Last night seemed like any other early-summer night in Arkansas. We finally closed the windows because the daytime temps had reached a level that tipped the scales on my husband’s tolerance for humidity, and an after-bedtime storm was predicted to hit around midnight. We pulled the vehicles and adolescent tomato plants under the carport and went to bed.

The closed windows helped dampen, but not silence, the thunderstorm outside, and we were a bit restless as it rolled in. There was a lot of lightning with the storm, and one particular bolt seemed to come straight out of the sky and into our neighbor’s yard next door. Eventually, it quieted down and we started dozing off.

Thirty to forty-five minutes later – it’s hard to be precise – I was listening to my husband snoring beside me and considering my options for making him stop (Kick his feet? Push his pillow? Pull the sheet?) when I started noticing an unsettling smell.

You know how, when you’re half-awake, you smell something weird or offensive and aren’t sure if it’s a REAL smell, or you’re dreaming it? Like, “did the dog just poop on my bed??” I finally decided that it was a real smell, so I got out of bed to investigate. We had the door to the bedroom closed to keep a cat who had a procedure done that morning confined to a smaller part of the house, and when I opened that door, the smell intensified. Then I walked into the kitchen, and my alarm bells sounded. I was smelling natural gas, and the pilot light for the hot water heater was in a closet right behind me.

I woke up my snoring husband (this was an option I hadn’t considered ten minutes earlier), and told him to start opening windows and turn off the pilot light. I went to the other end of the house to wake my son while calling 9-1-1.

I went back to the kitchen, thinking maybe I could turn off the gas behind the stove, but when I pulled it away from the wall I heard the hiss of gas escaping, and my brain just started yelling “GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!”. The 9-1-1 dispatcher confirmed that we should get out, and leave the door open behind us. She also told me to leave her on the line, but put down my phone. I remembered signs at the gas station that say not to carry a phone as you fill up, to avoid a spark from static electricity igniting a fire. Done.

We stood outside in the rain and flagged down the truck as it came down the street. I observed that the firefighters were not moving nearly as quickly getting in the house as I was when I came out. I met a neighbor in the street who had seen the flashing lights. He recalled that the last time he’d seen a fire truck at our house was the year before we bought it – when half the house burned.

After the fire department turned off all the valves and gave us the green light to go back into the house, we waited a bit longer for the gas company rep to arrive. He checked the meter and confirmed that there were no other leaks, then he climbed behind the stove and pulled out the line that was leaking to inspect it for damage. And this is where it got freaky.

There on the hose is a hole the size of a pencil lead, and a little smudge of black, that are indication of a lightning strike entering our house somewhere, and leaving a hole in the gas line as it made it’s way to the ground.

So glad I was awake later than usual last night and I have an exceptional sense of smell. So glad our emergency personnel are close by.

I think I might buy a lottery ticket today.