So we must say goodbye to Pavarotti. It hurts. I wish I was in Modena, Italy to stand among the thousands outside the cathedral this morning. His face was remarkable - such fire and intensity when singing those aerial passages, as though the whole universe was depending on him. Then his eyes would soften and his smile would envelope an entire soccer stadium, as if Love itself was singing and smiling.

Two years ago, my wife Dodee and I were able to see and hear him in Dallas. I will always be grateful to friends Jamie and Danna for getting us tickets. There was Pavarotti. We were there, as I see it now, to verify the fact of him. His voice was an effortless miracle, even if his high notes had become less available. And something about his generosity of spirit was no less miraculous. Yes, I know he had critics and was even banned from the Lyric Opera House in Chicago for cancelling too many appearances. So be it. But on a summer night in Dallas, we felt what the world has felt - that he was singing FOR us. I mean Pavarotti was singing OUR hearts out. His voice seemed to carry the joy and the longing of the whole world.

Last night Dodee and I drove home from the Austin airport to the sound of a recent Pavarotti CD, inexplicable tears streaming from our faces. It’s odd how hard it is right now to say goodbye to a friend I never knew. But I feel profoundly grateful too.

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Ah, the crazy news - Turns out we have to say goodbye to Madelien L’Engle too. The writer of the classic, A Wrinkle in Time, and many compelling books on faith and art has died this week, too. I have long admired her and appreciated her articulate sense of the interconnection of the creative life with the spiritual one. She seemed to appreciate, even in her eighties, the high art of being a child. Adieu - and with heartfelt thanks.