Newtown: An American Tragedy (23 page)

Shortly after the bells tolled, hundreds squeezed into the pews at St. Rose of Lima Roman Catholic Church to say their final goodbyes to little Grace McDonnell. Her heartbroken mother stood in front of the packed pews and shared her treasured memories of her slain daughter, confiding that she had a secret bedtime ritual with her precious “fashionista,” featuring a several-minute-long handshake and ending with them both saying the words “hot fire.”

“You made me fearless,” said Lynn McDonnell. “We were best friends, soul mates, and ‘sister girls,’ ” she said, placing her daughter’s favorite stuffed animal on the lectern.

“Gracie,” as her family affectionately called her, also had a love of peace signs. Each day after Grace finished her shower, she always drew small peace signs with her finger through the fog on the bathroom window. On the first day without her daughter, the bathroom fogged up and Lynn glanced at the window. And right there was a
message. The little girl had drawn the peace sign. Above it was a heart with the words “Grace, Mom.”

Her father, Chris, and big brother, Jack, also stood up in front of the packed church and read heartfelt letters. Chris looked down at his daughter’s casket and asked that she forgive him for not being able to shield her from the gunman.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he said, his voice shaking. He paused before thanking her for “bringing so much love, life, and laughter” into his life. “You taught me how to love,” he added.

As the small casket was being taken to its final resting place, an emotional rendering of “Amazing Grace” echoed through the church.

L
ater that morning, twenty-five miles upstate at the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, Connecticut, more than a thousand people gathered to mourn the loss of teacher’s aide Rachel D’Avino. Family and friends in her hometown took turns recalling fond memories and spoke with conviction of a life that was just beginning to come into full bloom. Working with children was a lifelong goal for Rachel, who had just begun working at the school as a behavioral therapist that fall. There were also wedding bells on the way. Only two days before the shooting, her longtime boyfriend asked her parents for her hand in marriage. He was going to propose to her on Christmas Eve.

Her sister Sarah delivered the eulogy: “That was Rachel, a hard worker, risk taker, a winner. She excelled at everything she did, such as her incredible patience and ability to work with those with special needs, adults and children alike.”

I
n Trumbull, Connecticut, Mary Sherlach was being remembered as a hero by a standing-room-only crowd at St. Stephen Roman Catholic Church. After the gunfire started, it was Sherlach who, along with Principal Dawn Hochsprung, moved toward the danger while most took cover. Sherlach, the school psychologist at Sandy Hook Elementary School, had planned to retire at year’s end to a camp she owned with her husband, Bill, near Owasco Lake, in upstate New York.

Family friend John Simek, who had introduced her to her husband, gave the eulogy, telling loved ones to remember Sherlach for her “love for her neighbors and friends, and always reaching out.” She was also remembered for her passion for her students, and her beloved Miami Dolphins. During the funeral, one of the speakers held up a number 13 Dan Marino jersey in her honor.

L
ater that afternoon, Olivia Rose Engel was remembered by her family as their little angel during an afternoon service at St. Rose of Lima Roman Catholic Church. Inside, a large color photograph of the six-year-old rested on an easel with a cluster of white roses arranged on the floor.

Dan Merton and Julie Pokrinchak, Olivia’s godparents, remembered the girl who brought so much joy to the world and loved the color purple. They spoke of her “infectious giggle,” which usually came out after telling one of her own jokes, and how she loved sailing with her father, Brian.

In attendance was Officer William Chapman, in full uniform, who had cradled Olivia, providing her with comfort during her final moments, who told her, “I love you. Your mom and dad love you.” Tears rolled down his cheeks as he stared sadly at the small casket.

Deacon Don Naiman related the story of Officer Chapman’s heroism and tender touch that day, eliciting tears from the crowd. “That officer was the voice of Jesus Christ” to the girl, Deacon Naiman said during his homily. “And I am convinced that he gently passed Olivia to the hands of the Blessed Mother.”

As her mourners exited the chapel, they learned that the St. Rose of Lima’s Christmas pageant, where Olivia was to play an angel, would be dedicated to her.

I
t was a sea of purple at the funeral for Dylan Hockley. His eight-year-old brother, Jake, released a dozen purple balloons, Dylan’s favorite color, in a somber farewell to his little brother outside the Walnut Hill Community Church in Bethel, Connecticut. His mother, Nicole Hockley, stood at the lectern and gave a touching eulogy, beginning by thanking Anne Marie Murphy.

“Dylan and Mrs. Murphy had a special bond,” she said.

Dylan looked at his class picture on the fridge every day and smiled and said, “Here’s my class. There’s Mrs. Murphy.”

Hockley spoke eloquently about channeling the grief and heartache into lasting change.

I once asked him, “Why do you flap?” Because he had underdeveloped language skills, I was not expecting an answer but he replied, “Because I am a beautiful butterfly.” It meant a great deal to us because children with special needs are that much purer and more innocent and the idea of Dylan as a butterfly, now out of the cocoon of his body . . . it comforts me.

It has been said that something as small as a butterfly flapping its wings can cause a hurricane halfway around the world. A small change, a single occurrence in one place, can make large differences elsewhere. It redefines the culture. Dylan is our butterfly. All the children and adults who lost their lives last week are our butterflies. And if one butterfly can cause a hurricane, then twenty-six butterflies can change the world.

Saturday would be the final day of funerals as the last three students from Lauren Rousseau’s class—Josephine Gay, Ana Grace Marquez-Greene, and Emilie Parker—were all laid to rest.

At St. Rose of Lima Roman Catholic Church, Monsignor Weiss was presiding over his eighth funeral for the Sandy Hook community. As he stood over the tiny coffin of Josephine Gay, he couldn’t contain his outrage.

As we gather as a community this is the real challenge for us, to think these twenty beautiful children and these six adults,
committed to education, were just taken from us. None of it makes sense. You send your child to school in the morning assuming it will be like every other day.

I spent that day with all of you and the other families in the firehouse as names were being called out. We didn’t hear little Joey’s name. I watched you, Michele. You weren’t just lost in yourself that day—you were lost with all of the other mothers, too. I saw you going from parent to parent, sharing with each other that horrible pain and anxiety until that horrible announcement came.

This is a horrible tragedy and it makes no sense to us. We have a lot of issues before us. And if you haven’t been angry, get angry. If these twenty children cannot change this world, no one will. They did not die in vain.

Josephine’s parents, Michele and Bob, both read eulogies and spoke about some of the “favorite life lessons,” they’d learned from their seven-year-old daughter. “She touched so many people. She did not care about prestige or possessions. She calls all of us to be better,” her father said.

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ater that morning, a carriage drawn by two white horses brought Ana Marquez-Greene to the First Cathedral Church in Bloomfield, Connecticut, where there was a musical celebration in honor of the life she lived. “We’ve come to celebrate Ana Grace Marquez-Greene,” said Archbishop Leroy Bailey. “The only difference now is that she lives in our hearts.”

Ana’s service was also broadcast live at the Grant Memorial Baptist Church in Winnipeg, Canada, where the family lived before moving to Newtown. Harry Connick Jr. and Javier Colon, the singer who won the first season of
The Voice
TV competition, both serenaded mourners. Ana’s father, jazz saxophonist Jimmy Greene, and mother, Nelba, sat in the front row as musicians played the Latin music their daughter loved.

At times, the grief-stricken parents managed to laugh at the memories of Ana singing and dancing as home videos were played of Ana singing “I’m a Little Teapot” and “
Dame la Mano Paloma
(Give Me Your Hand),” her favorite Spanish song.

Ana loved music so much she would dance from room to room with the only sounds coming from somewhere deep within her soul. Reverend Paul Echtenkamp said Ana was born with a musical gift. “Ana had a song. It just came out of her.”

E
milie Parker was taken home to Ogden, Utah, the last of the children to be laid to rest. At a Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, grieving family and friends of Emilie turned out in droves, most wearing her favorite color—pink. The blond-haired, blue-eyed girl was remembered by family and friends for her wonderful sense of humor.

Her parents emerged from the funeral holding their two other daughters, Madeline and Samantha, both dressed in pink coats. As they drove to take Emilie to her final resting place, in a show of support locals had turned the streets of Ogden pink, with ribbons, bows, and angels attached to trees on the streets leading up to the cemetery.

R
yan Lanza looked out into the rows of pews. Six months had passed since he lost his mother. He had claimed her remains on December 19, and her body was then driven about 170 miles away to Linwood Cemetery & Crematory in Haverhill, Massachusetts, where she was cremated. The next day a small handful of friends and family members quietly gathered at the 1760s-era home on Depot Road in Kingston, New Hampshire, belonging to Nancy’s brother James Champion, to mourn their loss.

Now, at her memorial service, Ryan gripped the sides of the lectern, took a deep breath, and began to speak about his loss.

“It dawns on you at a certain point, you realize you will probably bury your parents.” He paused to gain his composure. The church was still with quiet reverence as Nancy Lanza’s firstborn son spoke lovingly of the attentive mother who never missed a school play, always sitting in the front row of the auditorium to cheer him
on. A mother who enriched his life with culture, frequently taking him for tours around the museums of New York City and Washington, D.C., and of course a mother who sat with him at Fenway Park to watch their beloved Boston Red Sox play baseball.

He spoke about a mother who would make the two-hour drive from Sandy Hook, Connecticut, to Hoboken, New Jersey, to sit with him for an hour’s lunch before getting in her car and driving two hours back. “She was always there,” he said, his eyes tearing up. “Everything I know about baseball . . . everything I know about cooking I know from her.”

As he spoke, his father, Peter Lanza, sat in the front row weeping. Dorothy Hanson, Nancy’s mother, held a tissue in one hand as she allowed the tears to roll down her cheeks. A group of regulars from My Place Pizza & Restaurant were also in the pews, having met up in the restaurant’s parking lot to carpool the nearly two-hundred-mile trip to the First Congregational Church in Kingston, New Hampshire, to pay their final respects to their friend. The 160 mourners sat still in silence staring up at the young man who had lost so much at such a young age.

“She taught me so much . . . And if there is anything I could change, I wouldn’t change anything.” Ryan spoke in measured tones as he continued, trying to keep the tears bottled up inside. “Even though she’s gone, everything’s going to be okay,” he said, while pausing again to gain his composure. “Her memory will live in my heart and mind.”

Outside the church, bagpipes played as a dozen uniformed police officers kept a tight guard over the entrance to ensure that there would be no disturbances and that only friends and family could
attend. After the service had concluded, a thirty-car procession, many with the familiar green-and-white stickers that read
WE ARE SANDY HOOK. WE CHOOSE LOVE
plastered on the bumpers, traveled the short distance to Greenwood Cemetery where her ashes were spread.

“Amazing Grace” played on bagpipes as mourners placed roses at the grave site. Then Erica Schwichtenberg, a friend of Nancy’s, played the Beatles song “Here, There and Everywhere” on her violin. It was a song Nancy would often request that she play at open-mike night back at My Place.

After everyone else had finished paying respects, Nancy’s mother, Dorothy Hanson, stood alone quietly at her daughter’s grave.

F
orty miles north of Newtown in Farmington, Connecticut, the remains of Adam Lanza lay in a zipped bag on a gurney in a refrigerated room at the medical examiner’s office for thirteen days after the shooting. With most of the media gone, Adam’s body was quietly claimed by his father on December 27 and taken to the Linwood Cemetery & Crematory in Haverhill, Massachusetts, where his remains were cremated.