When I was in the fourth grade, there was a bookcase right next to my desk—a terrible temptation to an avid reader, especially if you wanted me to pay attention in class.  Well, one day I gave into the inevitable and grabbed a book while my teacher wasn't looking.  It was missing the front cover and the first page, but I jumped right in and started reading, and to this day it remains one of my favorite books—A Wrinkle In Time.  The author of that book, Madeleine L'Engle, may have disapproved of the fact that I never returned the book, but I'm sure she would have understood my need to read something interesting in the otherwise under-stimulating classroom setting.

This is an obituary of sorts, as Madeleine L'Engle died last Thursday, at the age of 88, after a long career of writing many wonderful books, almost all of which I have read.  However, she lives on certainly in her books, and in all of the children's lives she improved by giving them something to read that didn't talk down to them and by making them think about all the amazing things that are out there in the universe.   I would read her books and think with wonder that there were places and cultures out there I hadn't learned about, and that time and space could be interesting topics.  Her families were warm, and they had discussions about physics and God in the same breath, a fact that I was immensely jealous of.

Most of all, L'Engle's books challenge a person to find the answers of the universe in themselves.  Her books got me through many tough times, and I am sad to think that there will be no new ones.  I hope that she has found all the answers to the universe that she sought.