What If That Body Were Mine?

Image Credit: Stretcher by bee32 / Getty Images, via Canva.

In May 2024, I had to return to my home province in Negros Oriental. One of my aunties had rushed her youngest child to the ICU. Our town had no proper hospital, so they brought him to another city. No one else could be with them. On my mother’s side, I am the eldest grandchild. Most of my cousins are still too young. My brother and another cousin, who are of age, had either school or work to attend to. My other aunties and uncles had their own families to look after. At the time, I was the only one who could go. I work as a freelancer and do my studies online and at my own pace, and by God's providence, my schedule was light. So I went.

We stayed in that hospital for almost two weeks. For the first week, my little cousin was in the ICU, and we had no room to stay. But the hospital has an open space, so we camped there. That is a ground-level area supported by pillars, partly enclosed by an unused office, with the mortuary quietly resting behind it. The open part was shared by many families, some staying with tents or mats, others sitting on plastic chairs. It was shaded but not comfortable. The heat was constant. The noise, unavoidable. There were very few electrical outlets, and we had no fan to bring because we were far from home. Sleep was only for a few hours each night.

Around us were families who looked just as worn—some quietly staring at nothing, some nervously pacing, some barely speaking to one another, and some just trying to get as much sleep. You could sense the gravity each one carried, even without knowing their stories. Some were waiting for surgeries, some for test results, some for a miracle they dared not voice aloud. The tents and mats were their beds, the plastic bags and basins their drawers. I saw a mother crying silently while preparing instant noodles on one hot afternoon. A man sat with his head in his hands, not almost moving for hours. No one said it, but we all understood—this was where people waited when they had no better place to go. And behind each weary face was a soul likely filled with questions, fears, and longings that only God could truly answer.

I did not mind my inconveniences. My heart was also with those people. But the reality I witnessed again and again in that space pressed deeper into my heart.

There were two passageways sitting in front and at the back of the open area—the front one led to other hospital buildings, and the back opened to the old buildings under reconstruction and a public faucet where everyone washed dishes and laundry. Every now and then, through the front passage, a hospital staff member/s would pass by with a stretcher. On it was a body covered by a white blanket. Sometimes, we would look up from our meal or be halfway into sleep and see a body form, sometimes of a child. But oftentimes, of an adult. Sometimes, it would be followed by family members who had clearly cried themselves to exhaustion. I will not forget their faces: eyes swollen, shoulders slumped, some sobbing, others silent from too much pain.

Each time, my heart ached. I was already worried for my baby cousin who had pneumonia, but thankfully for his case, there was a quiet assurance in me that he would recover (And by God's grace, He did). I could not explain it fully. I believe it was God’s comfort to me. But for those who passed by us, I knew that their lives had ended, and I could not help but ask myself—were they ready?

What if that body were mine? What if it were one of the people I love?

What if, without warning, the Lord called me or one of us home?

What if that person never heard the gospel?

What if someone had shared it with them, but it was dismissed as unnecessary, too soon, or too late? What must have the family members felt now? If I were one of the deceased's family members, what would I do? What would I have felt? 

What if that were your body?

Those images haunted me, to say the least. And they still do. I know God had a purpose that He let me see those, but sometimes I could just not help but be emotional. But yes, His purpose prevailed. It moved me so much. I realized again that this is not just about the moment of death. It is about eternity. We do not get to choose the day or the hour. And when it comes, no doctor, no money, no wisdom of man can change what happens next.

I felt many things—sadness, encouragement, fear, anger, and confusion. It was a season full of emotions I could hardly name at times. Yet somehow, even with the little time I had—running errands, buying food and medicine, managing our laundry, and rotating shifts with my aunt and uncle—the Lord allowed small moments to open, like a brief conversation, a shared meal, a wait in the pharmacy line. I could not ignore them. I sensed that I had to speak. Not because I had great words, but because the truth matters. We are not merely bodies. We are souls. And the soul does not end with death. It stands before God.

That experience, especially, made me mourn for the lives of my own family. On both my father's and mother’s sides, we are a close-knit family, but more on my mother's. And while I have shared the gospel with many of them, there are still some I have not been able to reach well, whether because they live in other provinces or are too busy to spend time with us. Though the Lord has opened their hearts to listen when I speak, I still see stagnation in their walk. I trust God will use what they have heard. But I wonder when. I am far from most of them because we are often in Cebu, and I can only pray, call, or message them or send them something of spiritual importance, but I often pray. I pray that even if I do not see it, they are already walking with the Lord. Because in the end, they will answer to Him alone.

And Friend, if you are reading this and you have not yet received God's gift of salvation, I ask you to stop and think. Christ came to die for sinners—not the righteous, not the strong, but the broken, the guilty, the helpless. That is all of us. He rose again to give us new life and a sure hope of eternity (Rom 5:8; Jn 11:25). If you trust in Him, you will be saved.

And to my fellow believers, I plead with you: let us not wait for the perfect time to share the gospel. It may never come. Let us speak while we can. Let us love while we can. Evangelism is not only for preachers or missionaries. If we know the truth, we are responsible to share it. We may not know how, but God will help us. We can do it while on a call with them or randomly talking with them in a public transportation or place at a random event, or online (which is a very good privilege given to us), anywhere and anytime, as long as we have a chance to speak. Sometimes it is through a question. Sometimes it is a verse. Sometimes it is our silence broken with compassion. What matters is that people hear of Christ, because what they do with Him is what eternity hangs on.

Let us not be careless with our time. Let us not waste our chance to tell someone that there is life after death, but only through Jesus Christ (Jn 14:6).

If you have not yet placed your faith in Jesus Christ, I invite you to do so now. You do not need a perfect prayer. What you need is a heart that turns to God and a soul that recognizes its need for mercy. Ask Him to forgive you, to save you, and to lead you. He will not turn you away (Jn 6:37).

And if you already believe, ask the Lord with me to give us the courage to speak, to help us see people not only as they are now, but as souls in need of truth. May He give us eyes to see, words to say, and the compassion to never waste a moment.

Many times, I fail to see what He places right in front of me. I get distracted. I hesitate. I miss the chance. But if you are like me, let us pray harder. Let us ask the Lord to awaken our hearts again—to make us faithful in speaking and steadfast in loving. Let us pray for the souls around us, even when we cannot reach them yet. For God sees them, and He is never slow in fulfilling His work.

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Disclaimer: I did not take an actual picture, especially just for the purpose of the blog. I believe doing so would be disrespectful and inconsiderate of others' experiences.