There are seasons in the soul when the warmth of faith feels far off. The glow that once saturated your days with clarity fades into a pale shimmer low on the horizon. These are the winter months of discipleship—when following Jesus feels less like dancing in the light and more like trudging through shadows.
And yet, the call remains.
Christ does not promise us eternal summer (at least in this life). His road leads through the wilderness (Mark 1:12–13), through the long dark of Gethsemane (Luke 22:44), and through the silence between Good Friday and Easter morning. “Take up your cross,” He said (Luke 9:23), not your picnic blanket. Faith becomes less about the brilliance of belief and more about the posture of trust, especially when nothing feels certain.
To follow the winter sun is to trace faint light when it offers no heat. It is to remember that the sun is still rising, even when its warmth is hidden. In the same way, to follow Jesus in seasons of silence, sorrow, or struggle is to walk with Him not for what He gives, but for who He is.
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path” (Psalm 119:105). But notice—lamps in ancient times did not flood the road. They lit only the next few steps. God rarely overwhelms us with certainty. Instead, He invites us to walk in rhythm with Him, step by unsure step.
The winter sun teaches us that light is still light, even when dim. Christ is still Christ, even when His presence feels like absence. And sometimes, that kind of trust is the holiest kind.
I have followed the sun
when it was warm,
when it laid itself across my back
like a blessing.
When it sang golden through the leaves
and made holiness seem easy.
But now—
it is winter.
The sun slips sideways
into low skies and long shadows.
It does not warm,
only glimmers.
And still—
I follow.
I do not follow because it is bright,
but because I have seen it rise
from behind the hills
too many mornings
to doubt its return.
I do not follow because I feel it—
most days, I don’t.
I follow because
once, it found me
when I wasn’t looking.
And that kind of finding
is hard to forget.
So I walk
with a stiff wind against my chest,
shoes wet with old rain,
the path uncertain—
but I walk.
Because some loves
are not about feeling
but choosing.
And some mornings
are not about light
but trust.
And I trust
that even this cold sun
knows where it’s going—
and that it is worth
following.
Scribbling Theology 