#12 York
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York: Foundation
Nicene Creed Series #12
“We believe in the Holy Spirit,
who proceeds from the Father and the Son.”
—-
As a boarder
at St Peter’s School,
every weekday began
in chapel.
Boys in blazers
murmured Morning Prayer,
the Psalms,
the Lord’s Prayer,
the Apostles’ Creed.
David Mercer stood among them,
learning where to stand,
when to kneel,
when to answer.
The words came first.
Meaning arrived later.
Years passed.
University followed,
then Anne,
then Hannah,
and two years later, Lucy.
Architecture became his trade.
For thirty years
he designed schools,
churches,
libraries
and ordinary homes.
He liked drawing entrances.
“People should know
where to come in,”
he would tell
young architects.
They talked about glass,
light and rooflines.
David spent longer
thinking about things
people would never see.
The first crack,
The first hint,
came over a staircase.
Nothing remarkable.
A drawing he had made
hundreds of times.
He stared at the page,
seeing every beam,
every landing,
every wall,
yet unable to remember
how they belonged together.
Young-onset
dementia,
the consultant said.
Moderate.
Driving home
they crossed the Ouse.
The river slipped
beneath Skeldergate Bridge
as though nothing
had happened.
Neither of them spoke.
At first
the changes were small.
Stories returned twice.
Names arrived late.
Silences lingered.
Hannah asked
whether he would look
at plans for an extension.
He spread them carefully
across the kitchen table,
studied them for a while,
then gently pushed them back.
“I’m sorry,”
he said quietly.
“I can’t see it.”
Nobody answered.
The kettle boiled.
Outside, rain tapped
against the window.
Lucy was thirty.
Not yet married.
Sometimes, lying awake,
she wondered
whether her father
would still know her
if the day came
he walked her
down the aisle.
She never asked.
Some questions
were too heavy
to carry aloud.
On his birthday
the doorbell rang.
Two grandchildren stood there,
holding balloons,
cards and a cake.
David opened the door,
then stepped backwards.
“I thought…”
he whispered.
“I thought
you were strangers.”
The hallway
fell silent.
A little later
his grandson climbed
onto his knee.
David smiled,
kissed the boy’s hair
and held him close.
Love remained.
The name did not.
Years before,
he and Anne
had worshipped
at The Belfrey.
Different music.
Different rhythms.
The same Christ.
Looking back,
he no longer divided
his life into chapters.
Only seasons.
Now another season.
A young curate
had begun
a monthly Holy Communion
for people living
Nothing was hurried.
Nothing performed.
Questions could be asked
more than once.
Silence was allowed
to be silence.
Halfway through
the Gospel,
David leaned towards Anne.
“What day
is it?”
“Sunday.”
A few minutes later
he asked again.
The congregation stood.
The Nicene Creed began.
David’s order of service
remained closed.
Without looking,
he spoke.
We believe
in one God…
And then
“We believe in the Holy Spirit,
who proceeds from the Father and the Son.”
His voice was quiet.
Unforced.
Certain.
Anne listened,
hearing words
first planted
in a school chapel,
still finding
their way home.
Perhaps
it is not only David.
Perhaps
we too
are forgetting.
Not simply names,
or birthdays,
or where
we left the keys.
But older things.
How to confess.
How to forgive.
How to lament.
How to hope.
There was a time
when children learnt
such words
before they understood them.
They settled quietly,
waiting for the years
when they would
be needed.
After Communion
they walked
towards the Ouse.
Evening light
rested on the water.
The river kept moving,
as it always had.
Near Lendal Bridge
David stopped
beneath an old stone arch.
He rested one hand
against the cool masonry,
his fingers tracing
its worn curve.
After a while
he smiled.
“Someone knew,”
he said,
“this would last.”
The bells
from the Minster
drifted across the city.
Anne slipped
her hand into his.
For a long moment
they stood together,
while the river flowed,
the bells answered,
and the ancient words
they had spoken together
went on carrying
what memory
no longer could.
-Rev’d Jon Swales