Tribute to Ted

The grief in death is sin’s violent sting, woefully lingering until our gaze is wrested from the grave to the silence of the empty tomb. This remains our true consolation in times of greatest sorrow -when our mortal foe wins one final battle before divine rescue to our eternal reward. Nonetheless, my head does not always succeed in the persuasion of my heart and even now, I am tempted to mourn as one who has no hope. Fortunately, the assurance of surpassing, eternal glory for those persevered saints does not rest upon my fickle feelings, for I am fully confident that Uncle Ted’s joy is now divinely complete.

Ironically, his passing has prompted those who loved him to seek the very comfort he so effortlessly gave. As a physician his excellence was renowned, but as a sympathetic healer, his standing was unmatched. Sincere sympathy and selfless service were indelible attributes of his character- rare in their harmony within one person, let alone a man J In a world of narcissists, Uncle Ted loved his neighbor better than they probably deserved; he was unfailingly generous in his sacrifice of time and convenience and resources for the benefit of others.

 

One occasion of such gallantry that remains securely in my memory was an evening in the fall of 1999 when I attended class downtown at Temple University for a semester. Girded with ghastly parental warnings, I envisioned urban warfare as version of West Side Story- just without the singing. As it would happen, while precariously teetering on a chair to affix a George Clooney poster to my dorm-room wall, I fell, badly and blacked out. In retrospect, I demonstrated poor judgment, as my mother was quick to identify- both in the celebrity poster choice as well as my decorative gymnastics. Nevertheless, it was this concussion that landed me at Hahnemann Hospital at one o’clock in the morning, where I was lucky enough to share a partitioned ER room with a hand-cuffed gentleman, enjoying a police escort.   Since I was well enough to complain about my incarcerated roommate, my parents concluded I was well enough to leave there.  Blessedly, however, within an hour, Uncle Ted popped his head into my holding cell and I could not have been more delighted to hear his voice. As we drove up Broad street in the wee hours of the morning, catching every red light along that route, I gingerly turned my head to watch him speak without nearly taking a breath.  Uncomplainingly, he had rescued me, my knight with shining white hair.

Over the past three decades of our acquaintance, Uncle Ted has popped through my door more times than I can recall. Generally, his deep voice would announce his arrival long before his body materialized. Whether it was at his front door greeting me as I “trick or treated” as a sulking, tearful Hobo or at the theater door with flowers to applaud my pageant performance or at my hospital door with his trusty camera to photograph my newborn or at my front door, fashionably late, with arms laden with gifts for birthday soirees, Ted has graciously presented himself at the thresholds of my life and his absence there, in the future will be profoundly felt.

While his baseball loyalties, military service and political acumen are sufficient merit for canonization, it was Uncle Ted’s heart, arguably one after God’s own that compels our esteem. Chivalry and humility encoded his conduct.  Selfless regard and persistent patience distinguished his race. Though his prize has now been eternally claimed, I will continue to thank God in all remembrances of him, for the privilege of running with him on this earth, if only for a little while.