I have just learned that Madeleine L'Engle died yesterday. She was well into her 80s and she died of natural causes, so there is reason to not to be too crestfallen. Still, another marvelous artist has left our immediate midst to join the heavenly liturgy, and that's reason to mourn.
I have been a fan of Ms. L'Engle's for decades, but not primarily through her famous so-called "children's books," Wrinkle and the Austen books, but through her journals and her adult novels. Her journals, sometimes purportedly written in the dead of night when she couldn't sleep and missed her last husband, made me want to be a memoirist. But that requires a certain degree of insight, so I couldn't follow her example. Still, if I can't sleep, I follow her advice to enjoy the wakefulness (especially in the midst of winter) and drink a cup of warmed chicken broth.
There is a very touching obituary here. (No one does obits the way The New York Times does.)
Eternal rest grant her, O Lord; and let perpetual light shine upon her.
And the people of God are heard to say, Amen.