Storms, especially in Colorado, are hard to predict.  Just ask Matt, my meteorologist friend.  One moment, everything’s sunny without a cloud in sight, and suddenly there’s a rumble in the distance, clouds come in fast, and you’re caught in a downpour.

And life-storms are even more unpredictable.  My wife wasn’t planning on a car t-boning her a block from our house, and as I sat on my couch one night, I never thought someone would light my fence on fire.  Whether we like it or not, when those storms hit, life gets put on hold, and we feel like we can’t breathe.

A few Sundays ago, I sat in a friend’s living room with my Bible open.  There were eight of us sitting on comfy chairs talking about something Paul wrote to Timothy.  He said, “Be prepared in season and out of season” (2 Timothy 4:2), like what my friend Matt might say, standing in front of a weather map.  But Paul wasn’t writing about the weather; he was writing about having conversations about Jesus.

We all had to admit those moments often feel “out of season.”  It could be late at night, and bed is calling, but one of your kids wants to talk about why God feels so distant sometimes.   Or maybe you’re sitting on a plane, ready to relax, and the person next to you really needs to talk.  Like the weather, the unpredictable opportunities come, and in those sacred moments, God can use us.

Three days after that Bible study, I sat in the writing center at the high school where I work.  Two of my tutors, James and Selah, were already pushing each other’s buttons, squabbling like siblings.

“What’re you watching,” Selah asked, reaching for his computer and turning his screen towards her.

“Hey!” he shouted, pulling his computer back.  “That’s none of your business!”

It was another video of some guy speeding on his motorcycle.

I smiled watching them.  The six upperclassmen in that room give their time to help freshmen, and every time we hang out, they make my day.

The bell rang to start class, and I opened my laptop.

With thirty minutes before we needed to tutor the freshmen, we all settled into our routines.

The last thing I expected—on a blue-sky kind of day—was a storm, but the winds of life blew one right through my door.

“Mr. Ahnfeldt?”

I looked up, and Jayceon—a former student of mine—was walking towards me.  With huge headphones wrapped around his head, he forced a smile.

“Hey Jayceon,” I said.

“Could we talk?” he asked.  His brown eyes looked heavy, and when I waved him to my desk, he said, “Somewhere private, maybe.”

I got up and walked with him to an isolated table in the corner.

“What’s going on?”

We sat down, and he stared at the table through his long black locks, considering my question.

“I’m in a hard spot,” he said, lifting his head.  “Last summer at Young Life camp, I remember a guy talking about Jesus being in a boat and calming a storm” (Mark 4:35-41).

His eyes started filling with tears.

Sitting across from him, the moment felt huge, and I was tired.  That’s when Paul’s words came back to me: “Be ready in season and out of season.”

Before Jayceon could finish, I knew I wasn’t alone.  God was there, orchestrating the conversation.

“I’m in this crazy storm right now, and I just want peace,” Jayceon said, wiping his eyes.

I looked around for some Kleenex, and he looked at me, waiting for a response.

My mind was blank.

Then, like welcome sunlight, two truths became crystal clear.

“Jayceon, do you mind if I say something.”

He nodded, pulling part of his hoody up to wipe his eyes again.

“This kind of vulnerability takes guts.  I’m proud of you.  And you know what else?” I whispered, “It’s no accident that story about Jesus in the storm popped into your head.  I think God gave you that memory.”

He nodded again.

“Jayceon, did that camp speaker ever talk to you about Jesus dying on the cross for our mess and inviting Him into your life?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, and he was focused, staring at me with those big brown eyes, so I continued.

“Did you ever do that?” I asked.  “Because if He’s in your boat, He can calm your storms.”

He shook his head no, and I held my breath.  He and I both knew where this was going.

“Jayceon,” I said, still whispering but leaning forward, “you can pray and invite him into your life at any time.  You could do it tonight in bed if you wanted.  Or, if you’d like, we could pray together after school.”

“Thanks,” he said, and the glimmer of a smile started to appear.

“I should probably get back over there,” I said, pointing towards my tutors.

Then we both got up, gave each other a hug, and left.

The rest of the day moved along fine with freshmen getting tutored, Selah riling up James some more, and a great discussion in 8th period about Fahrenheit 451.

The final bell rang, and as I was gathering some papers, Jayceon marched through my door, smiling from ear to ear.

My heart leaped inside me.

“So you want to do this, huh?”  I asked.

“Yes sir!”

We scooted a couple of desks together, screeching them across the floor, and then we prayed.

“Jesus,” Jayceon whispered so beautifully, “I need you.  Please come into my life and calm my storm.”

He walked out of room 212 that Wednesday, and all I could do under those incandescent lights and rattling vent was drop to my knees.

“Thank you, God,” I whispered.  A storm had blown into a young man’s life, and even though I was far from ready, God saw it coming.  He even used it to stir up a conversation, and Jayceon’s life will never be the same.

Public schools aren’t boats, but they definitely get hit with their fair share of storms.  When things get really dark and cloudy—when winter coats, umbrellas and tire chains don’t offer much help—Jesus is there.  He’s looking out for us within the brick walls of my school.  And He’s the best storm defense life has to offer.

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