Well, we’re right in the middle of a deep January cold snap, and the weather has become the central topic of conversation.

As I go about my day, whether it is at physical therapy or the barber shop, I overhear people reflect on current temps as compared to other places they have lived.

And don’t folks love to tell weather and storm stories of other decades through which they “survived”?

I’ve had the privilege of living in different places (mostly northern cities), and I can match weather stories with the best of them.

I remember the cold of December ’97 in Edmonton, Alberta. One frigid evening was 50 degrees below zero, with winds that drove the temperature down to minus 70.

That’s killer cold.

But the truth was we got around the city quite well. We adapted with oil pan heaters for our cars, and, together, we “survived.”

I clearly recall driving through storms in North Dakota and Wisconsin and Saskatchewan, cutting a path through threatening blizzards. We struggled to see the pavement. We had no business being on the road, but it was a component of adapting to that climate, and, together, we survived.

My most interesting and memorable weather story happened when I was doing graduate work in Louisville in the early 1990s.

At that time, I was working as a doorman with guest services at a lovely downtown hotel. The previous year, I had moved there from western Canada. One of my jobs was to get the flight crews who stayed with us to the airport bright and early to make their commitments.

One weekend in January 1993, the forecast was for a gigantic snow storm. With my experience as a young adult in Alpena — but also having survived many winters in other northern climates — the reports of the coming blizzard didn’t scare me.

Rather, I made preparations and I had a plan.

I put my snow boots and my shovel in the trunk of my car, and, instead of getting up at 6 a.m., I left home at 5:00. By then, there were many inches of fresh, heavy snow on the ground, with much more to come.

That morning, I got into my little Honda Civic and drove the back roads to work instead of the normal freeway trek. And, instead of taking 10 minutes to reach my destination, the journey lasted 45.

I arrived at the hotel with time to spare, and, in that moment, I didn’t think anything of it. Those were normal winter roads.

So I changed into my uniform for the day and made my way to the lobby to assume my position and get ready to drive the flight crews to the airport on time.

The hotel manager was stunned to see me.

“How on Earth did you get here?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, I drove” was my reply, wondering what the big deal was.

This was the big deal: I was the ONLY employee to make it to work that day — and the skeleton night shift crew that we had that day were the only employees that made it to work to service a busy 400-room hotel for the next four days.

The city was shut down. No planes departed the Louisville airport all week. No food delivery trucks arrived to restock our restaurants for four days.

The governor declared a state of emergency. There was restrictive travel all week, because the freeways were clogged with hundreds of stranded vehicles. The city was crippled by the storm.

And, after the snowfall ended, the temperatures dipped to 30 below zero. Seventeen inches of wet snow became frozen like a lake of concrete.

The four snowplows that the city operated were all in the ditches, too — and Louisville had to have the Indiana and Tennessee National Guards come to reopen the roads.

We were truly snowbound.

But … we survived.

How?

By working together and leaning into one another.

The team at the hotel shifted gears to serve guests as personnel pitched in, giving of themselves sacrificially. Those of us who were on shift when the storm hit worked around the clock until fresh troops arrived four days later.

That week, the entire city of Louisville served up a powerful helping of community. People joined their individual resources to make it through an enormous challenge.

We survived the storm.

Together.

There is a “seasoning of life” that comes with weathering storms over the years, isn’t there? And there is also a gift of grace to manage and endure the challenges that blow into our lives as we help others to “dig out.”

God has made us for community, and, sometimes, it takes a winter storm or a life-blizzard to help us realize that we were made for one another.

I have fallen in love with a gospel song by Kirk Franklin that I learned while serving in St. Louis that expresses this very true thing: “I Need You to Survive.”

I encourage you to look it up and give it a listen:

“I need you, you need me; We’re all a part of God’s body

Stand with me, agree with me; We’re all a part of God’s body

It is His will that every need be supplied

You are important to me, I need you to survive.”

AMEN.

In the storms of life, we soon realize how desperately we need each other TO SURVIVE.

I need you.

You need me.