story resonated with you, consider sharing it with someone who may need comfort or perspective right now. And if you feel called, take a quiet moment to reflect on the idea of connection beyond the physical—it may open doors you didn’t know were there.
Warmly,
Nancy
