When the lights go out, sometimes a light goes on. In your heart. Or even your soul.

David Dolinger was meeting with his daily prayer group when the blackout hit. “I was concerned, because when that happens, you wonder if God is rejecting your prayers,” he said a little later as he waited for a public phone. “Then I heard it was the whole East Coast, so I thought, maybe it’s not my fault.”

Maybe not. But as I stared at the charcoal skyline later that night, I was pretty certain it was his fault. Or mine. Or all of ours, for living so blithely in a city that makes us gods.

When the outage hit, of course, introspection was not the order of the day. It was more like carnival outside. Tons of people flooding the streets. Regular guys directing traffic. Pregnant women smiling at all the sympathetic nods in their direction.

If 9-11 was the evil twin, 8-14 was its happy Doppelganger — Glinda, the Good Crisis. Like 9-11, it was a sunny day, but this time there was no smoke in the sky or lines to donate blood. Just lines at the phones again — and the hotdog vendors and, naturally, Mister Softee.

“This is just to give me strength to walk to the Brooklyn Bridge,” said Marta Farrell, a credit collector, as she ordered a cone near Macy’s. “I’m not supposed to eat this, but the heck with it! I’ll die with a smile on my face.”

Tourists behind her declared the blackout fun, and Sultan Ahmed, a nearby fruit vendor, refused to gouge his customers. “Banana 25 cents,” he told a businessman. “You’re the best!” the man shot back.

It was lovable New York — generous, enthusiastic, ready for anything. Our mettle’s been tested by far worse. This was a piece of cake.

By the time I reached my apartment complex, everyone was in the courtyard. My kids understood that something big was happening, but it was so bright outside it was almost impossible to imagine night ever falling. After all, in New York it never does. We aren’t the city that never sleeps (or sweeps, for that matter), for nothing.

So my husband and I ate ice cream, watched the kids play and dealt with our 7-year-old, for whom the crisis boiled down to, “You mean the Yu-Gi-Oh card vending machine really doesn’t work? Can’t they unlock it? Can’t they use batteries?”

And then, to our amazement, it finally got dark. The blackout lived up to its name. “The Big Dipper!” cried our 5-year-old, so excited to see stars that he assumed any group of three or more must constitute the famed constellation.

But the stars weren’t the real revelation — the darkness was. So this is what night is! It really is separate from day! And the heavens, wow, they’re really separate from the Earth, too! Thoughts that normally occur to me maybe once a decade.

Upstairs — 18 flights — the kids notice how quiet the hall is: no fluorescents buzzing, no TVs humming. We eat Cheerios with about-to-go-bad milk by candlelight. Got flame? It’s beautiful.

And then, sensibly, we all go to bed, sure that when we wake up we’ll be back in control of our world.

1 a.m. — No lights outside.

2 a.m. — No lights outside.

3 a.m. — I’m still up, and still no lights. I have watched the moon rise and change color from red to white. I have stared at the dark city, and instead of that early excitement, feel a growing sadness. Or fear. Or maybe it’s just perspective.

New York, when it’s working, makes us divine. We can live in the sky and fly up swift as swallows. Night to us is as bright as day. We summon our friends almost telepathically by phone and shower ourselves with delights that we buy with tiny magic cards. We see the world with a flick of the remote and sleep in the arms of a shining city. Thanks to a rarely praised sewage system, we don’t even stink. We are all-powerful.

Until the power goes off.

Then our soaring skyscrapers turn into stairs mere mortals cannot climb. Our water dries up. We are parched. And all those lights that shined so bright? They can flicker out. Like us.

So I have no idea whether the man on 33rd Street, or me, or all of us in our happy hubris, caused the blackout. But I do know that when at last the sun came up, I gave thanks to whoever sent it.