This is from Cheryl Weaver, a friend of Greg's from church titled "Where Strangers Become Friends":

The motto of the church long ago was Where Strangers become Friends.

Greg was a stranger who became a friend to many at church.

I, like some others (Becki, Cyndi, Gale, Harry, Tom, Liz, and a bunch of young people), knew Greg at church.  Greg shared himself in many ways, so I will mention a few of them.  He sang in the choir.  He used to write a column called “Heard in the Pews” for the church newsletter.  He would call up folks, find out what was going on in their lives, then write the column to share the news.  It helped make the newsletter like a small town newspaper.  He taught Sunday School and loved working with the kids.   He would find or write original plays for the kids to do at special services like Christmas Eve.  He was also in an adult staged presentation of “Living Last Supper” done on Maundy Thursday of Holy Week.  A major undertaking of the church is to host Hotel de Zink, an overnight homeless shelter, in the church hall for a full month each year.  For many years Greg, Ted, and others were the leaders.  They made the calendar and got sign ups for all the help needed to welcome and provide dinner for the guests.  Greg was always present and welcoming.  We knew that Greg was sick in February 2016 when he could no longer be there.  Others will carry on, but we will always miss Greg when it is time to welcome Hotel de Zink to the church hall.  Another example of Greg’s welcoming of all was his full support for our Tongan church members.  A few years ago, in planning our way forward as a congregation, Greg was the one to encourage us all to join together as “one heart.”   Greg was also the church drummer.  I’m not sure the last time he was there to play drums, but it has probably been a year.

So I/we will miss Greg in all these ways.  On Sunday morning I miss him sitting on the drum throne.  In February I miss him encouraging everyone to sign up for Hotel de Zink.  And at fellowship time I miss checking in with him, asking him about Camden and Bryn and telling him what my daughter is doing.  He kept up with other young folks and I could ask him, what do you hear from so-and-so.

Last June in his e-mail he said he had been at Wesley for 28 years.  He received back some of the caring and love which he had shown to others over those years.  In the next few months he was upheld with prayer, visits, food, and song.  In March when my daughter and I visited, he had a big smile and was happy to see us.  Greg, you will be ForeverMissed.

When death finds you, may it find you alive.

                                                          African Proverb

Texas Hill Country. Enchanted Rock. A huge grayish granite dome rising from the limestone. The climb up is gradual with occasional trills of the canyon wren. People going up and down like columns of ants.

On a steeper stretch my frontal vision is limited – a false horizon of rock; and a vulture flies out almost at eye level before veering upward. A sudden reminder that death waits just beyond our vision. My mind skips to a steaming day in Bombay almost 50 years ago when I had a partial day’s reprieve from my job on a passenger liner. My guide had taken me to the Tower of Silence, an open valley on the far reaches of town where the Parsis took their dead to be laid out to be consumed by the vultures. It seemed quite exotic to that 20 year old boy who had seen little death in his life. But once the initial shock wore off, there was a feeling of what I can only call now, rightness. Flesh literally returning to the natural world, its elements again being recycled into life.

Five days ago my adopted brother, Greg Kimura, died after a prolonged decline caused by a brain stem tumor. It was not diagnosed for almost two years, and Greg gradually went from an athletic and physically vital man to a husk of his former self. Although puzzled by what was happening and losing strength, he continued to play tennis, hike and kayak. We did two strenuous trips together in the southwest canyon country. Greg was a little slower and tired more easily, but was holding his own no matter what we did.

When I saw him last August he has lost more than fifty pounds and needed hiking poles to walk. We had talked and I knew he was losing weight, but it took me aback to see how much he had declined. His diagnosis came a few days later and we knew that death was imminent.

2001 Mendocino Woodlands Camp. Dusty sunbeams making their way through redwood cover. A cool breeze with the slightest tinge of salt. One hundred men are arriving for a weeklong conference and milling about. Some greet friends from past years. Others introduce themselves to strangers. One man sits at a picnic table, alone, totally focused on maniacally writing. Strange, but “Oh, well.”

Six days later, our paths still not having crossed, he stands up during a session and reads a poem he has written, It is called Cargo and it changes my life.

I had just retired from thirty years of teaching sixth graders and had used the ideas found in Greg’s poem to change my role from an instructor focused on getting students to spew out facts to an educator that wanted to expand their world by leading them out (the literal meaning of education) of their world view and into one that stretched beyond anything they could imagine.

I had been inspired by Malidoma Some’, an African teacher from Burkina Faso. Cargo was dedicated to Malidoma. I approached Greg to thank him for his words and share a bit of how I too had benefitted from Malidoma’s teachings. We both continued to attend the annual event and over the next couple of years formed a strong bond. I invited him to Power of Poetry, a local festival I had begun in 2002. He came, read and conquered, totally captivating the audience and making many new friends. He returned to the festival two more times as a presenter, and almost every year to just be there to support the event.

On one of these occasions he helped me do the final edit on a poem I was presenting. I sit here today receiving consolation from its message – that the antidote for tragedy is putting beauty into the world, a basic part of what was Greg Kimura:

The Cellist of Sarajevo

Tomazo Albinoni could never have imagined Sarajevo

as he crafted the notes of his Adagio.

The son of a wealthy man, he had no cares,

and devoted himself to music.

A self proclaimed dilettante,

indulging himself in beauty.

The Adagio enfolds the listener,

seven minutes of deliberate playing,

slowing the breath as the bow strokes the strings,

the cello’s voice, so human,

words murmured behind a secret door.

In the Hell of Sarajevo rumors of fresh bread,

a connection to a normal world, now so far away.

They stood in anticipation, the smell so tantalizing,

as the bakery disappeared in the blast of mortar shell.

For twenty two days, one for each of these neighbors,

he carried his cello to the crater,

clad in black and white, music on the stand.

Amidst the snipers and the rubble,

playing Albinoni’s Adagio for them, and for himself.

Like Orpheus, ascending on the music

from the underworld of despair.

Tomazo wrote music for the pure simple joy of it,

but Vedran descending the Adagio’s minor chords,

to find the steady pulse

A precise and stately dance on

the path leading out of Hell.

Dipping into the wells of practice.

The waters of beauty seeping into his, and our, being.

Every stroke a conscious vote to return.

Each note a step on the shattered path to life.

                                                                            April 2005

Over the years our friendship continued to deepen, although sometimes I wondered how well he really knew me. He once called me for sartorial advice about what to wear for a wedding. Wrong number!

 Or when we had this conversation:

G: I have a problem.

A: (concerned voice) What is it?

G: I just met a really amazing woman named Sharol.

A: So? Why is this a problem?

G: Because I have to tell all the other women I can’t see them any more.

A: Fuck you.

And so it went – trading poems, having adventures, laughing, philosophizing, learning more and more about each other. He called me his ‘sixth grade teacher’, and many a time I had to threaten him with missing recess to get him to turn his work in on time. We began the Cargo Project, providing free posters of the Cargo poem with Evie’s illustration to anyone wishing to have it, especially schools. We were close as brothers and sometimes to me it felt like more, as we had chosen to do this. I could count on Greg for support and honest criticism when needed. And his quiet wisdom continued to amaze me.

On one of the occasions he presented at Power of Poetry a phone rang during one of his poems. I was pissed, as were many audience members. How could someone be so inconsiderate? The guilty woman slunk out of the presentation space. A few minutes later she returned and during a lull stood to explain herself. She was awaiting word about a sick relative and received a message that her mother had just died. Greg immediately read his poem of tears creating the river needed to send a deceased friend on his way. The tears that filled the room  validated the truth of the poem.  

As Greg’s body faded, he stayed present, receiving and generating love. I never heard a complaint. Only gratitude and appreciation for every moment. Long term memories were evanescent wisps of smoke, and then even short term ones became wobbly. But he reveled to be here and now, time a string of forever moments to be savored then gracefully released.

When we stop to think how much we have taken from the world during our life, we see what an immense gift we have received. The only way to even slightly repay our debt is to give ourselves as fully as we are able, sharing the cargo we carry with those who need it. If echoes of our deeds and ideas resound outward, they can reach those whose lives can be enriched from them, and it can be said that we walked well on this earth.

Greg, my brother, your gifts are now part of me. I will do my best to perpetuate them, share them, and in doing so, keep your spirit alive.

This is from Gale Johnson, a friend of Greg's from Wesley Church, titled "His Drums Fell Silent":

Greg’s death hit me very hard even tho I knew it was coming within a short period of time, tucked in there somewhere within the 6 month window usually ascribed as the guideline for hospice care. He died on a Sunday, the Sunday before I had planned to visit him later that week. It would have been my third visit while he was in home hospice care. And of course I had also planned on making my famous chicken and ham tetrazzini casserole. I combined food with my previous visits. It was much appreciated by Greg and his family, and their appreciation was reciprocated by my appreciation. He would have loved it.

Thanks to Apple for their iPads. I bought mine just a few months before my wife, Garnet, died in June of 2014. I had recorded her playing her harmonica, and granddaughter, Liz, playing her flute with grandma, and later when Liz and grandma played harmonicas together. Sometimes they did the dueling harmonica routine, with Liz leading, and grandma following up by playing the same thing, but with added embellishments, and that set the scene for friendly competition. And more recently I recorded a lady friend, Dona Smith Powers, playing on our piano, the medley of familiar church songs Garnet arranged and that we sang with Dorothy and Seward McCain back in the 70’s. The medley included “Give Me That Old Time Religion”, “Shall We Gather At The River”, “What A Friend We Have In Jesus”, “Softly And Tenderly Jesus Is Calling”, and “The Little Brown Church In The Wildwood”. We called our quartet the Grateful Living. When I visited Greg I took my iPad and played some of those videos as well as other music and songs that I ‘googled’ and found on YouTube. One was a song written to poetry by Leonard Cohen. Of course Greg knew about Leonard Cohen, his poetry, and his music written for his poetry. Greg mentioned one, ‘Hallelujah’, probably the most popular of Cohen’s songs, and sung by many artists, but he hadn’t heard of the one I wanted him to hear, “Anthem”. I hadn’t heard it either before I saw our former choir director, Lisa Forkish on Facebook, playing the piano and singing the song. I was touched by it, and the words and emotion she put into singing it. Greg loved it. The words are powerful and I could just imagine Greg writing them. Here are just a few words that are repeated in the song…

“Ring the bells that still can ring,
Forget your perfect offering,
There is a crack, a crack, in everything,
That’s how the light gets in, that’s how the light gets in”…

Of course a percussionist would love that part.

I also played, from Facebook, a video of Karen Ragsdale Wolf playing the piano and her two young daughters singing the ‘Star Star’ song written as poetry by Greg, but put to music by Karen. It was created for a Christmas program at our church, Wesley Methodist Church, in Palo Alto, many years ago. He was thrilled.

He knew he was surrounded by many friends at the end and that just made him feel more comfortable and accepting of his fate, I think. I never got the feeling that he was resentful or bitter or blamed God for his condition. I’m not sure how I would, or will, react in a similar situation…a hard pill to swallow. It always tests my faith when things like this happen. Where was God? I might go back and reread a book about “why to do bad things happen to good people?”, popular in the 80’s. I didn’t like it or agree with it then, so I doubt that a second reading will help.

I could write many pages about Greg’s contributions to our church, but I’ll just add a few now. I remember his and Bea Fanning’s early years here. Richard Lyons, was our pastor then, and he performed their wedding ceremony as well as the wedding ceremony for our daughter, Susan, and husband, Albert Yeh, in that same timeframe, in the mid-80’s.

Greg and Tom Sharp co-authored and produced the Wesley newsletter that we all anxiously awaited to be printed. Greg came to our ‘work days’. He helped out wherever he could, or was needed, under the direction of Hal Walker or Bee Kavinoky. He eventually joined the choir in the bass section, and was a welcome addition. He had a good voice. He also taught Sunday school with Cyndi Gyugyi and Becki Wright for many years and worked with youth on many activities and outings. He took young people under his wing, many from homes of single mothers. He was one of the main speakers at a church meeting led by our district superintendent, Christie Olah, to discuss the future of our church and how the Tongan fellowship and us Palongis (those of us not from Polynesian ancestry) would work together. He drove home his message of unity and that we should be ‘of one heart’.

In his early years at Wesley he took it upon himself to invite candidates from both political parties, running for an open US House of Representatives seat, to come and speak to us. That was a bold move in our church at that time because our biggest givers and most influential members with the loudest voices, were staunch Republicans. I went to both meetings. The first one was for the Democrat candidate, running for her first time, Anna Eshoo. There were probably 10 of us there. That’s the first and last time I met her personally and shook her hand. I often wondered if she thought that was a waste of her time to speak to such a small audience. She won and now speaks to crowds of hundreds. She continues to serve our district very well. I went to the second meeting with the Republican candidate (I don’t remember his name), but there were only 3 of us there, and none of the big givers and staunch Republicans I referred to earlier.

Greg was a selfless caring person. For years he was one of the main organizers and coordinators of Hotel de Zinc, a program for the homeless in our community. Wesley Church hosts, every year, during the month of February, a group of homeless, usually around 15 of them. Our volunteers prepare a dinner meal for them and then they sleep overnight in Byrd Hall.

Greg led a writing group in an upstairs classroom every Saturday morning at Wesley. He asked me to join them, but I never did. I have since joined a “Life Stories” writing class at Avenidas, our downtown senior center. I have written over sixty stories. I worry that I might run out of life before I can write all my life stories. One of my stories deals with the topic of death.

Greg was also involved in many groups outside of Wesley Church. I don’t know how many and what I do know is anecdotal. He went to retreats with other men, someplace on the coast in Mendocino County. It was a time of deep meditation and unloading their ‘cargo’ as I understand it, nothing like the Bohemian Grove conclave where the richest, most powerful, and influential men in this country meet. They could use a little meditation therapy like Greg’s group offers, I think. I know Greg would agree.

At one point he was involved in jail ministry. His faith was strong and even tho he was a Christian, he studied many other religions and drew knowledge from them. His character and his calmness reminded me of Buddhism. In his eulogy for Garnet he used words from other languages and a phrase from an African tribe. That showed me that he had studied a lot about them.

I really only knew Greg thru the church and the events and the gatherings at the church, with a few exceptions.

During Advent in 2013, our Tongan caregiver for the day, Sa, our daughter, Susan, and I, took Garnet to the coast for lunch. It was at Barbara’s Fish Trap at Pillar Point, just north of Half Moon Bay. When we got home there was a message on our phone, from Greg. That was the day the mixed unofficial choir (Tongans and Polangis) was making the rounds to sing carols and other songs for those who couldn’t make it to church anymore. I responded to his message and said we were home and would be happy to have them come by and sing. They did, and it cheered Garnet up immensely. Daughter Susan recorded it on her camera and she mentioned recently that she remembers Greg sitting down right next to mom and helping her out in singing the songs. That was so characteristic of Greg, just doing his thing…taking care of his friend, Garnet.

What a great eulogist. I remember when he gave Kathe Hammond’s eulogy, at the request of her husband, Don. I told him afterwards, keep the day job, but consider going to seminary and becoming an ordained minister. And of course, when Garnet died, he and Carol Love were my ‘go to’ persons to ask to be eulogists for her service. They both did great jobs of describing Garnet and her life. Greg and I prepared for it by my invitation to come to my house for pizza and beer and discuss what should or could go into his eulogy. I told him a lot about Garnet and then suggested he call two of her friends, neighbor Rosemarie Bednar, and a good friend thru AAUW, Marie Wolbach. He did that and wove their input into his great eulogy. The entire service was video recorded by David Garloff, husband of Garnet’s sister, Beryl. One of Greg’s greatest assets was his slow and deliberate delivery. He never rushed it. He would pause, sometimes looking up at the ceiling, maybe pleading with God, in both a reflective and contemplative way, before continuing. He would have made one of those great ancient Greek philosophers and orators.

He played the role of Judas, in a presentation at our church during Holy Week…”The Living Last Supper”, directed by Jeanie Forte, now Jeanie Smith. I don’t want to make a fuss about the type casting of characters, and Greg played the role so well, but in real life we all know he was no Judas.

Losing my wife, Garnet, was tough, but it took a long extended time of suffering from dementia and related problems. That made it even tougher. Greg was alive and alert less than three years ago when he delivered the eulogy for Garnet. There was no inkling or clue of what his condition would be two years later. Then it happened…wham…it smacks you in the face and it could happen to any of us. So, if there is a message in this…hug everyone you know now, unload your ‘cargo’…stealing from Greg’s great poem by the same title…and enjoy the rest of your life.

Oh, and one more thing…write about it. We all have stories to tell. Don’t be reluctant in telling them, but it’s up to you. Nobody else will do it for you

Thanks to Camden and the rest of the family and friends. Greg had so many friends, as you can see from the Caring Bridge and Facebook comments. I don’t recognize most of their names so they must be friends he made outside of Wesley. Hundreds…maybe thousands. I have many friends but I’ve been a little picky about whom I wanted to be my friend. That was never a deterrent for Greg. Everyone he met he considered a friend, or if it took a little work to become a friend, he put in the effort from his end. He walked the walk.

Camden has been the main contact, but there have been so many others who have also contributed to Greg’s care. Bea has been by his side, as well as Sharol, Greg’s lady friend of several years. Many of Bea’s Peninsula Women’s Chorus members came to sing to Greg. He smiled and enjoyed their company. On one of their last visits they sang the Abba Dabba Dabba Honeymoon song. His friend, Claire, video recorded it. Greg was in his hospital bed at home with a finger shaker on one finger, and he kept the beat going with the song, and at the end he gave sustained vigorous shakes. Bea played her hand held harpsichord on many of her visits.

For my first visit I made a copy of Garnet’s medley with words. Sharol was there and I played the iPad recording of Dona Smith Powers playing it on our piano and we sang along at Greg’s bedside. He joined us in singing. When I first went to the house that day Matt greeted me at the door. Sharol was sitting next to Greg in his hospital bed. Bryn also greeted me and called out to Greg, “You have a visitor”. Greg asked, “Who is it?” “Gale Johnson” she replied. Greg said, “Hey, brother!”. That made me feel a little special, although I know he gives that same greeting to many of his ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’.

When I visited, I saw so much love in that family. A beautiful home on Barrymore Avenue in San Jose, his mother, Gladys’s, home. I saw Bryn when she was home from Finland on school break. Both brothers, Steve and Matt, were there on my first visit, but just Steve on my second one. Greg’s mom is such a sweet, kind, and gentle person. He inherited that trait. I can’t imagine an unkind word ever coming out of their mouths.

Camden gave me a copy of Greg’s book of poetry, “Cargo”. It’s his life story in poetry form, beautifully written and putting it all out there. He got naked, figuratively speaking, exposing and baring all of himself for us to see, when he wrote that. I could take a lesson from it and unburden my life by unloading all of my cargo.

My great plan. I had one…and only one…but a great one. You can call it Plan A if you want, but there was no Plan B, so Plan A was the only one. It was my memorial service plan. Greg would deliver the eulogy and Bea would sing. Perfect, I thought, and it was, until Greg died. I had already gotten Bea’s commitment, but I didn’t think to ask Greg because there was so much time left. I could do that on my deathbed, right?

The drums fell silent…then the finger shaker did too. That’s when we knew that our friend, Greg, the guy with a big heart, percussionist to the end, was gone.

Thanks Greg, for coming into my life and making it so much richer.