By Michael Patrick O’Brien–
I have a love/hate relationship with the name Kevin.
My father was called Kevin. I knew little about him, and understood even less. He skipped out on our family when I was but 8, leaving four kids and not much money to my poor mother, a smart but just-a-high-school-diploma woman who only ever wanted to raise a family.
This negative paternal image probably is part caricature. I did hear some good things about him, later, and from others. Still, caricature is often based on truth, and it is powerful.
There have been other Kevins in my life. My brother is Kevin Junior. Although our relationship is distant, and he has had his share of troubles, he is a kind man. I also have a cousin named Kevin, so named by my father’s brother, and he seems to be a nice guy.
My longtime law partner also shares the name, but written as “Keven” in that quirky unique Utah name-spelling way. Keven is a good man, a caring husband, father, and grandfather, and a good friend. He adds value to the ledger of his name.
Because of these conflicting notions of Kevin-ness competing in my head, I was understandably under-enthused a few years ago when we visited the historic ruins of St. Kevin’s monastery in Ireland. They are located south of Dublin in Glendalough (“Glen of Two Lakes”), Wicklow County.
St. Kevin was born to noble parents in 498 A.D. in Leinster. Saint Cronan of Roscrea baptized him. His given name Coemgen (anglicized Kevin) means “fair-begotten” or “of noble birth.” Legend says that after he was ordained a priest, an angel led him to a cave (now called Kevin’s bed) near Glendalough. There, Kevin lived and relinquished his wealth and privilege.
He eventually moved to a nearby stone hut, close to nature, and lived as a hermit with animals and birds as companions. During a drought, he ate salmon an otter brought him. Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney wrote a famous and lovely poem, St. Kevin and the Blackbird, telling how one day the good saint held out his hand while meditating. A blackbird built a nest on it, laid eggs, the eggs hatched, and the chicks flew off. Kevin stayed perfectly still the whole time.
Kevin’s humble life soon attracted disciples. By the year 540, he was well known as a great teacher and holy man. Despite regular Viking attacks on the area, his original stone hut grew into a large and respected monastery full of saints and scholars. His monks also founded several other monasteries. Kevin died on June 3, after living 120 years.
Although the Normans destroyed much of Kevin’s foundation in 1214, they could not dismantle Kevin’s legacy. The church canonized him a saint in 1903. James Joyce mentions St. Kevin several times in Finnegans Wake. The rebuilt structures and adjacent ruins in Glendalough attracted pilgrims. Today, his “Monastic City” is one of the most interesting and important historic and cultural sites in Ireland.
I felt the strong spirit of Kevin when we visited Glendalough in 2011. It was warm and sunny as we walked through the beautiful green glacial valley, explored the many roofless stone ruins, and heard stories about battles near the ancient stone round tower. Grave markers, for souls hoping to improve their afterlife chances by a hallowed ground burial, surrounded us.
The graves did not frighten our young children. They took right to the place. Perhaps the local spirits recognized that their grandfather and uncle bore the name of the great saint, and thus welcomed them. The children frolicked beneath Celtic crosses and near a crumbling stone cathedral as they tried to read fading names and ancient dates on decaying tombstones.
Afterwards, we sat for afternoon tea and scones (pronounced “skawns” by our Irish tour guide) at a nearby inn. I felt content. The Glendalough visit, quite unexpectedly, was one of my favorite parts of our Ireland tour. Maybe St. Kevin was calling me to come to terms with the name.
In Romeo and Juliet, of course, Shakespeare addressed this whole name business: “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.”
I realized at Glendalough that it does not matter what Kevin is called. It matters who Kevin is and what Kevin does.
*Mike O’Brien is a writer and attorney living in Salt Lake City, Utah. He is writing a book about growing up with the monks at the old Trappist monastery in Huntsville, Utah.
