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I never had the pleasure of meeting Mary Vanek – but I know it would have been a pleasure indeed, and that I’m the poorer for the lack.

I first heard from Mary in 2014, after the publication of my second novel, Dakota. At the time, she was a postulant at St. Placid’s Priory, a Benedictine monastery in Washington state. She introduced herself  as an Amarillo, Texas, native who’d gotten her MFA from the University of Montana’s highly regarded creative writing program. Hers was one of those notes that sends a new, uncertain author’s heart soaring. The voice in my novels, she generously wrote, “hit every Texas nerve I have and left them vibrating” – and she added that she was recommending my books to her fellow postulants.

My first reaction was: Yikes! The idea of a religious community reading Dakota, which was about human trafficking in the Baaken oilfields, reawakened long-dormant Catholic school sensibilities. But I got over the initial embarrassment and so began a wonderfully rewarding correspondence.

Mary’s creative writing chops showed in every email. Her Christmas note last year began thusly:

The wind has finally laid low after an all-night blow. One of my feral cats – an older tom – has an injured front paw, but he’s so wild, I can’t get near him, and it’s making me nuts. So I’m praying hard to St. Francis and Our Lady Undoer of Knots that he heal. Great thing about being Catholic – as I always tell my friends and clients – is that we’re fully accessorized. We’ve got a saint for anything, any malady, or hope (usually based on a deeply embedded holy person of pagan persuasion or a place that’s been holy to local people for time out of mind) you can come up with. Us recovering addicts have everybody from St. Augustine of Hippo to St. Maximillian Kolbe to Blessed Matt Talbot (an Irish drunk who died sober in 1925 who was found to have bound his body in chains and ropes as penance for his earlier life as a drunk). 

She always apologized for the length of her emails; I always wished they were longer.

I was glad I’d sent her an advance copy of my most recent novel, Silent Hearts. We’d discussed the progress (or lack thereof) of the manuscript over the years and she shared my joy in its long-awaited publication.

Her last note to me, on Valentine’s Day, touched as always on the weather (a mutual obsession) and Catholicism, even though by then she’d left the monastery and was back in Amarillo.

We’re having one of those weird weather days – 73 degrees and wind, wind, wind. A somewhat welcome change from below 32 and wind, wind, wind. … So, Ash Wednesday on Valentine’s Day. A conundrum for observant Catholics as today is a day of both fast (only one solid meal) and abstinence (no meat). Definitely no candy. 

She asked after my partner, who’d just had quadruple bypass surgery, and told me she’d sought prayers on his behalf from the sisters of St. Placid. At which point I relaxed, knowing he’d be fine.

And then, three days ago, a thoughtful note from a member of Mary’s writing group arrived, letting me know that Mary had died. The air went out of the room.

It seemed impossible that such a vibrant, intrepid spirit was gone. She’s not, of course. I imagine her swirling about on those wild Texas winds, taking a delighted and descriptive interest in everything she sees. But I’m so sad we’ll never meet in person.

And I hope every writer is fortunate enough to have such a perceptive, generous, responsive reader. It’s the ultimate honor.

Rest in peace, Mary. And eternal thanks.