The other day, out of the blue a friend turned to me and said, "I miss Neal A. Maxwell."

He said it because because general conference was at hand and because Elder Maxwell was always a highlight. And he said it because he knew I felt the same way.

In a church that believes in living prophets, the talks and writings of general authorities often get laid to rest with them. But not the writings of Elder Maxwell. I still hear him quoted from the pulpit. I still see his books being opened.

The other night, out of nostalgia, I again got out the letters he'd sent me. They had remained as fresh as April. And as I thumbed through them, I noticed a pattern. Call it the "Maxwell Model" for writing lasting letters.

Without exception, he'd begin by thanking me — even if I hadn't done anything.

"Just a note of appreciation ..."

"Thanks so much for your thoughtful note ..."

"Even though my eyes were dimmed by jet lag, your column was appreciated ..."

Then, like a man building a sandwich, he'd add a slice of beef. In one letter he wrote:

"Henry Eyring (Sr.), though he was dean of the graduate school at the U., didn't let his administrative role affect his personal teaching ... he simply had an outstanding secretary whom he dubbed 'the real dean.' In that way, Henry was able to excite the entering freshmen and oversee the research work of doctoral students."

Then, at times after a self-effacing comment, he'd close with another slice of bread — another slice of gratitude:

"Thanks for writing ..."

"Thanks again for your friendship ..."

"Thanks for the attention ..."

His customary closing was like a toothpick through it all: "Kindest personal regards."

Reading those letters again triggered many memories in me. Elder Maxwell loved meaty words. He once said he'd been accused of using a $10 word when a dollar word would do. But that was just him. His wife, Colleen, once said he proposed by saying "Our relationship has come to fruition." And once, I recall, I was seated in a semicircle with other writers while we waited for him to arrive. He walked in and ducked. "You look like a scimitar," he said. "I hope that doesn't foreshadow things to come."

He led with his language. In his talks, in his books and in his letters, Elder Maxwell relished weighty words. They were his signature. But his gift — I dare say his genius — was his ability to fill those words with such a loving, buoyant spirit that they seemed to float. He could call Satan an "insatiable insomniac," for example, and — by the sweetness of his voice and the warmth of his heart — make the words sound personal and engaging.

He gave wings to things of the most gravity.

That was the Maxwell magic.

And it's a magic I've been enjoying again this conference week as I've reread his letters to me.

Like so many other people, I mourn him and miss him. But, like so many others, I can still feel the breath of his spirit and the beat of his heart in the writing he left behind. And as I have read his "letter sandwiches," those little meals filled with meaty language and held together by rich, warm slices of gratitude, I know he has never really left us.

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E-mail: jerjohn@desnews.com