No One Regrets Believing

I’ve sat beside a few deathbeds in my time, friends, family, neighbors, and one thing has always stood out like a steady flame in a dark room: I’ve never once heard a person say they were sorry for believing in Jesus when the end came. Not once.

Now, I’ve heard folks say they wish they’d worked less, loved more, or spent less time fretting over things that didn’t matter. I’ve listened to regrets about missed opportunities, harsh words, and long silences that “I’m sorry” could have healed.

But when it comes to faith, that soul-deep belief that there’s something beyond this patch of dirt we call home, there’s no remorse, no backpedaling, no second-guessing.

Maybe that’s because when life starts slipping away, the things we thought mattered, money, titles, or the next big thing, are no longer salient. All that remains are the eternal questions: Was I loved? Did I love well? And what happens now?

For those who believed, the answers come with peace. I’ve watched it soften faces drawn with pain and ease fear that no doctor could medicate. There’s something remarkable in that quiet assurance, like watching a ship catch the wind and head for home.

Now, I’m not here to preach. I’m here to tell what I’ve seen. I’ve seen rough men, miners, ranchers, and a fella who used to run the local feed store, find comfort in prayer after a lifetime of saying they didn’t need it. When the time came, they didn’t cling to their ledgers or their pride. They reached for something greater. And when they did, the fear left their eyes.

I’ve also seen the other side, those who said faith was for the weak, or for people afraid to face reality. They’d spent their whole lives too busy, too skeptical, too smart for all that.

But when the monitors started to beep slower, and the room fell silent except for their breathing, I noticed something else emerge: uncertainty. And that carried a weight that no one should have to bear alone.

Belief isn’t about having every answer. It’s about trusting that there is one, even when you can’t see it. It’s about holding on to hope when the world tells you to let go. And it’s about knowing that your story doesn’t end in a hospital bed or a graveside, it just turns the page.

I once asked a preacher friend why faith seems to matter most at the end. He told me, “Because when you’ve got nothing left to lean on, you find out what really holds you up.” That stuck with me. You can’t fake peace when death comes calling. Either you have it or you don’t.

Some people think belief is a crutch. Maybe it is. But if you’re walking through the valley of the shadow, you’re going to need something to lean on. And from what I’ve seen, Jesus is the surest support there is.

I’ve stood graveside more times than I care to count. I’ve watched families cling to each other, sometimes laughing through tears, others silent as the wind.

But those who believe walk away lighter, talking about reunion, not loss, going home, but not saying goodbye. That’s not denial, it’s faith.

So, no, I don’t know anyone who’s ever been sorry for believing in Jesus when they were dying. But I know a few who’ve been sorry they waited so long to start.

When my time comes, I don’t expect to have it all figured out. But I do hope I face it the way I’ve seen others do, calm, steady, unafraid. Because at that moment, all that’ll matter is whether the light I’ve trusted all my life still shines ahead.

And I believe it will.