It was the summer of 1994 when I kept my vigil in the Order of the Arrow.

The OA is Scouting's honor society - you don't apply; your peers select you. The Vigil, its highest honor, culminates in a night alone under the stars, beside your fire, in silence and reflection. When morning comes, your fellow Arrowmen give you the name they've chosen for you.

Mine was Lilchpin Lekhiket.

Diligent Writer.

I was sixteen. I hadn't written anything substantial. No blog, no newsletter, no homilies. Just a teenager who apparently struck his peers as someone who would write - and write with diligence.

The "writer" part came to life over the years, in fits and starts. Marketing copy. Business communications. Occasional attempts at something more personal.

But diligent? That word haunted me.

Diligent implies consistency. Persistence. Showing up even when you don't feel like it. For twenty years, I carried the name without fully inhabiting it. I wrote, yes - but sporadically. When inspiration struck. When deadlines demanded.

The seed was planted. But it hadn't found its soil.

This year, I discovered that St. Francis de Sales is the patron saint of writers.

I don't remember exactly how I came across him - probably in one of those providential rabbit holes that seem accidental but aren't. What I remember is the recognition. This is my patron.

I added his icon to our home chapel, alongside Newman, the Martins, Acutis, and Frassati. And I began asking for his intercession.

What happened next is hard to explain without sounding like I'm claiming more than I should. But I'll say it plainly: when I ask for his help, I am more comfortable with my writing. The words come easier. The resistance fades. The quality and quantity of my work has increased in ways I can measure.

I believe his prayers are working.

Here's what strikes me on his feast day:

My peers gave me the name Diligent Writer in 1994. Thirty years later, I discovered the patron saint of writers. And only now - in my late forties, in what I've come to think of as the back half of life - am I finally growing into the name I was given.

The "writer" was there all along, waiting.

The "diligent" required a saint's intercession to unlock.

I don't think this is coincidence. I think it's confirmation.

God was already speaking through my peers at that vigil thirty years ago. They saw something elemental - something they named with the words they had. Lilchpin Lekhiket. And the seed sat in the soil for three decades, waiting for the right conditions to finally grow.

St. Francis de Sales didn't plant the seed. But I believe he's tending it now.

Today is his feast day. If you're a writer - or if you've been carrying a name you haven't yet grown into - maybe he's your patron too.

All you holy men and women, pray for us. But on this your feast day especially, St. Francis de Sales, pray for us.

Thank you for the prayers and help so far.

If this resonated with you, I'd be honored if you shared it with someone who might need to hear it.

Tomorrow I'm publishing a deeper exploration of how mentors plant seeds we complete in unexpected ways. This is one of mine.

Michael Halbrook is a Catholic deacon, husband, and father of four. He writes at DeaconMichael.net and sends a weekly email called Wednesday @ Lunch - reflections on faith, family, work, and life. Subscribe here.