A Quiet Church in Manhattan

We were fifteen minutes late to Tim's funeral. I had gotten there as quickly as possible. Elsa wanted an Icee after school, Julien didn't want to wear a button up shirt, and Anouk's hair needed braiding. We sprinted from classroom to schoolyard over sidewalks to bedroom wardrobes into the subway under the river and up into Chelsea. I had never been to a church service in Manhattan. Neither had the kids. We talked about staying quiet and calm during the service.

"Why?" they asked.

"Because there are going to be a lot of people there who are sad, and taking this time to remember your mommy and daddy's friend Tim."

"Why?" they asked.

"Because he passed away, and they are thinking about him and want to share stories about him and use this time together to do that."

There is a surrealness to entering a quiet, dark, spired building in the middle of a bright and boisterous New York City afternoon. Once you walk in the doors, the honking horns and the rushing crowds and the pretzel vendors and the graffiti walls immediately fade away behind you. We were fifteen minutes late, and Jamie, Emmanuelle and Landon were in the fifth row. I carried Elsa and held Julien's hand, and Anouk pursed her mouth shut and we walked quickly up towards the front of the church.

Their parents smiled at them as they sat down, their eyes wet but their confidence drawn. Never have I met two more intelligent, strong, or noble people than these two. Never would I have imagined becoming part of such a unique family when I moved to Brooklyn. Never will they be able to be replaced.

Journalists and friends of Tim spoke at the podium to the jam-packed, humid church. Sebastian Junger talked about how he was always the word guy and Tim was always the picture guy. They spoke about how Tim lived and how he died. They spoke mostly about war, about how Tim took every detail of it and found ways to show it to the world. They spoke about how the last decade, ever since 9/11, had been incredibly violent and devastating for journalists. Soldiers spoke of their relationships with him, how he became a brother to anyone he met, instantly. His girlfriend spoke about how Tim had taught her not only how to live, but how to love - fully and openly and without hesitation. His sister spoke with an elegant British accent about Christmas' in the past with her brother, how he always had a joke to tell and how friendly he was with everyone he met. She also mentioned the children sitting on either side of me and on my lap, how Tim adored them. Their eyes widened at the mention of their name. They were so quiet and wonderful throughout the entire service.

The more people spoke about him, the more it sank in how incredible this person really was. It felt strange being at the memorial service of someone I had never met. Through Emmanuelle and Jamie's stories I had put pieces together about him, but this solidified the man. As we stood in the church yard afterwards, Julien and Elsa chased a squirrel and Anouk held my hand. They hugged many friends, introduced me to their people, whose names I will forget but whose faces have left a mark... tearful and worn, but hopeful. These people have influence on the media, positive influence. And Tim's death will inspire them to continue on, to live with passion, and to love fully. How tragically beautiful it was to be there with them.