There are three saints Theodore. My son’s godfather is making an icon for him with the saint he was named after and decided to put all three on it. But we celebrate the St. Theodore today who, at the ripe old age of 65, was sent over to help convert the Anglo-Saxon English and did a good job of it by all accounts.

I had been feeling ill all week. I had a cough, so I had high hopes of St. Blaise, the patron saint of throat conditions, as the candle was laid on our necks after Mass. Almost immediately after, I coughed again! But the throat feels a little better now.

I learnt Friday that a friend, Martin, who I go swimming with every day has died suddenly. One moment he was swimming. On Saturday he said he felt dizzy. On Sunday he said he was better and on Sunday night he was dead. Little older than me.

He was a night porter by trade, a man of great charm, of noble simplicity and no ambition, without an enemy in the world. Also a well-skilled painter of scenes usually from some imaginary Oriental court. To my great delight, he recently gave me one of his paintings which I shall treasure.

After swimming, I often walked with him along the side of the Serpentine. He walked very slowly, and he used to wave as I turned left. Now I will always see him walking on, into the unknown.

The divide between life and death is so brittle, a gently, wavy, threadbare curtain through which one can pass so easily and quickly.

But as I lay awake at night I was sure that I now have a friend in heaven.

Today’s Gospel is from St. Mark:

And so the Lord Jesus after he has spoken to them was taken up into Heaven.

(Mark 16:15-20)