I first encountered Madeleine L'Engle herself at a writer's workshop at Holy Cross Monastery in West Park, New York. I went expecting to pick up a few writing tips, perhaps a little constructive criticism, a little inspiration. What I found was a community that drew me -- and many others -- back January after January for her annual workshop and the retreat she always led afterwards.

Yes, I picked up a few writing tips. I received positive feedback on the stories and poems I wrote as workshop exercises. I returned home with my creative batteries recharged.

But it was the community of friends that developed, the joy of creating and singing and worshiping together, the intimacy of sharing stories and of learning at the feet of a woman of wit as well as wisdom that stirred my soul.

I always was amazed at the high quality of writing at these workshops, where few participants were professional writers. Often, during introductions, people claimed they weren't writers at all, saying things like, "I always wanted to be a writer…"

Madeleine quickly dispelled that line of thinking. "If you write, you're a writer," she'd declare. And workshop after workshop, participants proved the truth of her words.

She had a way of inspiring without dictating that others follow her style. And she advocated a free-flowing writing technique, urging us to get ourselves out of the way and just write. "Don't think, write," she'd instruct.

Her own characters were very much alive to her, sometimes surprising her midstream so that she had to go back and revise a book's plot. I knew I'd found a kindred spirit when she told us the only book she never completed was the one she wrote an outline for, because then it was set in stone and the characters couldn't breath. "Good," she said when I confessed I'd always written the mandatory outlines for school papers after I wrote the papers.

Of course, workshops with Madeleine transcended such mundane topics as writing outlines. Perhaps it was the monastery setting, but we discussed philosophy and theology and how to live life meaningfully as much as writing. She often found theological inspiration in cutting-edge science -- entwined themes in many of her books. People arguing about whether evolution or creationism is correct ask the wrong question, she said. "The question is whether God did it."

Above all, Madeline was a storyteller. With her acting background, she spun tales as well in person as on the page, and I've delighted in repeating them over the years. Like the story about the time she, a longtime city dweller accustomed to the noises of New York, woke her husband in a panic at a noise she heard in the night at their country home in Connecticut. "They're geese, dear," he told her. "Go back to sleep."

Then there's her cautionary tale about being careful what you pray for. En route to a speaking engagement and feeling as though she was catching a cold, she prayed earnestly about not losing her voice. She subsequently came down with a terrible stomach bug. "My voice was fine!"

While Madeleine gave much to us through these encounters, she also allowed others to serve her. Without making a big fuss about it, she graciously would accept a cup of tea or a steadying hand.

I fell into my own gift of service accidentally. Arriving during the traditional post-workshop hymn sing one year, I sang an impromptu duet of Jesus Christ the Apple Tree with Martha, another soprano. After I sat down, Madeleine asked, "Do you know the duet in Bach's Cantata 78?"

I looked around to see who she was addressing.

"No," I finally answered, realizing she meant me. Next thing I knew, I was sightreading the piece, then promising to practice the duet and perform it the next year. When the big moment arrived the following January, I lifted my eyes to the altar and sang with fear and joy, "Wir eilen mit schwachen doch emsigen Schritten." ("We hasten with eager yet faltering footsteps.")

After we finished, Madeleine asked us to sing it again. And I knew that I had found a way to give back something to someone who had given me much.

Wir eilen became a yearly tradition. After lunch at the end of my last retreat with Madeleine, I told her I'd be delighted to sing it for her anytime.

"How about now?" she asked. And so Martha and I made the refectory ring with our "faltering footsteps."

Today, it is my heart that falters knowing Madeleine has gone home to God. She used to say that, while many people thank Jesus for dying for them, her prayer was: "Thank you, Jesus, for living for me."

To which I can only add: "Thank you, Jesus, for continuing to show us how to live, through the witness of your servant Madeleine."

May she rest in peace, at the heart of the story.