Brian's Memorial Service was held in New York two weeks after the day he died at the World Trade Center. The day of the service, unlike September 11th, was overcast, with rain threatening. "Just like the day we got married," said Judy, his wife of seven years, now his widow.

Hundreds of people showed up for Brian's service: Judy's friend Ginger from summer camp, the President of Brian's alma mater, a former friend Judy hadn't seen since they'd had a rift fifteen years earlier, a trader who worked with Brian at Cantor Fitzgerald until six months ago, who told me this was his tenth such service in a week.

Though Judy was Jewish, the service was Catholic, because Brian was a Catholic. "He really believed it all," Judy told me. "He believed in heaven," she said, "and I wish so much that I did."

The service began with all of us singing "Amazing Grace." The Priest, Father Ramsey, read from the Scriptures and gave his homily. Then, with a nod from the organist, I walked to one of the lecterns, and the organist played me an "F." I knew that if I said any words at all, I'd cry. So instead, I started singing the sad song that had been going through my head ever since I found out Brian was missing. It's about someone that dies in autumn, and it begins with an image of the singer memorizing the person's face by the light of a glowing fire. I'd changed the word "fire" to "candle," because I heard a story of another man at Cantor Fitzgerald who called his wife from a tiny piece of what remained of his floor and told her he was staring into an inferno.

My voice was a little shaky at first but, even so, it filled the church; it was like singing in an enormous shower. Soon, I forgot about all the people in the church and just thought about Brian, who loved music so much that he named his daughter Layla after the Clapton song, and I thought about his wife, Judy, who was the person I was really singing for. Soon after I finished, Father Ramsey spoke about Communion as a sacrifice. I am not a religious person, but I know now that overcoming my nerves and my emotions to sing this song was my small sacrifice-my Communion. As I walked back to my pew, I heard sniffling, but I myself had not yet cried. Father Ramsey explained that today would be Layla and Jessica's First Communion. They are three and five and too young, under normal circumstances, to take Communion. But Father Ramsey said they were doing it today for their father. They were first in line with Judy, and I noticed with some surprise that Judy took Communion too. But then I thought that, of course, she had to do it. For the girls. She needed to do what they did to be with them-a family torn apart but still together.

This is where I broke down. Judy's entire Jewish family…her parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, all stood up and took Communion too. Some Jewish friends of mine, even unreligious ones, tell me they feel uncomfortable at the sight of a crucifix. For Judy's family to take Communion and take into themselves what Catholic's truly believe to be the body of Christ, was an act of monumental love. It was more than an expression of their feelings for Brian, it was a statement about the boundaries and beliefs that shear us apart from one another as human beings, and the need for us to cross those boundaries with understanding, acceptance, and love.

Five friends and relatives got up to speak about Brian and later, an old colleague of Judy's who'd never met Brian said he left the church feeling he'd lost a good friend. Back at Judy's parents, I watched Judy smiling and greeting people, and I remembered I'd actually had a good time at the reception after my father's memorial service. You see old friends…it's like a party…you're in a sort of disassociated state. It's only after it's all over and you go back to your normal life that grief really hits you full force.

I think back now to Father Ramsay whose administering the Communion wafer to Jews could surely jeopardize his career, and I know that he's a truly spiritual man. These are no ordinary times, and he was not afraid to take extraordinary steps to help the wounded to heal, and maybe even to grow.