Funeral for a Friend

Jim Gonsalves Eulogy

It is very fitting that we are gathered here tonight in St. Mary’s church to celebrate and remember the life of Jim Gonsalves. This church and this parish were so much a part of his life, and it was here that most people were affected by his self-deprecating humor, his smile, and his patient optimism. It was through the parish that most of us met and knew Jim, and that is how I met him in 1996.

Jim and I had a lot in common. Jim was a pilot and loved to fly…though he never took me because I get motion sickness. He loved to golf… but in 17 years we never played a round because I struggle to break 100. He loved to ski…but we never skied together, because he went places I couldn’t go. He loved to go out on Lake Powell in his boat…but I was never invited. Hmm, maybe we didn’t have so much in common after all. Why did he ask me to do this eulogy again?

Well, we were both entrepreneurs. He owned a wood molding mill and had a lot of cool tools, and I have been a woodworker since I was 16. We both loved the mountains and the beach. We both had young children about the same ages. And we both had great hair. His was more perfect than mine, and the only time I ever saw a single hair of his out of place was last week in the hospital. Even then, he was upset that he wouldn’t be able to make his appointment with his stylist.

When I started my own woodworking business ten years ago, my shop was only a couple miles from his mill, and we would get together for lunch every week or so at the Rio Grande restaurant downtown. Jim loved Mexican food, and as you know, he was a creature of habit and routine. We always sat in the same seats at the counter and were served by the same waitress every time. It soon got to the point where as soon as he sat down, a Coke with a lime would appear at his hand. That was until he switched to Diet Coke and threw everything off. And he always ordered the same thing. We would sit there and talk about our businesses, our families, and our faith.

It was during that time that I was going through formation for the diaconate, and he had lots of questions and gave me lots of answers. When I moved my shop to Oakley the lunches became fewer and fewer, and for awhile we would only see each other at parish events or talk on the phone.

The Mass meant everything to Jim. When he and Tammy arrived here, this church was in the process of being built, and they jumped right into the planning of the dedication celebration. I think that that celebration did more to unite this parish than anything before or since, and brought a lot of us closer to one another into lifelong friendships. Once this church was open, Father Bob instituted the 5:30 Mass Sunday night as the skiers’ Mass, so that folks could ski all day and still get to Mass, often without changing out of their ski suits and boots.

I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but sometime soon after that Jim suggested that we make that Mass the youth Mass instead, since many of those attending it were teenagers with their parents. Jim had been in music ministry for most of his life, and he had seen what the Life Teen program had done for parishes in Arizona, so he went there to get trained in their methods. He came back and adapted those methods to the personality of St. Mary’s, and over the years that youth choir and Mass has been a main reason people from all over the world feel welcome here.

Most of us have attended those Masses and seen how good they are, but we never saw what it took to put them on. Jim would spend hours during the week choosing the music and arrangements, printing up music sheets, and organizing the kids in the choir. Jim and Tammy and later on Jim and Tracy would arrive every Sunday around 3 o’clock to begin setting up. I often wondered why they always arrived so early; surely it didn’t take two hours to plug in some mics and amps. It was only after listening to my daughter Kimberly tell me what went on during the rehearsals that it dawned on me why Jim insisted on taking that extra time. It wasn’t to set up the equipment, it was to spend time with the kids.

The kids were what were important to Jim. He literally considered them to be his own. He had a love for youth ministry, and I envied his affinity for it. This wasn’t a choir to Jim, it was an extension of his family. He took an active interest in their lives. Each and every one of those young people who have served in this choir are better people, and better Christians because of it and because of Jim.

Jim would always be on the lookout for new kids to add to the choir. It didn’t matter if they had a lot of talent, only that they were willing. He would slowly get them more and more involved in things, encouraging Kimberly, or Allie, or Gracie or Bridget or Lance to get up in front of hundreds of people and cantor or play. I know that each one of them realizes the influence Jim has had on their lives. It was very moving to see so many past members singing with the choir last Sunday night in his honor.

There are many, many other families in this parish who have been affected by Jim and his commitment to our youth. One man who had really only seen Jim at Mass every week came to his bedside in the hospital last week and tearfully told Jim that he had been helping him raise his two young boys to be good, strong Christian men and fathers someday, without even knowing it. He said that the seeds of faith had been planted in his sons, and that some day they would remember Jim. I saw a small tear run down Jim’s cheek when he said this.

Several other people came up to me after Mass last weekend to say the same thing. Jim realized that people were watching him and that his illness was affecting them, too. He told me that the past few months when it became difficult or impossible for him to sing, he would sit there in the front of the choir and mouth the words so that people wouldn’t see that he was declining. For Jim it wasn’t maintaining a front, it was a witness to others on how to live, even when you’re dying.

As his illness progressed he seemed to be more aware of what other people were feeling, especially when they were hurting. Every once in awhile he’d call me and ask if I were ok because he had seen something in my eyes or heard something in my voice that told him something might be wrong. Or he’d call me asking about someone in the parish who he had heard was having trouble.

Jim was always thinking about his children. One of the first things he did after he and Tracy married was to adopt Carolyn and treat her truly as his daughter. And no matter how complicated his relationship with his children became at times, I think all three of them saw Jim for who he really was during his illness and especially during his last few days.

And it wasn’t just his relationships with his children. People have always been amazed at the relationship he had with his first wife, Tammy, and her husband, Travis. Divorce is always painful, and most people do not maintain cordial relationships with their exes, but all I know is that Tammy was there at the hospital every day from morning to night last week, praying and telling stories with everyone else. That is a greater tribute to Jim’s character, and Tammy’s, than any I could make. And Travis, I know that you know that he told me that if his children ever had a stepdad, he’d want it to be you.

Tracy, Tammy told you that you have been a true warrior these past few years, and you have been. Jim used to tell Carolyn that it was good that people stared at Tracy carrying him on her back in and out of restaurants and stores, because it showed them what those words, “for better or worse, in sickness and in health” truly meant.  No one expects to have to live those words of fidelity so early on in a marriage. No one but your family knows what you have had to endure in caring for Jim all this time, the dark sleepless nights and long grueling days. Now you are being called to endure the pain of missing him and being faithful to his memory. Remember that your friends and family are here for you.

I often say at funerals that if someone lives well he will die well. Jim did both. He was both a realist and an optimist. He knew what the outcome of his illness would be but he was always hopeful for the future. Just last week he was telling me about the plans he had for the mill for the next two years. He would gladly tell you about the latest prognosis but never complained about it or about the hand he had been dealt. It was what it was.

Jim was not one to pray too much publicly; music was his prayer. He sang and hummed Amazing Grace over and over to himself. The version with My Chains Are Gone. Even though he could not speak during his last three days, he was a master of communicating with his eyes. He was ready. He did not give up, but he knew it was time to go. And so we played that song to him in the hospital, the song that was his prayer:

My chains are gone

I've been set free

My God, my Savior has ransomed me

And like a flood His mercy reigns

Unending love, amazing grace

Thank you , my friend.