Now, two months later, in the middle of yet another church service in my father’s honor, as I studied the brass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling so at least it would appear I was blinking back tears, it occurred to me that in many ways the whole mourning experience had been a performance. Even though this was the smaller, invitation-only memorial for family and close friends, I still felt their gazes on my back, couldn’t avoid the stares coming from the pews on either side of us. And though there was nothing in their faces to signal anything but sincerity, I still thought of them as an audience with expectations for how Gregory’s elder daughter—the daughter, as the story went, he’d been closest to, who had followed him into politics and once upon a time even worked for him—should grieve. Sad, but not overcome. Staid, but not emotionless. Appreciative of the time I had with my father, but not celebratory.

By the time the service reached the Lord’s Prayer, I’d pretty much captured what I hoped was the right expression, the correct body language. But then the phones started.

First the small ting, coming from the back of the sanctuary, followed closely by more insistent buzzing from the row behind us. I was between my mother and sister and let them do the job of pointedly turning to shush, jaws set, eyes blazing.

Give us this day our daily bread...

More phones made music from purses and jacket pockets. I knew I shouldn’t—we were supposed to be praying, for God’s sake—but the suggestion I might be missing breaking news was too great. I shifted my folded hands ever so slowly and snuck a look at my own phone in my purse at my feet. The screen lit up with text after incoming text.

And forgive our debts, as we forgive those who debt against us...

“Let me just—” I whispered, bending to retrieve it. The sheer volume of notifications—whatever had just happened outside the church had to be very, very bad. Only anger and fear spread that quickly.

For thine is the kingdom...

“What is happening?” I heard Wallis ask, after someone a few rows back actually murmured, “Hello? Yes, I’m here...”

And the power, and the glory...

Seventeen missed calls, and a dozen texts from an editor I knew at the Times. “Shit,” I said, clutching my phone tighter.

Forever and ever...

“What?” Wallis and Cricket asked at precisely the same time.

No longer caring about propriety, I held up the phone so they could see the latest Times news alert on my screen. Gasps, perhaps from them, or from others, echoed in the room, one after the next.

Amen.

Three