When the Storm Finds You

When the Storm Finds You

Tonight, the sky spoke.

It started like most evening walks—reflective, slow, purposeful. I stepped out into the neighborhood with an overcast sky above, the kind that looks like it’s holding back something sacred. Off in the distance, behind the rooftops, I could see streaks of rain falling like curtains from heaven. The sun, brave but outnumbered, tucked itself behind a wall of dark clouds.

There was peace in the weight of it all. A holy kind of stillness.

I walked. And I reflected.

Had I been reverent today? Gentle with my words? Supportive in spirit? Had I thought of others more and myself less? Some days, yes. Others, not as much. But that’s what these walks are for—honest questions. Looking in the mirror of the sky and asking if I lived above the line of my best self.

But then the questions got louder—because the storm did too.

At first, I didn’t run. I kept walking, even as the lightning drew closer, even as the wind shifted and the ducks scattered. But the moment I stepped off the golf course and back onto the open road, everything changed. The raindrops started falling—big, fast, and heavy. The kind that hit hard and warn you that hail might be behind them.

Then the lightning struck—so close I could feel it. The thunder cracked right over the rooftops. My fight-or-flight system took over. My breathing shifted into a rhythm I’ve trained for—in for two steps, out for two steps—and I started to run.

Faster and faster.

I scanned the road for cover, eyes darting to rooftops and trees. I was ready to dip into one of two newly built houses—just shells with no one living inside—but they had roofs. And in that moment, shelter was all that mattered. That storm was chasing me, and the fear was real. My posture lifted, my focus narrowed. Every step felt like I was in the batter’s box with someone throwing 100 mph fastballs—too close to flinch.

And then—just before I stepped off the street toward one of those houses—I saw a garage door open.

A young man was helping his granddad get his car started.

I knew that young man.

A former student. A friend. A golfer I once coached in mental performance when I was first certified. We had met five to seven times back then, digging into focus, identity, and values. He had created his mission and principles during those sessions, and I asked him if he still remembered them. He paused… then smiled. He tapped back in.

He had lost touch with them for a while—life gets busy, and our time together had faded—but that moment, with the storm swirling around us, gave him clarity again. He reconnected with his G.O.L.F. acronym:

• Greatness

• Observant

• Love

• Focus

As the rain poured and lightning flashed nearby, I stayed under the safety of the garage with him. He and I helped his granddad get the car started. We poured gas into the carburetor and used a battery charger to get the engine to turn over. Once the engine roared back to life, his granddad handed him the keys and told him to take it for a spin—and just like that, the student drove the teacher home.

Before I got out of the car, I shared something with him—something that’s impacted my own life deeply. It’s a concept I learned from master storyteller Matthew Dicks called Homework for Life. It’s a daily practice: at the end of each day, you write down one meaningful moment—just one—that you want to hold onto. Not the big ones. Just a simple scene. A truth. A feeling. A person. A place. It’s like a grain of sand slipping through the hourglass that you decide not to let fall unnoticed.

I told him that’s how we preserve legacy. That’s how we stay aligned with who we are—by collecting the moments that matter most before they’re gone.

Then I stepped out of the car—wet, but not soaked. The storm was beginning to pass. I walked back through the garage and into the warmth of my home.

Because that’s legacy too—when someone you once coached becomes the one who brings you safely home.