I first met Madeleine L’Engle in a writ­ers’ work­shop she was lead­ing at a New York City con­vent when I was try­ing to sell my first novel. She was very com­pli­men­tary about my writ­ing and in a burst of dar­ing, I asked, “Will you read my unpub­lished novel?” She hes­i­tated a moment and then said, “Yes.” And I think I ran the forty blocks home, my feet not touch­ing the ground. It was a warm Octo­ber night in 1989.

She loved the novel and sub­mit­ted it to her own pub­lisher who did not take it, but she endorsed my work, and when Nicholas Cooke: actor, sol­dier, physi­cian, priest was accepted by W.W. Nor­ton two years later, she sent me an enor­mous bunch of flow­ers. She rec­om­mended notable peo­ple to blurb for the novel. But more than that, she became my friend and I adored her.

Many small writ­ers’ sup­port groups grew out of that annual work­shop, and once a year we’d all gather for a pot luck din­ner at her house, one of those rare old New York apart­ments with a view of the Hud­son River, posters of her late actor hus­band in the kitchen, and long hall­ways lined with books.  There were up to seventy-five of us, sit­ting on every bit of the rug.

At that time I was involved in a bad rela­tion­ship and when it all fell apart, I wept to her about it. The remark­able thing is that she was lying in a hos­pi­tal bed for knee replace­ment when I told her…and that she had me come stay with her in that mar­velous apart­ment for a few days when she was heal­ing. I was taken into her world and it was pre­cious to me.

Then it turned out that I was sin­gle again and lonely, and she had been cor­re­spond­ing for many years with a man from Geor­gia who was also newly sin­gle and through the most com­pli­cated twists of fate, we met in New York and fell in love. We fell in love so fast that we though we’d bet­ter keep it from her, so at a din­ner party at her house, we stayed on oppo­site sides of the room. The next morn­ing she called up and said in her deep con­tralto voice, “I think you and Rus­sell will be very happy together.” One could not keep much from her if any­thing! She told oth­ers she wanted to make sure he was “wor­thy” of me!

When Rus­sell and I mar­ried, she gave me away. There were church choir­boys whis­per­ing above, and later I was told they were say­ing, “That tall lady is Madeleine L’Engle!”

Her apart­ment was less than a mile from mine, so my hus­band would cook din­ner and bring it to her and we’d eat and talk about every­thing in the world. A few times we went to visit her in her cot­tage in Con­necti­cut which she had built across from her old farm­house Cross­wicks, and I walked down the road she had walked when she could not find a pub­lisher for Wrin­kle in Time and went into the store she had owned with her hus­band Hugh, and attended the church where she had led the choir before she became a famous writer.

When she began to be sick and more inca­pac­i­tated by her bad hips and knees, my hus­band and I would wheel her over in her wheel chair to one of her two favorite restau­rants where some­times, between courses, some­one would creep over and ask for her auto­graph. We drank wine and were very happy. We told silly, wise, deep sto­ries. And in all this I knew God was among us. He was at the table with us.

This is part of my very indi­vid­ual story of know­ing Madeleine L’Engle. Madeleine knew thou­sands of peo­ple and played a deep part in so many careers and love sto­ries. She was five feet ten and her capac­ity for love was bound­less. I really do believe she was a bod­hisattva, an enlight­ened being sent to earth. When I first knew her I thought I’d want to be just like her, but I do not have that gift. There was only one of her ever and those who knew her were blessed.

Once I called her up in the midst of a writ­ing cri­sis and finally I said, “Madeleine, per­haps I inter­rupted you! What were you doing when I called?” And she said, “Oh I was just writ­ing…” I often think of that and won­der what sen­tence of what great work was inter­rupted for me?

I miss her and will always love her. I knew what I had in know­ing her was pre­cious while I had it and now that she has gone on, I know its worth more. I wish with all my heart I could run up the mile to her apart­ment over­look­ing the Hud­son and talk about every­thing again and go away feel­ing truly loved, as she always made me feel…truly loved.