Andrew Breitbart speaks at a news conference prior to in Manhattan, N.Y., June 6, 2011. (Brendan McDermid/Reuters)

I was about to go to Confession in Jerusalem when I learned that my friend Andrew Breitbart had suddenly died, seven years ago today. I was on pilgrimage and the next morning we celebrated Mass for the repose of his soul in the chapel at the Church of the Holy Sepluchre where Jesus is believed to have been crucified.


Andrew would talk. And sometimes we’d talk about eternal things. He believed in truth and had hope and lived gratitude. And he was an insatiable seeker. I always wondered if at the right time, he might do something crazy like become Catholic. He could help rebuild the Church! He and his beloved Susie were always just about the warmest people — she still is. And I can’t help but think he might be rooting on many things good and true and beautiful today from another place. I know he’s still a force in the lives of his family, because I see him in their eyes and lives, whenever Susie shares stories and photos.

I loved Andrew, I feel like we grew up together figuring out the early internets world and how commentary and news could look different and move things. (Sometimes I think I need to do some penance for some of it. We were Twitter hot takes before that was a thing. Here’s where trust in a Divine plan and mercy and redemption come in handy.) And I will never get over hearing his last name bandied about in news and politics. Whatever it is, I always want to stop the maddening debate and say: His name was Andrew and he was a man with a family and friends who lived and loved and was more than whatever you’re frenzying about now. One of my favorite memories of him was in the Cayman Islands — he and his family came on a National Review cruise — they went off to scuba dive or something else fun like that. I believe that was during his final year.


I miss the long talks — which would usually include all sorts of people stopping by and lots of fascinating sidebars — and instant messages and the night he called me to tell me they had named their newborn after William F. Buckley Jr. (I just laughed out loud — which I did not expect, but that came with Andrew territory! — rereading this, which I wrote in the hours after his death, remembering the time he taught me how to crash a Vanity Fair (I think it was) party (this was back in the days when he was still a behind-the-scenes mover and shaker with Matt Drudge, a skill, I confess I never put to use after — and could never pull off without him).


Good man, good times, good life. God bless his family. Maybe remember them in a prayer when you’re hearing about the website that was once a wedding present to him and Susie. Maybe remember that all those people in the news are, in fact, people with stories and families and crosses and joys that are often unseen. Maybe pray for their peace and their wisdom. These things in the increase these days would help matters, not hurt. I pray for his eternal rest. God be good to him! — as a wise friend of mine often says on the passing of someone beloved.