He rarely showed emotion, and when he spoke, he acted as a peacemaker, calming the heated arguments that sometimes emerged from the gaggle of writers. Walt usually sat quietly on the margins, stroking his then-shaven chin while observing everything around him with piercing blue eyes. We got to know each other mainly through the Chrysostom Society, a group comprising 20 or so writers of faith. He was performing in the purest sense of the word, weaving stories and concepts together in erudite prose, directing our minds and emotions much as a conductor directs an orchestra’s sounds-now meditative and melodic, now electrifying and bombastic. Yet Wangerin was neither reading nor sitting. I thought of the accounts of Charles Dickens sitting onstage in the great halls of England, reading his stories to a mesmerized audience. A slender man with a handsome, angular face and a shock of dark hair, he stalked the stage like a Shakespearean actor. I first encountered Walter as a speaker at a conference in which we both participated. His wife Thanne (short for Ruth Anne), his family, and a few close friends from Valparaiso University were with him when he died. passed away, and a unique voice fell silent.
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