Mercy Now

What a singer-songwriter and an unassuming dog reminded me about what I've been missing.

(Photo credit: Sara Smith, October 2024, Chesney at Free Dreaming Farm)

Dear Reader,

If you are here for the first time, welcome in! (I don’t know how exactly, but I continue to get new subscribers every week.) You haven’t missed much in the last six months, but I encourage you to go back and browse through some previous posts to get a flavor for what’s going on here.

Since my last writing in June 2024, in which I said I was taking a summer break, what I really meant was: I’m about to go into a deep dark mid-life reflection hole that I will slowly crawl out of, then magically reappear in January 2025—if and only if the world hasn’t imploded, and if and only if my husband buys me some nice jewelry for Christmas. Otherwise, it’s “sayonara, baby.” I’m throwing in the towel on the whole thing and joining the billionaires club for an extended vacation to space. Yes, I would need to somehow sneak into Jeff Bezos’ vintage Louis Vuitton travel trunk, but details aren’t important when you’re dealing in hypotheticals.

The truth is, I would never leave my dogs (“dog mom” guilt is real), or my husband for that matter.

But the other truth is, life gets hard. It gets sad; grief is also real.

Relationships crumble in unexpected ways, friends slip through to the other side unexpectedly with zero notice. But in the heartfelt words of indie rock crooner Stephen Wilson Jr., “grief is only love that’s got no place to go.”

So, the question then becomes: Where is the love? And where do I put it? For me, writing silly missives and sharing sentimental stories is my way of showing love in some weird way. I write about the people I love in a way that sometimes makes me look like a jerk—because loving yourself also means shaving away the nasty bits through relentless self reflection, which inevitably leads to more self awareness. But self awareness, thus acceptance, can only happen when you have the time and the silence to do so.

Basically, all that is to say: Writing is my love language (as are fancy gifts, so take note!). I apologize for the lack of consistency here, but given all the new things on the docket for 2025, I’m glad to be getting back in the saddle.

To kick things off for the year, I wanted to share a simple story which led to my current obsession with the concept of Mercy. God seems to have an endless supply of it for me, but why is it so hard to pass it on to others?

The obsession started unexpectedly a few weeks ago, while I was driving back to our farm from Nashville— listening to “Indie Folk Radio” on Spotify. Those algorithms clearly understood my affinity for Yellowstone, and they were serving up the best from the soundtrack. Without warning, Mary Gauthier’s “Mercy Now” wailed through my car speakers and landed squarely on my heart. As I turned onto our winding road, the sun shot through the clouded air creating God rays across the rolling hills of the Gunn Family Farm, and I pulled over into the shallow ditch to soak in the moment.

Here is how the song begins…

My father could use a little mercy now.

The fruits of his labor, fall and rot slowly on the ground.

His work is almost over, it won’t be long he won’t be around.

I love my father, he could use some mercy now.

****

My brother could use a little mercy now.

He’s a stranger to freedom, he’s shackled to his fear and his doubt.

The pain that he lives in it’s almost more than living will allow.

I love my brother, he could use some mercy now.

***

By the end of this second verse, tears began to form. As if her lyrics hadn’t already pierced a part of my soul hardened by years of frustration, sadness, and disappointment, she continued pleadingly; and I wept.

My church and my country could use a little mercy now.

As they sink into a poison pit it’s gonna take forever to climb out.

They carry the weight of the faithful who follow them down.

I love my church and country, they could use some mercy now.

***

The song continued in this way for two more verses, interrupted only once by a melodic guitar interlude. And I just sat in the ditch with my windows down playing it on repeat for 20 minutes.

By the time I pulled into our driveway, I’d gotten myself together enough to form a sentence, although my voice felt hollow. My husband released the dogs, and they greeted me at the car per usual: Chai, sniffing me skeptically to ensure I hadn’t been sharing my affection with any other four-legged friends; Chesney’s entire body writhing back and forth swinging his gigantic tail while he waited for a treat—for doing absolutely nothing.

And I realized, that’s what mercy is.

With love,

Rebekah

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