Writer Kenneth Wilson tells of growing up in Pittsburgh:

That house in which we lived on the side of one of Pittsburgh's hills was three stories high in the front and four in the back. The bottom layer was the cellar and the top was what we called the third floor, really a finished attic, the ceiling of which was cut into shadowed geometric shapes by dormer windows. Up there were two bedrooms, a hallway, and a mysterious storage room for trunks that always smelled of mothballs and history. Our family slept there, because the second floor was usually rented out for a tenant to help pay the rent.

Kenneth remembers that, being the youngest, he had to go to bed first, braving that floor of dark bedrooms. It felt like a long way up the steps, especially because they did not have electricity above the second floor, and a gas light had to be turned on, then turned off once the boy was settled.

That bed in that room on the third floor seemed to be at the end of the earth, remote from human habitation, close to unexplained noises and dark secrets. At my urging, my father would try to stop the windows from rattling, wedging wooden matchsticks into the cracks. But they always rattled in spite of his efforts. Sometimes he would read me a story, but inevitably the time would come when he would turn out the light and shut the door, and I would hear his steps on the stairs, growing fainter and fainter. Then all would be quiet, except for the rattling windows and my cowering imagination.

Once, I remember, my father said, "Would you rather I leave the light on and go downstairs, or turn the light out and stay with you for awhile?" . . . [I chose] presence with darkness, over absence with light.

Is that not what we really want most when we pray—the assurance that Someone is there?