Agatha Christie died thirty-eight years ago today. She was eighty-six years old, and among other things had written some sixty-six murder mysteries. Many of these adapted to film or television. Today her characters live in the hearts of a very large number of people around the globe. As a mystery writer her fame is exceeded perhaps only by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his creation Sherlock Holmes.
Now, in the Christian calendar people who are deeply admired, officially counted among the saints, their lives are celebrated on the anniversary of their deaths – presumably the day they’ve gone on to their heavenly reward. I also like that way of marking a life out from birth through death because it celebrates not just the potential we get with a birthday, as lovely as that is, but we get to notice the fullness of a life.
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