I've Got Mail

J. L. Penfold died early on the morning of January 10. He was 71 years old. He was at home. And he was surrounded by his family. All of which are blessings.

I met J. L. about a dozen years ago. A regular reader of THE WEEKLY STANDARD, he had come on one of the magazine's first cruises. I can't quite remember where we first bumped into one another, but I suspect it was in the ship's cigar lounge. We started talking politics and before we knew it several hours had passed. Although we were at different points on the ride—I was newly married; he was nearing retirement—we took to one another immediately.

A week or so after the cruise, an email from J. L. popped up in my inbox. I replied, and we picked up where we'd left off. Our correspondence went on like that, every few days, until he entered hospice care a few weeks ago.

Over the years, I learned about his childhood and his family: A resident of Greeley, J. L. came from a family that has been in Colorado for five generations. He and his wife, Marian, have three grown children, all of whom live close by and gave him a great amount of pleasure. His daughter is a lawyer and one of his sons is, like me, a devotee of Batman.

J. L. sent me joyous notes whenever one of his grandbabies was born and after each of my children came into the world. Three years ago, when my uncle was dying of cancer, I asked J. L. to pray for him. He did.

J. L. was a Methodist minister, which was a perfect fit. He was kind and smart and genuinely humble. I'm not sure if Methodists believe in the communion of saints, but J. L. was definitely the saintly type.

While Christ reigned supreme in his life, his earthly interests ranged far and wide. He was exceptionally well read and, from time to time, he'd send me a book from his library that he thought I'd find useful. Yet of all the tidbits we shared over the years, my favorite was a photograph of J. L. with his father, son, and grandson. Seeing four generations of Penfold men together made me indescribably happy.

He and my eldest daughter share a birthday, and every year, without fail, he would email to wish her a happy day. I suspect I will never celebrate one of her birthdays without thinking of him.

I have a few other close correspondents. Back in 2001, a fellow in Wisconsin emailed me to complain about a headline I'd written. We became such bosom friends that when I came to the state to cover Barack Obama in 2008, I wound up snowed in at his house having pizza with him, his wife, and their kids. Another friend lives in Malibu. He and I wrote back and forth for 14 years before finally meeting in person. He's one of the wisest men I know, and I often go to him for advice.

Sometimes my correspondents and I gab about politics, but just as often we don't. There is a retired lady in New Hampshire who writes to me at least once a week. We mostly chat about tennis.

All told, I have maybe a dozen of these pen pals, though that term doesn't really do them justice. I treasure these relationships because they are so unexpected. One of the pleasures of the writer's life is the chance to strike up friendships with other writers you admire. When I started my career, it never occurred to me that there were friendships to be found among readers, too.

The term "reader mail" carries a slightly zany connotation. Back when people used to send paper letters, you could always tell the cranks ahead of time because their envelopes would be covered in scribblings, stamps, or stickers. Or all of the above—as if they finished their letters, sealed them up, and then couldn't stop themselves from telling you one more thing.

The era of email reduced real mail to a trickle, but increased the overall volume of correspondence—and the percentage of crazy. I'd guess that around 10 percent of the emails I get are unhinged, moronic, or abusive, though many of the people writing are not actually bonkers. It's just that they never expect a human being to read their missives. Most of them seem more chagrined than triumphant when I reply.

And I almost always reply. Because you never know.

It is a blessing that my life intertwined with J. L.'s as it did. I'm grateful for his friendship. But I miss his voice all the same.