Hospital visits are no stranger to me. I’m the type to only go to the doctor if there’s a problem I can’t solve myself with home remedies. This was one of those problems.

For close to a month, I have been gaining unexplained weight. All my adult life, I’ve been a size 4 and have only weighed around 126 pounds. When I couldn’t fit into my trousers, I thought my metabolism had slowed down due to my career change―I’d gone from working on my feet to working at my desk. So I increased my exercise and reduced my sugar intake. It didn’t help. I tried eating smaller meals more often throughout the day. It didn’t help. I tried sleeping more than four hours a day. It didn’t help. I thrive on stress, but even reducing that didn’t help.

Then I noticed my feet were bulging out of shoes I’ve been wearing off and on for years now. I elevated my feet while I worked from home, but the swelling rushed right back. That’s when I knew I wasn’t just gaining weight.

I did what any normal person would do. I googled my symptoms; the results were, of course, terrifying. Liver failure, kidney failure, or congestive heart failure. I called my doctor right away to set up an appointment, but the availability wasn’t until August. I knew I couldn’t wait two months. So, hospital here I come!

When called back for triage, I listed all my symptoms―not that I had to considering how noticeable the swelling was in my calves and feet―and the first question out of the nurse’s mouth was, “Any family history of heart problems?”

Right then, it hit me: this could really be my heart.

I decided to look up the symptoms and treatment of congestive heart failure. I was experiencing everything on the list. Not just one or two, but all of the symptoms. The worst part is: over 50% of people diagnosed with congestive heart failure survived only five years after the diagnosis.

My first thought reading that was not fear, surprisingly. Not the fear of “I should have done more for God” or “I should have spent more time with my family” or “I don’t want to die; there’s so much left to do.” I felt peace overcome me. The peace of knowing that this might be what brings me home to Christ.

For me, death is a beautiful end to a lifetime of stories. It’s God saying, “Time to come home, Daughter.” And I am beyond willing to come when God calls me. This world is not my home, and nothing in this world is worth hanging onto. Not even the people I love because I know I will see them again.

That is the comfort of being Christian. That though we feel death’s sting when we lose a loved one, we persevere without them by holding onto the confidence that we will be reunited in Heaven.

The apostle Paul offers this comfort in First Thessalonians 4:16-17:

“…and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds…”

Remembering God’s truth saw me through the entire hospital visit and diagnosis. There is comfort in knowing that, should I die in the next five-to-ten years, I will see my children again because we have all put our faith in Jesus Christ and have chosen Heaven as our final destination.

This comfort is offered to all who believe in Jesus. To those who believe He died and rose from the grave and ascended into Heaven. If you choose to follow Christ, that’s where you’re choosing to follow Him to: Heaven, where you will be reunited with all those you love who died as believers too.

I know where I’m going when my years run out. I’ll be waiting for my children to join me in the Promised Land.

Want to learn more about Jesus’ promise of everlasting life? Feel free to email me at writerdannyraye@gmail.com! Thank you for reading.

* I was diagnosed with peripheral edema, which is swelling caused by fluid retention. Despite the doctors and I being almost 100% certain it was going to be heart failure, God moved through our prayers, and I ended up with something mildly uncomfortable but treatable. Praise the God who saves!