Credo in Spiritum Sanctum(I believe in the Holy Spirit)

I walk the path through the woods

because I cannot stay still.

Mud darkens the cuffs of my trousers,

my hands are cold in my pockets,

the ground yielding beneath each step.

My eyes sting—

tears arriving without warning,

without a name.

I stop.

Try to pray.

Nothing comes.

No words.

Only breath.

In and out—

cold air filling my lungs,

fogging briefly before it disappears.

And into the quiet I whisper

the next line of the Creed:

I believe in the Holy Spirit.

The words feel thin tonight.

I say them anyway.

Not belief as certainty,

but as consent—

as trust offered

when language breaks down.

Faith reduced to breathing,

and even that feels borrowed.

The wind shifts suddenly,

loosens the branches above me,

scatters leaves across the path.

For a moment it startles me—

and then it’s gone.

They called her the wild goose—

unsettling,

uncontained,

never landing where you expect.

She passes through,

disturbs the air,

and refuses to be held.

I walk on.

The woods move around me—

not rushing,

not still.

The Spirit does not hurry my grief.

Does not drag me forward.

Keeps pace with me,

step for faltering step.

Sometimes,

I feel a quiet envy

toward those whose faith seems lighter—

voices raised easily,

hands lifted without hesitation,

hope floating above the mess of things.

Their prayers rise clean and confident,

untangled by doubt or sorrow.

I do not despise it.

I almost long for it—

that simplicity,

that uncluttered joy,

that sense of being carried

without resistance.

But my faith has learned the weight of the world.

It has stood beside hospital beds,

sat in rooms thick with grief,

listened to stories that do not resolve.

It does not float.

It walks.

It limps.

There is pain here

no explanation can touch.

No fixing.

No shortcuts.

Only presence—

a groaning shared

with a world that bends and waits.

Some days I am not sure

what I believe.

Only that I need this—

this nearness,

this God who will not stay untouched by pain.

Hope does not blaze.

It flickers—

a small flame,

shielded by unsteady hands.

And still,

the Spirit keeps vigil,

keeps the lamp burning

when my grip weakens.

I walk until my breathing steadies,

until the tears slow,

until the path opens just enough

to take another step.

Not clarity.

Not resolution.

Only company.

So I say it again,

quieter now,

truer for the doubt it carries:

I believe in the Holy Spirit.

Not ahead of me.

Not behind me.

But beside me—

wild as the wind,

gentle as breath,

patient as the long work of healing.

And so I keep walking—

through trees,

through grief,

through unfinished faith—

held by a presence

that does not float above the world,

but walks it,

limps it,

with me,

and does not let me go.

-Rev’d Jon Swales

Creed Collection