Mercy Parish, the town and the church named after it, would not be here without God's mercy. So goes one of the tales anyway. Another of the tales involves a bank robber, a hostage, and mercy of another kind. Then there's the one about the logger and the brothel, which always reads like the start of a predictably bad joke. Whichever story you believe explains the origins of the town and its name is really based more on preference than historical fact. No one knows for sure which, if any, of the stories are true.
Mercy Parish was not part of any ecclesiastical region. It didn't show up on any church roster, and it didn't have strong ties to any denomination. The minister of the past sixty-five years was a former Anglican priest, who came to the United States because of his wife. She had been born and raised in Victoria, B.C., but she had moved to England after college. She had met the man who became her husband after college. They had married when she turned twenty-five. He was two years her senior. When her mother fell ill, she returned to B.C., with her husband in tow, to take care of her. After her mother's passing, the priest and his wife decided to move to the Northwestern region of the United States where the weather was a little more moderate. The pastor, Reverend Alexander Blithely, built the stone structure from the wood and stone he and the local people cleared from the land the townspeople had donated for the church. The congregation was small, but it had heart. All the work and materials, including the one stained-glass window had been donated. It was a small building, but it was beautiful. You could feel the love that went into the building of their sanctuary. Over the years, a few other buildings had been added, again via volunteer work and donations.
When Reverend Blithely was nearing 80, he decided that he had one more fund raiser in him. The church needed a new steeple and bell and needed it badly. They literally had bats in their belfry. The bell had somehow started sounding off key and no one seemed to be able to fix it. As church bells go, it was still in relatively good shape. It just sounded sour now. With the congregation dwindling, the reverend wasn't sure how he was going to raise the money. He only knew that he must do that before he handed the reigns over to someone else, if indeed anyone else ever came to claim the church he and the locals had built. That was entirely up to God. No matter what, he didn't want to leave his replacement with that burden. He announced the plans for the fund raiser for the repairs on Easter Sunday. It seemed fitting that before he lay his weary bones to rest, he would do what he could to breathe into the church a little more life. The congregation, small though it was, were a determined lot, and he aimed to leave the church in reasonably good condition.
The church members met the following week to brainstorm about the fund raiser and gather volunteers for the repairs once the materials were on hand. Among the members of the church was a writer. She was a retired school teacher, but she wanted one day to be an author. Not sure what she wanted to write about, she had started a blog to begin building an online presence and hopefully a following. Her name was Clare Seer. She had fallen in love with this community of believers from day one when she had stumbled into the sanctuary in search of help for her broken down car. Her car had stopped running with a choke and a chug, and she had walked two miles until she reached the church. When she had first gotten out of her uncooperative car, she had heard the slightly off church bell. Seeing no other signs of life, she tied a white towel around her radio antenna and started walking towards the sound. By the time she reached it, church was letting out, although a few people were still inside chatting. All faces turned towards this slightly mussed and damp figure with the strands of freshly misted hair dangling all around her head. She was a little padded around the middle and was entering her silver years. Her rounded shoulders looked a little wilted, but in her eyes shone a bright light.
She approached a couple of women who were chatting and asked if they knew where she could get help with her car. Both women pointed towards a young man in a flannel shirt with patches on the elbows. The patches looked more stylish than necessary, as did the glasses on his face. He had the rugged good looks of a man used to living in the Pacific Northwest. In fact, he looked like more a lumber jack than a mechanic. When Clare addressed him, he turned and listened to her tale of woe. He nodded several times as she imitated the sounds the car had made before it had simply stopped. Finally, he smiled and said, "Let's go take a look. My pickup is just outside". Clare wondered briefly if it would be safe, but then decided that he must be okay since he was in church and was well-known to the women she'd spoken to a few minutes before. Trevor turned out to be as safe as he was reliable. He became her first friend in Mercy Parish. After a brief survey of her engine, he declared her chariot definitely fixable but in need of a few new parts he'd have to order, which would take some time. While waiting for the repairs on her car to be made, she parked herself at a smallish bed and breakfast in town. It had seemed more appealing than the hotel further away in Port Angeles.
After two more Sundays, her car was completely repaired and ready to get back on the road. Only now she wasn't sure she was ready to get on the road again. At first Clare had been impatient to move on, but her stay in Mercy Parish had been enchanting, to say the least. She had gone to church two Sundays in a row and had fallen head over heels in love with the white-haired old man who shepherded the small congregation of no more than fifty parishioners. He was so sweet and gentle. Meek as a lamb, yet deep wisdom was etched into each of the ravines carved into his facial features. He was a cross between an ancient Mister Rodgers and some Biblical patriarch.
Clare had been traveling across the country in search of a place where she could finally feel at home. That's exactly how she felt in Mercy Parish, both the town and the church. She had been a Christian since childhood, but disappointing leaders had left her wondering if there was really anything left for her to believe in as far as the church was concerned. She had no beef with the Good Shepherd, but some of his underlings had proven to be quite cruel to her because she was lesbian. She had even been the subject of one preacher's sermon, whose pounding fist, hammering words, and pointing finger, had all both nailed her to a tree and left her to die at the mercy of circling vultures. When she left the church that day, she never returned. She'd listened to the last sermon lambasting "homosexuality" that she ever cared to hear. Although she couldn't explain why the apostle Paul had been so vexed by same-sex love, she knew that Jesus never spoke a word against it or any other kind of love. He had only railed against hypocrites and money-grubbing swindlers in the temple. She had never felt anything from Him except love and acceptance. That is what she felt again from this church, love and acceptance. That's what this pastor exuded in his words and his demeanor.
