Come Before Winter

The Cold Cell and the Last Letter

There are moments in Scripture when the page seems to grow still, when the noise of history fades, and you sense you are standing in a very quiet place. Second Timothy is one of those places. This is not the Paul of the missionary journeys. This is not the Paul who debates philosophers or outargues the Judaizers or plants churches in pagan cities. This is Paul near the end, Paul with chains around his ankles, Paul with winter creeping toward him like a slow and certain shadow.

When you open this letter, you do not hear the sound of triumph. You hear something much softer. You hear the sound of an old man gathering his final strength to write the things that matter most. His voice trembles, but his faith does not. His body is failing, but his hope is not. His ministry is coming to its earthly end, but his love for Jesus burns with the same fire that met him on the Damascus road.

And so the letter begins with tenderness: “To Timothy, my beloved son.” You can feel Paul’s hand pause on the page, remembering the young man who first joined him in Lystra. Remembering the shy eyes, the timid posture, the quiet eagerness to serve Christ even when it frightened him. Remembering how he laid hands on him and prayed over him. Remembering how Timothy, who struggled with fear, grew stronger every time he stepped out in faith. There is affection here—deep, honest affection—and it runs through every line of this letter.

Paul writes this from what many believe was the Mamertine Prison in Rome, a place something between a dungeon and a tomb. The air was cold, damp, and stale. Winter was coming, and prisoners rarely survived Roman winters. There is a chill behind every verse. You can almost see Paul rubbing his hands together against the cold, breathing warmth into them before picking up the pen again.

When he writes, “Bring the cloak I left with Carpus at Troas,” you can feel the vulnerability of a man who once suffered beatings and shipwrecks without complaint but now simply wants a little warmth. These small details turn the great apostle into something profoundly real—an old man shivering in the dark, wishing for his coat, hoping Timothy won’t delay.

He knows time is running out. He knows he will not survive much longer. He knows that if Timothy hesitates—if he waits too long, if he reasons himself into delay—the seas will close and the harbors will shut, and it will become impossible for Timothy to reach him. Winter was not symbolic. Winter was literal. The shipping lanes would freeze. The winds would turn deadly. Travel would stop. And so Paul writes with the tenderness of love and the urgency of time: “Do your best to come before winter.”

You can hear the longing behind it. Paul is not asking for a conference report. He is not asking for strategic planning for the churches. He is not asking for Timothy to bring him answers. Paul is asking for Timothy himself. He wants the presence of the young man he mentored. He wants to see one more familiar face before the sword falls.

This letter is not cold theology. It is warm humanity pressed into the final parchment of a life poured out.

But even in this tenderness, Paul is not defeated. When he says, “I am already being poured out as a drink offering,” he is not lamenting. He is describing a sacrifice complete. It is the language of worship, not despair. Paul is not dying with regret. He is dying with gratitude. He has fought his battles. He has run his race. He has kept the faith. The winter of Rome is pressing in, but the sunlight of eternity is rising in his heart.

And what strikes you most is the way Paul balances two realities at once: the coldness of his cell and the warmth of his hope. He is lonely, but not abandoned. He has lost everything, but he feels no loss. He is chained, but only his body is bound. His spirit is free. He speaks of his earthly departure, and then he speaks of the crown of righteousness waiting for him—held in the hands of the Lord he has loved since that blinding morning on the Damascus road.

In these final words, you see the full maturity of a Christian life. Youthful faith is full of passion, dreams, and mission. But mature faith—faith in winter—has a different glow. It is steadier. Quieter. Truer. It does not shout. It simply rests in Christ.

Paul’s life has been reduced to its essentials: one cell, one coat, one friend, one hope. And maybe that’s what the Holy Spirit wants us to see. That underneath all the noise and activity of ministry, underneath all our programs and plans, underneath all our debates and doctrines, there remains only this: Christ is enough. Christ has always been enough. Christ will always be enough.