This Saturday marks twenty years since my friend and mentor, Fr. Gary Bagley, died unexpectedly.
Twenty years.
It's strange how time works, isn't it? In some ways, I can't believe it's been that long. I can still hear his voice, remember his laugh, and picture the look on his face when he was about to deliver one of his teasing zingers. In other ways, I look at everything that's happened since then and realize just how much time has passed.
I've been thinking about Gary quite a bit as this anniversary approaches. Not so much with sadness, although I certainly still miss him. Mostly, I find myself feeling grateful.
And wondering how different my life might have been if I'd never known him.
An Unlikely Beginning
I actually met Gary long before I could remember meeting him.
He baptized me when I was five weeks old.
My mother always remembered the homily he gave that day. He asked the congregation to name different ways we use water — to nourish, to play, to create power, and, of course, to bless.
It was classic Gary, although I wouldn't know that until years later. He loved asking questions, getting people involved, and helping them discover connections between everyday experiences and something deeper.
Growing up, I knew him as the priest who'd baptized me. Occasionally he'd return to our parish to celebrate Mass, but that was about the extent of our relationship.
Until I was fourteen.
That summer, my best friend dragged me to a weeklong Christian Leadership Institute (CLI) sponsored by the Diocese of Buffalo.
I wasn't particularly enthusiastic. It wasn't that I thought poorly of myself. I just thought I was pretty average. Certainly not someone who belonged at a leadership institute.
Gary was the director of the diocesan Youth Department, which sponsored the program. When I saw him that first day, I nervously approached and introduced myself.
"Hi. You baptized me!"
(Being so young, I really didn't appreciate how old this must have made him feel. Sorry, Gary.)
By the end of the week, the friend who'd practically dragged me there almost had to drag me home.
Something had changed.
Seeing Something I Couldn't See
That week was the beginning of a relationship that would shape the rest of my life.
I became increasingly involved in diocesan youth ministry, eventually volunteering on the leadership team for CLI and other programs. Gary was a central figure, along with many other wonderful people who encouraged, challenged, and formed me during those years.
And somewhere along the way, I came to see myself differently.
Gary saw gifts in me that I hadn't recognized. He saw leadership potential. He believed I was capable of things I hadn't imagined for myself.
And he invested in me.
Not just by telling me I had gifts, but by giving me opportunities to use them. By challenging me to think more deeply. By asking questions that didn't always have easy answers. By listening, encouraging, and sometimes pushing me beyond what felt comfortable.
A few years after college, he hired me to work in the diocesan Youth Department.
The priest who'd baptized me had become my mentor, then my boss, and eventually a dear friend.
More Than Words of Wisdom
Gary was one of the wisest people I've ever known.
As the saying goes, he was often playing chess while the rest of us were playing checkers — seeing connections, depth, nuance, and possibilities that hadn't even occurred to us.
He was a gifted storyteller, a master of wordplay, and a lover of Broadway musicals. He could find connections between a show tune and the Gospel that would make you wonder how you'd never noticed them yourself.
He also had a wicked sense of humor. If he loved you, chances were pretty good that he'd tease you. And if he could work a pun into the conversation, all the better.
Many of his memorable sayings still find their way into my conversations, presentations, blogs, and coaching sessions.
"It's easier to say no when you have a bigger yes."
"Not every problem can be solved, but no problem can be solved unless it's faced."
And one of my favorites, borrowed from Rainer Maria Rilke, was the invitation to love the questions and live the questions rather than demanding immediate answers.
But Gary's influence went far beyond memorable phrases.
He helped me experience faith as something real, relevant, personal, and hopeful. He helped me understand life as a gift filled with meaning and purpose, not simply something to get through.
And he showed me a kind of leadership rooted in listening, accompaniment, and service. Leadership that isn't about being important, but about helping others become who they're meant to be.
These understandings are so deeply woven into who I am that sometimes I forget not everyone sees things the same way.
When the Student Becomes the Mentor
Years after Gary left the Youth Department, I found myself serving in the same position he'd held when I first met him.
And I was working with young people who'd never known Gary.
They knew me. I was the one encouraging them, challenging them, asking questions, helping them recognize their gifts and discover their potential.
In a sense, I had become their Gary.
Not because I was trying to imitate him. In fact, that was something my friend Patty and I reflected on shortly after his death.
Remember, not re-create.
We could learn from Gary and carry forward what he'd given us. But we weren't called to become copies of him. We each had our own gifts, personalities, and ways of serving.
And yet, some of those young people who eventually learned about Gary could recognize something of him in the way I led and related to them.
I found that both humbling and wonderful.
Now, all these years later, I recognize that same influence in my coaching and facilitation work.
There's plenty of me in that work, too, of course. I've had other mentors, other experiences, and more years of learning and growing.
But I can't separate who I've become from the people who helped me become that person.
What Lives On
Gary used to remind us of a line from a national youth ministry document: "True ministry replicates itself."
He believed that when we ministered well, we weren't simply serving someone's immediate needs. We were helping them recognize and develop their own gifts, often calling them into ministry themselves.
I've seen that happen in my own life, and in the lives of so many people Gary influenced.
And I've come to believe that the same thing happens well beyond formal ministry.
The people who shape our lives leave something of themselves with us. Not so that we'll become copies of them, but so that what they've given us can become part of what we offer others.
Gary loved Broadway musicals, and one of the songs played around the time of his funeral was "For Good," from Wicked. I still think of him almost every time I hear it.
There's a line in that song that captures what I've come to recognize even more deeply twenty years later: "So much of me is made of what I learned from you."
I see it in the way I think, the way I lead, and the way I try to accompany others. His presence is still with me “like a handprint on my heart.”
I'm willing to bet this is happening in your life, too.
Who are the people who have helped shape you — for good?
Whose handprint is on your heart — in the wisdom, encouragement, example, or love that has become a part of you?
And how might something of them be living on through you — reaching others through the person you've become?
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