tongues of fire

Pentecost was one of Dad's favorite days of the Liturgical year. Normally, he would be the last one ready to leave. I can still smell the scent of his shaving cream mingled with the steam of his shower in the downstairs bathroom while I sat, or more likely stood, in the kitchen, dressed and ready to go. But on Pentecost Sunday, he would glide down the stairs smoothing his hair one last time, wearing something red, and he would be humming. Try as I might now, I can't catch the tune, but I'm sure it was a hymn about the Holy Spirit.

I asked him once why he loved Pentecost so much. He told me then about his own Confirmation, and that Pentecost was a day to remember Confirmation and Baptismal promises; to renew and refresh faith. He told me vividly about the tongues of flame on the heads of the apostles, and their vocation to preach publicly. He told me about choosing his Confirmation name, and then using it daily for the rest of his life, and he told me about the saint he had chosen to name himself for.

All my life, I'd known I was named after Dad. His name was John. It was the running joke: She's named after her father, followed by a quizzical and confused look. Dad chose Stephen as his saint: the first martyr, stoned for following and preaching about Christ, with a feast day right after Christmas (Dad said that was because he was the first martyr). Baptised without a middle name, Dad included the initial S in his signature for the rest of his life. I've always worn my name proudly for the two men after whom I was named.

Living the expectation that goes with the name has been more of a challenge. Dad was one of the best Christian examples I'd known, yet I didn't realize that while he was here. Recently, in conversation, I've seen how deep his example sent my roots in faith, regardless of where my branches were blowing. I've come back to my roots, and pruned some dragging branches. Now my challenge is remembering who I am.