Some fifteen years ago, my husband and I rented a few rooms in a derelict historic building in a state park. The rent was low and the view was lovely, and our housemate was a creative type from a previous generation. One night, when her gallbladder had failed her, she limped to our hallway, hunched over in pain. “Summer,” she stage whispered, “Summer, please help me.” I of course jumped out of bed and ran to see what was wrong. “I can’t sleep. The pain is too much. Can you sing to me?” It was the middle of the night, near the prayer hour known as Lauds. Perhaps I sensed the proximity to the quiet prayers of night the world over. The song that…