The Weight of Names
On this page, I want to reflect on the origins, names, and titles that have become woven into the stories and adventures contained within this website.
Across America, the names of state and national parks often arise directly from the land itself — from dominant mountain ranges, immense canyons, strange rock formations or landscapes too remarkable to ignore when the time came to name them.
The Grand Canyon, Arches National Park, Grand Teton National Park and Canyonlands all reveal something of themselves before one even passes through their gates. Their names act almost as introductions, preparing the traveller for what lies beyond.
Other places draw their identity less from description and more from reputation. Zion National Park, Bryce Canyon, Monument Valley Tribal Park — even Wyatt Earp’s old Tombstone — carry with them a weight of story, history and imagination long before they are seen with one’s own eyes.
There is often a quiet authority assumed by those entrusted with the task of naming. At times, they choose titles less obvious in meaning — names intended perhaps to create mystery, obscurity or even bewilderment.
Book titles can stretch the imagination toward worlds still hidden within their pages. The names of cities and towns often carry fragments of forgotten history, their meanings blurred by time and distance.
Yet the most personal act of naming surely belongs to parents standing beside a newborn child.
Sometimes the desire to be distinctive — or to honour lineage, tradition or family trade — leads parents along revealing paths, quietly disclosing something of themselves in the process.
Naming is never entirely neutral – it reveals the namer as much as the thing being named.
The title of this website, Footsteps Through Time, may seem slightly obscure to some, yet it offers a quiet indication of what lies within its pages.
Though chosen from several alternatives, the title settled instinctively with me, suggesting both movement through passing years and the varied stories that unfold chronologically within a significant period of Heather’s and my life.
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Among the many names and titles woven through these stories, one in particular deserves explanation — Shekinah.
The name entered my consciousness when our son joined a Christian band using the same name. It sounded just mysterious enough to invoke further interest.
Another source of that name was a close church friend who had a long-haired, super-friendly German Shepherd he named Shekinah – a name that somehow lingered in my thoughts long after hearing it.
The word itself has ancient origins within Hebrew tradition and is commonly associated with the divine presence of God dwelling among His people. Though the term does not appear directly in most English Bible translations, its meaning emerged from Jewish teaching and conveyed a sense of nearness, guidance, and abiding presence.
One of the biblical images often connected with Shekinah comes from the story of Moses leading the Israelites out of Egyptian slavery toward the Promised Land (Israel). According to that account, they were guided by a cloud during the day and a pillar of fire by night — visible reminders of God’s presence and direction along an uncertain path.
The cloud became known in later teachings as the Shekinah Cloud — symbolic of God dwelling among His people.
In our own small way, Heather and I could see faint parallels between that story and our growing desire to share something of that same love, care and presence within the islands of Vanuatu.
And so, after much discussion, our first significant step was to rename our newly acquired catamaran Shekinah.
Within the pages that tell the stories of Shekinah House and Shekinah Yacht, you can discover how the name Shekinah gradually became woven through many chapters of our lives.
It was first given to our catamaran, later adopted as the name of our humanitarian ministry, and eventually became the title of the family refuge we established in Vanuatu for parents caring for sick children.
Those parents often surrendered almost everything to bring their children to Port Vila’s central hospital. Many slept rough nearby simply to remain close to both their children and the uncertainty surrounding them.
Shekinah House became a place of rest, safety and temporary refuge for many of those families.
When Heather and I first became deeply involved in the lives and struggles of the people of Vanuatu, the reason for our presence there was eventually distilled into a simple statement of purpose:
“Sharing the love of God through fellowship, deed and goodwill.”
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Over time, I also inherited another title — Pastor Tom.
It was never a title I formally earned through theological training or church appointment. Rather, it was conferred upon me by villagers and families whose lives became deeply intertwined with our own during twelve years of humanitarian work among them.
At times, I felt slightly uncomfortable with a title I had not earned academically. Yet within the culture of Vanuatu, such names were offered less as markers of institutional rank and more as expressions of trust, gratitude, and relational belonging.
In many ways, I spent those years simply trying to live honourably within the expectations that title carried.