On the Bridge

I just read this evening that arguably one of the greatest writers of the 20th century, Madeline L'Engle, died yesterday of natural causes. The author of the award winning classic A Wrinkle In Time, as well as volumes in just about every other genre, she was a hero of mine. I loved her when I was 12 and my mother's adoration of Wrinkle made mine seem as natural as breathing. I read all of her other books in the children's dept of the library I could get my little hands on, maybe not all ever published, but certainly dozens and dozens of them. I loved her when I was in college and Wrinkle stood up to the scrutiny of a class full of skeptical freshman as a beautiful example of science fiction. I loved her more when the instructor I was assisting drew on her long acquaintance with Mrs. L'Engle to tell sweet and funny stories of the author that made her less a distant mythic hero and more like a friend I just hadn't met yet. I loved her all over again when, a few years after college, I discovered her adult fiction and the characters and storylines were beautifully multidimensional, full of thought and life. Her nonfiction, especially one of my favorites about the Christian artistic life, Walking on Water, illuminated another aspect to love of this brilliant woman. To paraphrase a line from Walking on Water: 'A book is a bridge between the author and reader. ' You know it is true. If a writer is great, like Madeline L'Engle, you do feel as if you meet across the bridge of words. You share a passion for the story and characters, both author and reader breathing life into a void to create a world other than their own. Madeline L'Engle understood that great literature allows this fluid collaboration and mingling of minds. This special quality has endeared her to countless readers and I suspect will continue to do so for generations. They, like I, will meet her on the bridge.