We left Highland last night in the last light of dusk. The day’s collection of gray hung only a few hundred feet above the ground, letting only a bit of light through the edges. Darker skies toward the west blocked out the closing light, leaving the sky to north of fainter hue. We drove east, toward Saint Joe.
Somewhere in the storm, lightning flashed, again and again and again, sending great surges of diffuse light, muffled and muted by the layers of rain and cloud. However brilliant and stark the strobing might be beyond, it showed only as broad strokes of subdued pastel. As we continued driving toward the storm, the forms became brighter, less diffused.
Randa saw the first full flash, crisp and intense, hammering through the clouds clearly, as if drilling a core of fire into the earth. In brief span, another and another and another. The sprinkle turned into drizzle and then into rain. And yet the lightning flashed, again and again and again.
We went to sleep with the storm flashing through the blinds, washing the room with light. Later, I woke to the sound of hail against the roof, gutters and awning. Not heavy like the sound of fury, but hail, nonetheless.
We will one day have passed through the last storm of life and see the clouds rolled away like parchment. We will then see him who has made us, even as the lightning is seen from the east to the west.