My friend Julia, a writer, and I were recently talking about the art of good editing. I told her how a careful editor can transform what I write to pure gold, and I shared stories of Gene Phillips, who worked with me when I was a technical writer at Pearl Harbor Shipyard.

“I loved when Gene edited my stuff,” I said. “He would cut and clean and always improve my copy.” Just this morning, in one of life’s quirky coincidences, I received an unexpected email from another colleague: “We have lost Gene Phillips,” he wrote.

My heart dropped. I thought, “How ironic, I was just talking about Gene.” I last saw him in 1997, when he popped in unexpectedly at my office at the American Cancer Society after about seven years of no communication. Gene was a kindly Southern gentleman with a newspaper background and a gentleness that made him dear.

He didn’t look well. Perhaps he was already silently fighting the cancer that would take his life. But we shared stories, caught up, and I tried—unsuccessfully—to recruit him as a volunteer. He never mentioned being sick. I remember saying, “Oh Gene, you are the best editor I have ever known.” When I looked in his eyes, there was gratitude, and something else. “I needed to hear that from you,” he said softly.

Writer D. H. Lawrence once observed, “The dead don’t die. They look on and help.”

I know, as I string these words together, Gene is watching me from heaven with a smile. And I can almost hear him drawl: “Um… are you absolutely sure you want to use that passive voice right there?”