Comments from the celebration of life of my dear friend, Matthew Timmons.
Good morning, friends.
My name is Sam. Over the past 14 years, I’ve had the honor of being Matt’s classmate, colleague, travel companion, and friend. Over those years I’ve had countless, brilliant conversations with Matt. That is no credit to me: Matt could have a brilliant conversation with a doorknob.
All I have been hearing these past few days is Matt’s laugh. Matt’s laugh was the soundtrack of my 20s. And so the first thing I tried to do was remember some of the things that made Matt laugh. But I could not remember them.
My heart sank. I feared: had I already forgotten the jokes and stories that made Matt laugh?
Then I remembered: Matt just laughed all the freaking time.
Matt's laugh was special because it wasn't special. He laughed a lot. Boisterously. Contagiously. And with different laughs. One was percussive, cracking. One was stifled, embarrassed, often prefaced with an "oh geez."
Matt laughed all throughout his life. I heard Matt’s laugh when he was performing on stage, or playing board games on pandemic Zoom calls. I heard it while taking ourselves too seriously in student government, or not seriously enough in our first real jobs.
And I heard Matt’s laugh in the stories he told. Matt was a storyteller. Stories were how he honored the people in his life. I'm sure there are people in this room who would be surprised to learn they aren't just a friend or a family member. They've been a years-long character in the stories Matt would tell.
Where is Aunt Jane? Aunt Jane, you are a legend. Who among Matt’s friends has heard stories of Aunt Jane? A legend.
Even in grief, I keep remembering or finding things that would make Matt laugh.
Like when a few friends gathered last weekend to grieve at a local brewery. By sheer coincidence, another friend of Matt’s was throwing a baby shower there the same night. Causing many to think the baby shower was in fact the memorial, and wonder: why are there so many balloons?
Matt would have loved that. He would have told that story for years. And laughed while telling it.
I've been asking myself why Matt laughed so much. Why laughter was such a central part of how he moved through the world.
Here's what I think: Matt's laughter was doing serious work. Laughter was how Matt created space for other people. And creating space for others is what Matt did.
Matt saw people as they wished to be seen, and created space for us all to explore and become a better version of ourselves.
I felt that on a trip to Germany to celebrate the wedding of our friends Jordan and Carina. It was a magical trip for me and for Matt. I will always remember his pure childlike wonder at seeing the world’s largest model train display. (He was 25!).
At that time, I was beginning to imagine what it might look like to move to Germany someday. Being there with Matt, with his laughter and his wonder and his imagination, made that real. He helped me feel the country with more texture. Six months later, we moved to Berlin. I live there today with my wife Kalyna in part because Matt made space for me to believe I could.
I've been trying to understand why Matt had this gift of creating space for us. It’s hard to fathom: somebody with such a big presence, who somehow didn’t suck air out of the room, but made a bigger, more welcoming room. How could he see what we were reaching for and help us reach it?
I think it's because Matt himself never stopped becoming. He knew firsthand the promise and the struggle of transformation. We all contain multitudes. Matt contained a few extra. Small town Minnesota choir boy. Boot-wearing Texas uncle. Minneapolis advocate in scarves and skirts, shining so much light in the community he and Nick built together.
He was always all of those things. He was so many Matts. I never knew all of them but I love them all. And he never expected his friends to be just one thing either.
"Friend," he would say, with the same conviction a Soviet would say "Comrade." Matt would like the Cold War joke. When Matt said "Friend," it was earnest. A friend is what you were to him, and he wanted you to know it.
We are so lucky. To have laughed with Matt, been loved by Matt, and been seen by Matt. All of us becoming what he saw in us is Matt’s legacy. May we all carry that forward.
Goodbye, Friend. Thank you for the laughs.
