MISSOURI WATCH: IN IMPERFECT WORLD, FEW SAINTS MARCH

I guess it was to be expected. Our world offered far more homage to a tall, attractive, English-speaking princess than a small, unattractive Catholic nun who labored tirelessly in the world's slums and ghettos.

Princess Diana drew rave reviews after she was killed in a tragic car wreck, along with her Egyptian boyfriend, and the sanctification that followed surprised all but the cynics among us. When Mother Teresa fell, the world noticed, paid its respects and spoke of the striking differences between funerals at Westminster Abbey and a drab Calcutta civic auditorium.

There's no reason to be surprised at the contrast of reactions. As human beings we are awed by celebrity, particularly those we feel have been wronged, and we are dazzled by the pomp and circumstance that surround the few remaining royal monarchies in the world.

If we are captivated by brightly costumed guards, centuries-old cathedrals and military marching bands, we are also turned off by the wretches of humanity who clog the sidewalks and streets with their poverty and disease. Near death beggars infected with lice aren't our environment of choice and we marvel, yet never seek to emulate, at the dedication displayed by those who work among the very lowest of castes.

If Princess Diana was not a saint, as some seemed to proclaim, she was elevated to such status after death. Mother Teresa was a saint long before the world learned of her remarkable work and her God-given skills in attracting thousands of followers. She was unique, revered, a true disciple of God.

As I pondered the differences in mourning the loss of these two women, I was reminded of -the life of the only saint I ever knew personally. What a remarkable counterpart he was to Mother Teresa, for he worked among the poor and the rich alike, giving his life to caring for the mentally ill.

My saint was Dr. Emmett Francis Hoctor, an exceptionally dedicated psychiatrist who gave his entire adult life to an institution that treated thousands of Missourians during their illnesses. He was director of the Farmington State Hospital and gave more a life of service to patients who entered there and battled to regain their health and peace of mind.

A young man when he arrived at the hospital before the days of wonder drugs that changed the face of psychiatry, Emmett was the only doctor at Farmington throughout the penniless Thirties and wartime Forties. Accompanying him on his daily rounds was a remarkable experience: hundreds of patients who were crammed into wards eagerly anticipated his appearance and were restless until his bright, calm, face came into view.

In the early years of his professional career, Emmett relied on the only kind of medicine that was then known: person-to person contact. I have seen him sit at the bed of a severely disturbed patient, take the patient's hand in his, and speak ever so softly to the psychosis that was buried in the patient's brain. The touch of Emmett's hand, the sound of his voice and very presence were all that he had to give, but it was so effective that lives could be transformed in brief minutes. It - was the most remarkable sight I have ever seen, nearly as remarkable as watching a packed ward transformed from noisy confusion to tranquil quiet as this servant of God walked through the door. Was it respect or the presence of a servant of God? I don't know, nor have I ever seen anything like it, before or since.

As director of a huge hospital, Emmett lived on the grounds in a small home, and he maintained one inviolate rule: he was to be notified, regardless of the hour, upon the arrival of a new patient. At all hours of the day or night, Emmett would leave his home and head for the receiving ward where he would begin his remarkable practice of restoring human minds.

As self-effacing as any individual I have ever known, Emmett Hoctor was a true saint, a Catholic one at that. When poor health finally forced his retirement as director, he remained at the hospital and treated patients up until his final illness. He died quietly, neither seeking nor asking for recognition, but his life, like that of Mother Teresa, was devoted to treating the wretched, shunned and neglected .

I suspect Emmett was a part of the heavenly welcoming committee for the small, gray lady from India. They have so much in common, so many stories to trade, so many acts of kindness and compassion to share. The saints still march in.

~Jack Stapleton of Kennett is the editor of Missouri News and Editorial Service.