Held

She doesn’t talk about it much.

Not the room,

not the silence,

not the way her body still remembers

what her mind wrapped in thick fog.

Years passed.

A Lighthouse pastor called her strong.

She just called it surviving.

But sometimes

on the floor of her flat

or walking through the streets

on her way to Wellbeing Wednesday

when she isn’t trying to be brave—

she feels the presence of the dove.

The Spirit.

The Paraclete.

Not a ghost,

not a glare in the sky,

but the One who kneels beside her

like breath,

like ache,

like kindness that doesn’t flinch.

The Holy Spirit—

a seal,

a promise,

the personal presence of Jesus

made manifest in her pain.

She once read what Jesus said—

‘I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Comforter,

to be with you forever…

I will not leave you as an orphan.

I will come to you.’

And she wept.

Because she knew what it was

to be left.

But not by this One.

This One stayed.

Even in the years when she had no words.

Even when prayer meant nothing but tears.

And she heard what Paul wrote—

‘The Spirit helps us in our weakness…

intercedes for us through wordless groans.”

That made sense to her.

The groaning.

The kind of prayer the body prays

when the soul is too tired to speak.

She does not need to perform healing.

She only needs to breathe.

Because when she cannot come to God,

God comes to her.

The Dove holds the pain—

and also holds the promise:

that one day,

in the renewal of all things,

every tear will be wiped away.

And she will be whole.

Until then,

the Spirit stays.

And holds.

And keeps vigil

until the dawn.

There is not a hurt

He will not heal.

-Rev'd Jon Swales