I am sitting by my wooden table this evening. It is very cold outside (temperature: 22°F, feels Like: 16°F). I made myself a cup of hot coffee, picked up my pencil, and began to write on a blank sheet of paper. The room feels warm—almost sacred in its quiet stillness. I had considered writing something during the Christmas holidays, but I chose to wait. I felt drawn instead to write about the experience of crossing over into a new year.
In fact, tonight I will be preaching and leading the church in prayer. Earlier, my wife said to me, “Make sure you lead us to pray for the presence of God to go ahead of us in the coming year.” I knew what she really meant—keep the preaching short so the church has plenty of time to pray. Lol. Sure enough, when we got home later, she smiled and said, “I loved how you gave us so much time to pray tonight.” That was funny—and honestly, very telling. 😊. Okay, now the story.
In my days in High School, my mother would often tell me how she took us to all-night services—long nights of prayer as the year came to an end. We would sleep at prayer camps, crossing over into the next year in prayer. The sounds of heaven—at least how my young heart understood them—and the rain of prayer would fill my eardrums through what felt like endless days: sometimes three days, sometimes a full week of fasting and prayer.
Old songs from the Church of Pentecost would fill the air—songs soaked in faith and expectation. There were thunders of consistent prayers, and particularly the sound of speaking in tongues—urgent, fervent, and relentless. These prayers were offered to safeguard our crossing into the next year.
You see, there were many true and real stories—testimonies of satanic orchestrations—accidents, incidents, moments designed to cause pain, destruction, and even death, especially to those who let their guard down in those final days of the year. The eleventh hour.
Darkness seemed to intensify. Evil felt louder. Immorality appeared to rise. The deaths of the innocent, injustice against humanity, and the elevation of wicked ways felt as though they were accelerating—gathering momentum. Wickedness in high places searched for souls to steal from and to destroy.
And because of all this, we gathered—literally—under the shadow of the Almighty, within the dwelling place of the church. I cannot count how many times we did this. Year after year, we crossed over like that—inside the sanctuary.
Always.
The Quiet Work of Formation
Looking back now, I realize how profoundly those early years shaped me. Sleeping through long hours of prayer, sitting quietly during worship, and sometimes being tasked with caring for my younger siblings while prayers and praise filled the atmosphere—these moments were doing something deep within me. At the time, I did not have language for it. I did not have theology for it. But formation was happening.
The habit of prayer did not begin because I loved prayer or because I was naturally spiritual. Far from it. It was an act of God’s mercy—His quiet kindness—that positioned me in an environment where prayer was not optional but normal. That environment slowly reshaped my appetite. Over time, my hunger for prayer grew—not by force, but by exposure.
Scripture says, “Blessed is the man whom You choose, and cause to approach You, that he may dwell in Your courts” (Psalm 65:4). I see now that dwelling came before understanding. God placed me before He explained me.
The truth is, when you witness real spiritual realities—when you see manifestations of captivity, and oppression—you cannot remain neutral. Faith is stirred. Discernment is awakened. As Jesus demonstrated with the man in Gadara, spiritual captivity is real—but so is spiritual authority (Mark 5:1–20).
In those days, I did not understand much of what I was seeing, but I loved the sound of prayer. It was constant in my household. At dawn, my mother prayed. At night, she prayed. Prayer was the rhythm of the house. As Scripture declares, “I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth” (Psalm 34:1).
I still remember moments from my earliest years with remarkable clarity. I would be picked up as a small child, rattling out what sounded like tongues and brought before our landlord so I could pray for him. Little did I know that God was laying foundations. As the Word says, “Out of the mouth of babes and nursing infants You have ordained strength” (Psalm 8:2).
Those early deposits would one day make midnight prayers on New Year’s Eve feel natural, not strange. Familiar, not forced.
Destiny, Prayer, and Divine Momentum
It is true—very true—that the destinies of men are birthed in prayer. Scripture affirms, “Call unto Me, and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things, which you do not know” (Jeremiah 33:3). Prayer does not merely inform destiny—it unveils it.
The old hymn captures this truth so simply:
“Oh, what needless pain we bear, all because we do not carry everything to God in prayer.”
Prayer itself is vast—deep waters that cannot be exhausted in one reflection. I will return to this subject another time.
Prayer in Adulthood: Momentum, Not Moments
Now, as an adult—armed with greater understanding of the Word—I see crossover nights differently. New Year’s Eve is no longer just an event; it is a reminder. A spiritual marker. A call to sustain momentum.
Scripture exhorts us, “Pray without ceasing” (1 Thessalonians 5:17). Prayer was never meant to be seasonal—it is meant to be continual.
Yes, the moment of crossing is significant. But more important is what it represents: the need to carry prayer forward into the 365 days ahead. The discipline of prayer is not built in one night—it is cultivated daily. Jesus Himself modeled this rhythm, often withdrawing to lonely places to pray (Luke 5:16).
So let me be clear and balanced here.
I am not saying that New Year’s Eve should be doctrinally elevated into a mandatory night of intense prayer for destiny. Scripture does not necessarily prescribe that. But experience—and Scripture—teach us something else.
There are eleventh-hour moments in life—thresholds, transitions, seasons of uncertainty—that demand spiritual alertness. “Watch and pray, lest you enter into temptation” (Matthew 26:41). These moments provoke what I call ballistic prayers—not driven by fear, but by discernment.
Daniel understood this. He prayed and fasted through successive reigns of kings. He contended with territorial powers and unseen princes (Daniel 10:12–13). His life reminds us that while not every spiritual reality can be neatly formalized into doctrine, prayer remains universally powerful. “The effectual, fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much” (James 5:16).
Crossing Over with Authority
For me, New Year’s Eve at midnight remains a special prayer space—a sacred pause. A moment to realign. A moment to declare God’s dominion. Scripture says, “The earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof” (Psalm 24:1). Every new year belongs to Him before it belongs to us.
It is a moment to commit the unknown days ahead into His hands, remembering His promise: “I know the plans I have for you… plans to prosper you and not to harm you, to give you a future and a hope” (Jeremiah 29:11).
But the prayer does not end there.
It continues—day by day—into the year. “This is the day the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad in it” (Psalm 118:24)—not just one day, but every day.
So I ask you gently:
How do you spend your crossover moments?
And even more importantly—
How do you sustain prayer after the crossing?
My prayer is that as you have read this, you will be stirred—energized—to become more prayerful, and to earnestly desire to stand on the Lord’s conquering and victorious side. I hope you will develop a transformed mindset—one where crossing over is deeply personal, and where that same zeal for prayer and intimacy subscribing to the disciplines (prayer, word study, worship etc.) of the faith continues throughout the year.
Yes, the moment of crossing can be critical.
But the posture we carry after crossing matters just as much.