In our little chapel at home, tucked away in the deep forests of Västergötland, Sweden, my godfather’s composition of gentle tones, like wings and calls of the ravens, sounded the depth of meaning of the poem of St John of the Cross, Still It Is Night, Fast Natten Råder. And at the eastern wall, behind a gleaming block of red granite, shrouded in the wings of the tabernacle, He listened and I listened to just two voices, my father and my mother singing, my ear and His presence in harmony. Still, it is night! It would not be honest to say this song changed my life because He didn’t want to change what He had loved into existence; He wants to live it! And still it is night!