, a.k.a Naomh Caoimhín (or Cóemgen), Abbott of Glendalough, Patron Saint of blackbirds, the Archdiocese of Dublin, and the Republic of Ireland. Also, the patron saint of me.

This will not be a very informative post, but more of a personal reflection, so if you’re looking for historical info on St. Kevin, you can move right along (or, shoot me an email and I can recommend some cool books).

As I said, this is not an informative post — but here are the basics, in case you’re unfamiliar. St. Kevin lived in 6th century Ireland, and became a hermit in the wilderness at Glendalough, County Wicklow, then was made an Abbott when a monastic city grew up around him there. In this icon, which is my favorite depiction of him, you can see the round tower and his cell, both still located at his monastery in Glendalough.

You can also obviously see the blackbird’s nest. The most famous legend about St. Kevin is the one where, as he was praying in his cell, a blackbird alit upon his outstretched hand, and Kevin, who like many of those Celtic Saints had a particular affinity for nature and animals, remained so still and peaceful in prayer that the bird built a nest there, and laid her eggs right in his hand. The Saint thus remained kneeling for the whole forty days of Lent, until the baby birds hatched on Easter.

Or so the legend goes. There are more stories like this about my patron saint. He also had supernatural exchanges with a cow, an otter, even a sea monster. Who knows if those things “really happened.” I like to believe that they did, but imo it doesn’t really matter that much.

Saint Kevin probably gets so fed up with hearing from me, some random weird American girl who’s not even a very good Catholic. I imagine he wonders how come I don’t go pester some other, more popular saint, like St. Thérèse of Lisieux or St. Teresa of Avila or St. Gemma Galgani or St. Catherine of Siena or any other of those great women who are frequently chosen as patronesses of white female English-speaking Catholics. Why did I choose a male hermit from the sixth century, whose feast day isn’t even mentioned in the Roman calendar — or, I guess you might ask, why did he choose me?

Story time. Way back in 2007 when I was still a depraved atheist teenager with no regard whatsoever for my eternal soul, I tagged along on a family vacation to Ireland, and was taken on a day trip to Glendalough as a tourist.

It made an impression. If you haven’t been there, you should go; see for yourself. I remember thinking: “wow! Christianity is still dumb, but whatever this guy Kevin was about — that, I kind of feel like I could get on board with!”

Seven years later (and the significance of that symbolic number doesn’t elude me, now), I was officially received into the Catholic Church. I took St. Kevin’s name at my Baptism, because I felt like I owed my conversion, in large part, to him.

But also because back then, in my early twenties, I still took great pleasure in being “weird” and “different,” as a Catholic. I was still pretty liberal. I wasn’t like those basic, “cookie-cutter” Catholic girls who went with Thérèse or Catherine — no, not I! I was edgy and unique! I pretended to roll my eyes and lament that no one had ever heard of my Patron Saint, but was secretly tickled.

But as time went on and I became — well, I won’t say a “better” Catholic, but hopefully a less-bad one, I stopped wanting to look so unique and edgy. Humility and all. I learned to appreciate the Little Way. Now, I longed to look more “cookie-cutter.” For a time there, I worried that maybe I should have chosen a more “normal” Patron Saint. Like maybe I’d done something wrong.

Until one day I was chatting with my good friend “J” (whom you may know from this post; God rest his soul), and he asked me about my patron saint, and I, all abashed and apologetic, launched into my spiel about how I’d chosen Saint Kevin of Glendalough back when I was still a stupid liberal edgelord Catholic. But J, without hesitation, was like: “no, that makes sense; he’s a perfect saint for you. I totally believe that he chose you. I’ll pray to him for you.”

It was like a little light went on. Something clicked or something. Ever since then I’ve felt less apologetic about my Catholic identity: a child of Saint Kevin, one of the legendary Celtic patrons of Ireland, shrouded in mystery and poetry and, well, weirdness. Because really, the legends of the Celtic Saints are pretty bizarre at times. It’s a whole other flavor of the Faith.

There are many more things I could say, both about the Life of Saint Kevin and about my friendship with him, but I won’t keep you too long. I’ll just say this: initially I was drawn to him because of his solitary nature: the way he retreated far away from society, spurning human companionship (even kicking one girl off a ledge, they say — don’t worry, she was fine) in favor of that of animals. But over the years, I’ve come to see more clearly how God intends me to learn from Kevin’s example (the aforementioned kicking of the girl off the ledge is not irrelevant here). And I continue to see it more and more clearly, in quiet and nuanced ways, as time goes on and I spend more time with the stories of this great Saint.

Which imo is just concrete proof that God knows what He is doing long before we do. An appropriate analogy here, Glendalough being such a wooded place, is our inability to “see the forest for the trees.” While I’m getting overwhelmed and confused by tree after tree, God sees the forest, and always has. Saint Kevin, model of courage, went into that forest and made a home there. Saint Kevin, model of humility and charity, then allowed people to come to him and build a city even though he preferred solitude. Saint Kevin, model of patience, let another creature make their home in his very hand. Saint Kevin, Abbott of Glendalough, ora pro nobis. Happy Feast Day, readers.