Have you ever stood by the window and waited to see the night
sky light up with lightning, to say the blessing while
actually seeing the flash itself?
You wait, knowing that if you miss that split second --
you'll miss it. Period.
Your eyes dart about, from sky to wet street below, back up
to the sky, back once more to the street with its shimmering
reflections of pale yellow street lamps, of cars driving
along smoothly.
The sky flashes and flickers with light. Your eyes dart up
but you've missed the actual lightning. You know that you can
say the blessing even from seeing the sky lit up but you want
so much, just this once, to say it on seeing the actual
lightning.
"I'm going to watch just the sky," you tell yourself. "I'm
NOT going to get distracted."
You force yourself to look into the black, black nothingness
of starless sky, not letting your eyes or thoughts roam.
Even then, you know that if you're not looking at the exact
spot, you'll once again see a moment of pale blue sky filled
with clouds alight, the clouds that you couldn't see in the
darkness, and then the blackness of the night once more.
But your eyes look down without thinking, wondering as a car
speeds below. Headlights reflect long in the wetness of the
street, the car turns a corner, the headlights stretch
longer, the car goes around the curve. You now see the spray
of water from the rear tires as well as the red tail lights
reflecting in streaks below the car. They remind you of a
rocket's exhaust.
A flash.
But as quickly as you look up, you've lost it. The thunder
rattles noisily.
"Why can't the magnificence of the lightning stay in the sky
for more than a split second? Why can't I see it, really see
the power and the majesty it reflects?"
More frustrated than before, but more resolved as well, you
are determined that THIS time you WILL pay attention.
Seconds turn into minutes. Perhaps the storm has passed.
Perhaps the lightning has finished. "Did I miss out on saying
the brochoh altogether?" you worry.
You begin to turn, to leave your spot, yet someting prevents
you as you keep your head statue-like, eyes focused only on
darkness. You wait. The coldness and rain from the open
window dampens the front of your sweater. [You'd hoped that
by keeping it open, you could capture that light much
better.] You can hear the swishing sounds of the cars below,
but this time, you don't look. You wait.
An instant. That's all it is. An instant of multi-colored,
branched blinding spidery armed lightning, so bright that the
blackness surrounding it flees. So bright that the blackness
comes back even blacker.
You say the brochoh, slowly, amazement in each
word.
Only an instant. An instant of awe.
[Editor's Note: It is best in practice to make the brochoh
right away upon seeing the first flash, and then to try to
witness the lighting stroke itself. One can then recite an
appropriate posuk rather than saying the brochoh.]
