My first action along these lines was to contact a friend and former co-worker named John, who’s a devout Catholic.  My thought was that I might at least light a candle in his honor in a Catholic church, or something along those lines.

When I told John Erlembaldo’s story, he was, for good reason, excited.  

The first thing he said to me, though, was that my ancestor had done the things he did for me.  To me, this sounded absurdly self-centered.  How could Erlembaldo have known, almost a thousand years ago, that I would even exist?  And even if he could, he would have had many more distant relatives than just me to think about—at a time when a lot of other things were on his mind, like facing down a bloodthirsty tyrant in his hometown, as well as an enraged emperor across the Alps.
 
Beyond that, nothing about his actions and character suggested that he would have paid more attention to what he could do for members of his own family than for everybody else.  He did what he did for the people of Milan, and for the church (and of course, for God).

John also told me I should pray to him.  This didn’t sit well with me.  I’d been raised in a long tradition of monotheism that dated back at least as far as Moses—and to me, that meant you didn’t pray to anybody but God himself.
 
I could understand, though, that the Catholic way of relating to saints might be a bit like growing up in a large extended family, where if you don’t feel you’re being understood by your dad in some area, you might turn to a favorite uncle. So I was okay with attempting a properly respectful talk with Erlembaldo.