When Lightning Strikes

A storm, a memory, and a life remembered

The view from our window in Bologna looks out across a sea of terracotta rooftops. Shutters frame each window, some closed tight, others slightly open to the warm evening air. Between the buildings sit small courtyards and the occasional rooftop deck dotted with plants and small gardens.

Just below our window is a larger garden—a small forest of mature trees reaching almost to our level, their branches brushing close enough to feel like neighbors.

It was just past midnight when the storm arrived.

At this point in our travels, the weather had begun to shift. We had moved from the cold mornings of Berlin and Prague—temperatures hovering in the 30s and 40s—into the softer warmth of Italy. Venice had already hinted at the change, and now Bologna was settling into spring, afternoons rising into the mid-70s.

So, when thunder rolled across the city late that night, it wasn’t entirely unexpected.

Still, it was spectacular.

From our top-floor apartment, we sat above many of the surrounding rooftops with a clear view of the sky. Lightning bolts tore across the darkness, one after another, briefly turning night into day. Each flash illuminated the terracotta roofs, the shuttered windows, and the tops of the trees below us. Thunder followed, echoing across the city in long, rolling waves, reverberating through the porticos that frame so many of Bologna’s streets.

Storms like this always hold my attention.
They always have.

Maybe because storms have a way of marking moments in life—moments you never forget.

Tamara and I spent ten years living in Wilmington, North Carolina, just minutes from the Atlantic Ocean. The storms there were famous for their intensity—lightning splitting the sky in rapid bursts, rain falling in sheets so thick you could barely see across the street. Those storms became part of the rhythm of life, something both respected and admired.

But as memorable as those East Coast storms were, the most impactful lightning storm of my life happened years earlier, on a summer night in northern Idaho.

Tamara, Paris, Liv, and I had traveled to Coeur d’Alene to celebrate Tamara’s father’s birthday. It was the first time in decades that the family had gathered together. With so many people staying in and around the main house, we decided to rent a place of our own nearby.

Lake Pend Oreille was just north of the party location, and it turned out to be perfect. Houseboats were available for the long weekend, and we rented a large one—two stories tall, with an open deck on the back of the top floor. From that deck, the view stretched across the lake to the mountains rising all around it.

The mountains formed a natural amphitheater, wrapping around the water as if built for watching the sky.

Staying on the boat were the four of us, along with Dan—Tamara’s brother—and Ryan, our nephew.

One evening during our stay, Tamara and Ryan had taken the car into town to pick up food and run errands. While they were gone, a lightning storm moved into the area. Dan, Paris, Liv, and I climbed up to the top deck and settled into chairs, watching the storm unfold around us.

There was no rain at first—just lightning.

Bolt after bolt lit up the mountains, striking somewhere beyond the peaks. The flashes echoed across the lake, bouncing off the water and illuminating the ridgelines. It felt like the sky was putting on a show meant only for us.

One strike followed another, steady and relentless.

It was mesmerizing.

When Tamara and Ryan finally returned, the storm was still raging.

Tamara stepped onto the deck holding a bottle of champagne.

“We need to make a toast,” she said.

“To what?” I asked.

Her reply knocked the air out of me.

“I just got a call from California, your father just passed away.”

For a moment, everything went still. He was in the late stages of Alzheimers so it was expected at some point.

The lightning continued to flash across the sky, briefly lighting the faces around me. Thunder rolled across the mountains, deep and distant. The champagne glasses were filled, and we stood there together on the deck, suspended between celebration and loss.

We raised our glasses.

We toasted Lou Backston—his life, his memory, and the sudden reality of his passing. He was the steady voice we could always count on—a man of quiet humor, clear vision, and deep kindness.

Lightning flashed again, reflecting off the champagne glasses as thunder rolled across the lake.

The storm never let up.

Lightning continued to split the sky, one brilliant flash after another, as if marking the moment in a way none of us would ever forget.

That night became fixed in my memory—not just because of the news, but because of the setting. The mountains, the lake, the storm, and the people beside me all fused into a single moment in time.

So now, whenever lightning fills the sky, it carries me back to that deck above Lake Pend Oreille.

And last night, standing above the rooftops of Bologna, watching lightning ripple across the Italian sky, I felt that same quiet pull of memory. Whether it’s over the mountains of Idaho or the rooftops of Bologna, lightning never feels like just weather anymore.

Some storms pass quickly.
Others stay with you for a lifetime.