Flannery O’Connor, who died 60 years ago Aug. 3, has a sparkling reputation for creating intriguing fictional characters who struggled with the effects of original sin. From her pen proceeded the unforgettably smug Ruby Turpin, who has her comeuppance in a doctor’s waiting room, when a girl hurls a book at her and calls her a warthog from hell. Then there was the escaped convict who discussed the meaning of Christ’s appearance in the world with a terrified grandmother before shooting her on the roadside. 

Many people simply couldn’t comprehend why O’Connor’s characters were so grotesque and her plots so laced with violence. She defended herself by pointing out she was writing for an audience that no longer believed in much of anything, so “to the hard of hearing you shout and for the almost blind you draw large and startling figures.”

Her stories are sometimes explored without reference to the underpinnings of her Catholic faith, even though she emphasized, “I write the way I do because and only because I am a Catholic.” She deftly created grotesque characters such as a one-armed man, a one-legged woman, a fellow covered in tattoos and a man who blinded himself. These figures fit neatly into her plots that showed the ugliness of sins like pride, lust, greed and cruelty. 

Still, O’Connor’s stories also reveal the workings of God’s grace, which could turn someone’s life around, even in the worst of circumstances, assuming the person exerted the strength to live differently. 

She wrote, “All human nature vigorously resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful.” Her own life overflowed with God’s grace, which helped her remain joyful despite being stricken with lupus at age 25. 

She glimpsed God’s gracious handiwork in the natural world, especially in the antics of the birds and beasts at Andalusia Farm in Georgia, where she lived. One of her favorite poets, Gerard Manley Hopkins, had written the unforgettable line, “The world is charged with the glory of God.” 

O’Connor’s enjoyment of the natural world, despite the terribly debilitating disease she suffered from, was in keeping with her philosophy of life. As a Catholic, she knew suffering never has the final word; the Crucifixion led to the Resurrection. Even as the symptoms of her illness worsened, she could remain upbeat: “I can with one eye squinted take it all as a blessing.” 

Ironically, O’Connor became somewhat of a grotesque character herself due to the effects of the medications she took. Over time, her hair began falling out, her face swelled and her bones started disintegrating. Ten years after the diagnosis, she was hobbling around on crutches, but she managed to maintain her wry sense of humor when she told a friend, “I feel like a large, stiff anthropoid ape.” And although the crutches impeded her ability to get around, she didn’t complain. “My greatest exertion and pleasure has been throwing garbage to the chickens, and I can still do this, although I am in danger of going with it.” 

O’Connor was a great admirer of peafowl despite the ear-splitting cries they emitted at night. To her, the magical way the birds went from drab to gorgeous in a matter of seconds was an image of the Transfiguration. She gave her friends peacock feathers as gifts, calling them “genuine works of the Lord.” Her beloved flocks also included chickens and ducks and, eventually, swans. She wrote to her editor, “I am at present living in Milledgeville, Georgia, raising ducks and game birds, and writing.” After being interviewed on a TV show, an experience she hated, she wryly remarked that she was happy to return to her chickens “who don’t know I have just published a book.” 

The woman who could shape grotesque characters on a blank page found humor in her less-than-perfect birds. After a peacock got too close to a farm hand’s swing blade, O’Connor regaled friends with stories about her one-legged peacock. When she was interested in ordering swans, she was delighted to locate a pair in Florida that were being sold at a reduced price because the hen was blind in one eye. 

When the birds arrived at Andalusia, she happily wrote, “My cup runneth over.” 

It wasn’t just the peacocks that brought to mind Christ for O’Connor. She also had a burro named Marquita that bore a mark on its back resembling a cross and was evidently the kind of burro that had carried Christ into Jerusalem. 

Before long, O’Connor gifted her mother with a male burro named Ernest. At Christmastime, Ernest provided plenty of humor in O’Connor’s letters when he was invited to appear in Nativity scenes at local churches and didn’t always cooperate. 

On Aug. 3, 1964, O’Connor died at age 39 of complications from lupus, the same disease that had claimed her father’s life. 

The letters she wrote a few months before her death reveal the ongoing joy she experienced from her animals. For example, she wrote about the Muscovy ducks laying eggs under the farmhouse front steps “while the peacocks scream and holler.” 

Just a month before she died, she described looking out the window and seeing Equinox chasing the swans. Right until the end, her world was indeed charged with grace and the glory of God.