(by Jonny G.)
Lightning doesn’t ask permission —
it just shows up, splits the sky, and leaves you holding what’s left.
The day my son was born,
the heavens gave and took in the same breath.
One heartbeat arrived; another was carried away.
A love story rewritten by fate itself.
She was so alive, man —
laughing at nothing, talking to her belly,
planning futures I still dream about when I close my eyes.
She wanted to give me a son — said it like a promise.
And she did.
But lightning took its payment too soon.
One week later,
the storm came back.
No warning, no thunder — just a silence that broke everything.
And when it was over,
the house felt hollow, like the walls forgot how to echo laughter.
My daughter wandered those rooms,
barefoot and innocent,
asking questions that burned through my chest —
“Where’s Mommy? When is she coming home?”
For ninety nights, she cried in her sleep,
woke up shaking, reaching for a hug that would never answer back.
And our dog Charlie —
he just stared at the door.
Didn’t eat for days.
He’d nudge me, like “you feel it too, right?”
Yeah, I did. Every second.
I tried to smile —
for them, for her, for me.
Holding my newborn son in one arm,
my daughter in the other,
and my soul somewhere between heaven and the kitchen floor.
I whispered what I wasn’t sure I believed:
“It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
Because that’s what dads do —
we speak life into ruins until the echo sounds real again.
Now, years later, I see it.
Lightning didn’t just destroy — it also revealed.
It showed me what love can endure,
what hope looks like in children’s eyes,
and how even a broken heart can keep time with life’s rhythm.
She’s not gone.
She’s in every laugh that slips out of our daughter’s mouth,
every sunrise my son watches with that same quiet wonder,
and every time my dog Charlie lies beside me on the floor, sighing like she remembers too.
Lightning hit my life once —
and yeah, it burned me open.
But love still lives here.
It always will.
Lightning Crashes isn’t about death — it’s about transference.
One life ending, another beginning, and something bigger moving through the middle of it all.
It’s the sound of the universe handing off the torch — brutal, sacred, and real.
When I hear this song now, I see that moment when Alisa’s soul left and my son took his first breaths.
The same lightning that broke me open also lit my path.
That’s what this song is — not tragedy, but the proof that love doesn’t stop.
It just changes form and keeps moving through the people we leave behind.
There was a time when I asked “Why did this happen?”
Now I ask “What did it awaken?”
The lightning that broke my life also illuminated everything real — love, loss, purpose, and the fragile miracle of every breath.
I used to believe faith was about answers. Now I know it’s about endurance — holding on when the world feels unbearable, and still choosing to love anyway.
I don’t see God as distant anymore. I see Him in the small things —
in my children’s laughter,
in my dog’s quiet loyalty,
in the sunrise after another night of missing her.
My spirituality isn’t in a building. It’s in survival with gratitude.
It’s in the promise that even when lightning crashes, the soul doesn’t die — it transforms.
So if you’re standing in the storm, don’t curse it.
Let it break you open just enough for light to get in.
Because what’s left after the lightning… is truth.
