The Winter Ritual That Brings Me Back to God

Winter in Canada doesn’t ask permission before it arrives. It settles in quietly, almost reverently, as if the season itself remembers the One who spoke creation into being. Before the first snow touches the ground, winter announces itself through a slow dimming of the afternoon sky, a deeper chill in the morning air, and the way the light folds inward earlier each day. I have lived through many winters now, but each year, the first sign of the season still catches me off guard. It feels like the world is exhaling, preparing for a long rest.

Every year, as that light begins to thin, something in my spirit responds. This is where my ritual begins—not with snow, not with holiday decorations, but with the darkening of the sky and the deepening of the soul’s need for God.

As a believer shaped by the Baptist faith—rooted in Scripture, grounded in the gospel, and anchored in the assurance of salvation—I do not fear the darkening days of winter. Instead, the season becomes an invitation. The quietness of winter calls me back to the simple, steady rituals that draw me closer to the heart of God. In a world that often runs too fast, winter gives me a reason to slow down and turn my attention toward the One who never changes, even when seasons do.

My ritual begins with light.

Not the natural light of the sun, which fades, but the light of a candle—a soft, flickering reminder of the Light of the World. I reach for a match, strike it, and watch the flame spark to life. It is a small flame, but it speaks loudly. As I light the candle, a familiar Scripture rises in my mind, one that has shaped my faith since my earliest encounters with the gospel:

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” —John 1:5

In the Baptist tradition, we are a people of the Book. The Word of God is our guide, our authority, our truth. So when I light that candle in the deepening winter dusk, I do not simply create ambiance. I am making a declaration of faith—proclaiming with this small flame what Scripture proclaims with thunderous clarity: darkness never wins.

The candle becomes a symbol of the gospel, of Christ’s saving grace, of the eternal hope secured for those who belong to Him. This is the foundation on which my winter ritual rests.

I place the candle near the window or on the kitchen counter while I prepare a meal. Cooking becomes a form of worship—not in a ceremonial sense, but in the simple, grateful acknowledgment that God is the giver of every good thing, including the warmth of food on a cold night. As I stir soup or slice bread, I often think of Jesus’ words in Matthew 4:4:

“Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.”

Winter teaches me to slow down long enough to actually listen for that Word.

After dinner, I sit beside the candle with my Bible open. In the Baptist faith, Scripture is not an accessory to spirituality—it is the core of it. Winter gives me long evenings, quiet hours, undistracted moments to read, reflect, and allow the Holy Spirit to apply the truth to my heart.

Some nights I read Psalms.

Other nights I read the Gospels.

Sometimes I linger in the epistles.

But no matter where I read, God has a way of meeting me there.

Winter softens me enough to hear Him again.

There was a winter years ago when this ritual changed from a gentle habit into a spiritual lifeline. I had moved provinces and was carrying the weight of responsibilities—studying for a new program, working in healthcare roles, balancing expectations, managing stress, feeling emotionally stretched thin. Winter loneliness wrapped around me like its own kind of frost. Even as someone deeply rooted in faith, there are seasons when the heart grows weary, when the days feel too short and the burdens too heavy.

One evening, overwhelmed after a long day, I lit a candle without thinking. As the flame flickered, the room around me softened. It was as though God Himself stepped into that quiet space. Not with miracles or visions—just with presence. Gentle, steady, unmistakable.

Right there, in the stillness of that winter night, I remembered a truth the Baptist teachings had instilled in me from the beginning:

God meets us where we are, not where we pretend to be. He met me right there in my small apartment, with dishes still in the sink and papers piled on the table. He met me not because I had done something to earn His attention, but because I am His child, saved by grace through faith, fully secured in Christ.

Baptist doctrine is clear: salvation is a gift, not a wage. Christ’s righteousness covers me not just on my best days, but on my weakest ones. That night, the candle flame reminded me of this truth: even when my strength falters, His does not.

Since then, my winter ritual has included prayer—real prayer, honest prayer, sometimes whispered, sometimes silent, sometimes tearful. Winter makes everything quieter, but it also makes my prayers louder.

I pray for peace.

I pray for guidance.

I pray for family.

I pray for my future.

I pray for the people God entrusts to my care in healthcare settings.

I pray prayers of thanksgiving, because even in the cold, God is warm.

When the night is not too harsh, I take winter walks—slow walks, reflective walks, walks where my breath rises in white clouds and disappears into the night like incense. These walks are never long, but they are always meaningful. Winter holds a kind of reverence, as though creation itself is worshiping quietly beneath the snow. The moon hangs lower, the stars shine sharper, and I often feel like God’s presence walks beside me. Not in a mystical way, but in the deeply scriptural sense that He is always near to the brokenhearted, always near to those who seek Him (Psalm 34:18).

Winter walks bring clarity. They help me see beyond the rush of daily life, beyond the tasks and demands, into the truth that I am more than my roles, more than my responsibilities. I am a child of God, called, known, and loved.

When I return home, cheeks flushed from the cold, I relight the candle. The flame feels like a welcome, a benediction. I wrap a blanket around myself, sit in the glow, and feel the peace that only God can give.

“My peace I give to you…” Jesus said in John 14:27.

Winter teaches me to receive that peace with open hands.

Some nights, I journal. Baptist spirituality doesn’t require journaling, but it encourages reflection—examining the heart, confessing sin, recognizing God’s work in daily life. Winter’s long evenings give me the space to write down prayers, hopes, or verses that settle on my heart. I write about what God is teaching me, where He is stretching me, where He is calling me to surrender.

Surrender is a theme that emerges often. Because winter, in its honesty, reveals where I am clinging too tightly—whether to control, worry, or fear. And every winter, God invites me again to trust Him. To let go. To rest in His sovereignty.

In the Baptist faith, this trust is foundational. We believe in the authority of God, the sufficiency of Christ, the comfort of the Holy Spirit, and the certainty of God’s promises. Winter, with its stark landscapes and slowing rhythms, makes these truths feel even more tangible.

Eventually, spring comes—just as God promised seasons would come and go (Genesis 8:22). The days lengthen, birds return, and sunlight warms the earth again. One evening, I suddenly realize I haven’t lit the candle. The air feels lighter; the ritual steps aside gracefully.

I always feel a small sadness when winter ends—not because I love the cold, but because winter gives me something the other seasons do not: intentional stillness. Spiritual clarity. A renewed sense of God’s nearness. A reminder that even in seasons of darkness, Christ is my Light.

As I put the candle away for another year, I whisper a quiet thank you—to God, to the winter season, to the ritual that carried me. Because I know that when the days grow short again, when shadows stretch across the afternoon, when cold winds return, the ritual will come back to me.

I will reach for a candle.

I will strike a match.

I will watch the flame bloom like a small gospel.

God will meet me there—faithfully, tenderly, unchangingly.

This is the winter ritual that brings me back to Him.