Father Gil Phinn

The Boston Herald

I came into his life late and stood not in the middle, even on the edge, but outside his large circle of friends. He wasn't my confidante and I wasn't his. We never had long conversations or even one dinner together. But I cared about him and I know he cared about me.

He was a friend of a friend. That's how it started. When my friend, Father Bill Coen, retired as pastor of St. Gerard Majella in Canton, he moved to St. Elizabeth in Milton and became a Senior Priest in Residence there. That's what many Catholic priests do. They ``retire'' to another parish, live in the rectory and help out.

Father Gil Phinn was pastor of St. Elizabeth's. As pastor he made the rules. He could have said to me at any time during the nine years we knew each other, ``Why are you here and not at your own church? And why don't you at least join this church?’'

He never did. It was always ``It's good to see you'' and ``Are you coming in for coffee?'' He made it not just possible for me to continue to be friends with Father Coen. He made it easy.

We had coffee together every Sunday between Masses, Father Coen, Gil, (I called him Gil because that's what Father Coen called him,)  Joe the organist and Joe the deacon and Sister Regina and the cantors, first Steve, then Joanne, then Mr. Russell and I.

The kitchen of a rectory is a busy place. People come and go. The phone rings. The doorbells ring. And he let me be part of it.

Father Coen was made monsignor when he was in Israel and unaware of his new title. ``Let's call and tell him,'' Gil said. And handed the phone to me.

He was like that. After Father Coen died, he continued to say, ``Are you coming in for coffee?'' He continued to send me a poinsettia every Christmas, because Father Coen did. He continued to be there for me.

He baptized my grandchildren, Adam, all by himself because we were late, because I got the time wrong. ``Don't worry,'' he said. `It's OK.'' And Lucy all by herself because she was sick and scheduled for surgery and we were scared.

He made us less scared.

The line outside the church Wednesday night was long with people coming to say goodbye to this man. So many people. So many stories. But the themes all the same: He was good to me. He was there for me.

Father Gil Phinn was a priest for 51 years. His biggest flaw was his biggest asset. He didn't delegate. He had to do everything himself. He didn't know how to slow down. He died fast, his heart unable to keep up the pace.

His brother, who is also a priest, called him a priestly brother and a brotherly priest. He was. He widened the circle. He was a good man, a good priest and a good friend.