When the Prophet Spoke And Heaven Answered

When the Prophet Spoke And Heaven Answered

The first time I stepped into Prophet Ezekiel’s church, I was not looking for a miracle. I was looking for an explanation.

Grief has a way of making even the strongest woman weak. After four miscarriages and two stillbirths, I had become a shadow of myself. The laughter that once filled my home had been replaced with silence heavy enough to suffocate.

So when the prophet fixed his eyes on me that afternoon and said,

“You may not believe it, Nkechi, but your elder sister is responsible for your woes,”

my heart skipped.

I forced a smile and shook my head. Another prophet of doom, I thought. Another man trading in fear and suspicion to grow his congregation.

But he continued.

“You have lost pregnancies. You have buried children before they could cry. This is not ordinary. Your sister is like the heart killing the liver. You are eating from hands stained with blood.”

My chest tightened.

“God forbid!” I snapped, rising from my seat. “How dare you accuse my own blood sister?”

“There is no accusation,” he replied calmly. “Only revelation.”

I left the church angry. Furious. Disgusted.

And yet…

His words followed me home.

The Weight of Dependence

The truth was simple. My marriage had not been easy.

When I first conceived, my husband was thriving in his career. We were hopeful, dreaming of nursery colors and baby names. Then suddenly, he was laid off. The job market swallowed him whole.

It was my elder sister, Ada, who stepped in.

Ada the successful businesswoman. Ada the family pillar. Ada who paid hospital bills, bought groceries, and ensured we never went hungry.

When my first baby was born lifeless, she was the one who held me as I screamed in the hospital ward.

When I miscarried months later, she paid for the procedures.

Each pregnancy ended in tears. Each time, Ada’s money cushioned the fall.

How could she be the enemy?

And yet, the prophet’s warning echoed louder when I conceived again.

“Do not use her money for this child. Borrow if you must. But avoid her help.”

I hated myself for even considering it.

The Test

Two days later, my phone rang.

“Nkechi, I’ve sent money for baby things,” Ada said warmly. “Tell me if it’s not enough.”

My throat dried.

“Thank you, Sister,” I replied.

The alert came in minutes later. It was a large amount.

Almost immediately, expenses appeared as if summoned by the deposit. Food finished. Rent due. Hospital checkups pending.

But I resisted.

I borrowed from a friend. My husband scraped together what he could. We bought baby clothes, a small cot, and delivery essentials without touching Ada’s money.

I prayed over that account daily.

Labor came at midnight on a rainy Tuesday.

It was long. Painful. Exhausting.

But at dawn, I heard it.

A cry.

Strong. Loud. Alive.

My son.

For the first time in years, joy replaced fear.

The Call

Ada called before noon.

“How did it happen?” she asked sharply. Not congratulations. Not praise to God.

“Did you use the money I sent?”

I swallowed.

“Haba, Sister Ada. Won’t you congratulate me first?”

She went quiet for a moment.

“Use the money to pay your hospital bill,” she insisted. “I will send more later. Double it.”

Her urgency unsettled me.

I lied.

“I’ve reserved it for a business after delivery.”

Silence.

Then she ended the call abruptly.

That was the first crack.

A Different Turn

I did not use her money.

I withdrew it, prayed over it, and gave it out to widows and beggars.

If there was anything attached to it, let it break there.

Ada never visited.

Never called.

Weeks later, devastating news reached me — her first son had died in a terrible road accident.

My heart shattered for her. Despite everything, she was still my sister.

When I called to console her, she screamed into the phone.

“It is your fault! Since you stopped depending on me, everything started falling apart. Don’t ever call me again!”

The line went dead.

That night, I cried not for myself, but for the sister I had lost while she was still alive.

The Revelation

Months passed.

My husband secured a job better than any he had before. Doors opened unexpectedly. Peace settled in our home.

But something deeper began to trouble me.

Was Ada truly the cause of my miscarriages?

Or had grief twisted her into bitterness?

Years later, during a family gathering, the truth surfaced.

Ada had quietly battled infertility herself for over a decade. She had never told anyone. Helping me was her way of living through the motherhood she could not experience.

When my pregnancies kept failing, she blamed herself believing perhaps her presence brought misfortune.

When my son survived without her support, it broke something in her.

Her anger was not witchcraft.

It was pain.

And the prophet?

He had planted suspicion where empathy should have grown.

The Perfect Ending

One evening, I took my son now three years old to Ada’s house.

She opened the door slowly.

Before she could speak, my son ran toward her.

“Aunty Ada!” he shouted.

He hugged her legs like he had known her forever.

Something melted.

Ada fell to her knees and wept.

“I never wished you harm,” she whispered. “I was just… empty.”

I held her.

“And I almost let someone convince me you were my enemy.”

That day, we buried suspicion.

Not with accusations.

But with understanding.

Final Words

Sometimes, the real enemy is not the person beside us but the fear planted in our hearts.

Not every tragedy is spiritual.

Not every helper is a witch.

And not every prophet speaks for God.

My story did not end with division.

It ended with forgiveness.

And that is the greater miracle.

Trust God.

But also guard your heart against voices that profit from your pain.

God bless you.