Part 10: The Last Hymn
Autumn 1978 – McCall, Alabama
The leaves fell like faded prayers that October.
Bright, brief, and beautiful.
Mercy’s pew stayed warm even on the coldest mornings.
No heater touched it. No sunbeam lingered.
Yet folks who sat there said it felt like leaning into someone who remembered your name, even if you’d forgotten your own.
The wax pawprint never cracked.
The collar never stiffened.
And the scent—earthy, clean, a little like pine and old tobacco—still clung to the cushion if you leaned in close.
On the last Sunday of October, a storm rolled in.
Not thunder. Not lightning.
Just one of those slow, gray Southern rains that softens every edge of the world and makes time feel heavy in your hands.
The pew was already occupied when the doors opened.
Elsie was there early, her hair damp from the walk, Mercy’s collar looped around her wrist like a bracelet.
She sat with her hands folded, her eyes closed.
Waiting.
One by one, the congregation arrived.
Some shook off umbrellas. Some shook off memories.
Mrs. Thelma brought her late husband’s army badge and laid it gently beside the harmonica.
A young mother placed a folded baby sweater on the pew and kissed it once before letting go.
Earl Mathers sat down on the floor next to the cushion and just wept. No words. No shame.
And Preacher Myron, voice gravel-thick with reverence, stood before them and said:
“Today, we don’t preach.”
He stepped down from the pulpit.
“We remember.”
They passed the microphone from hand to hand.
Each person shared one small thing they’d left on Mercy’s pew.
One ache.
One name.
One piece of something that never found a grave.
A woman said Mercy reminded her that grief could curl beside you without biting.
A man admitted he hadn’t cried in 40 years—until the dog licked his boots during communion.
Elsie stood last.
Hands shaking.
“I don’t think he came back because he missed us,” she said. “I think he came back because we missed something.”
She looked out at them.
At the pew.
“Like how to sit beside sorrow without fixing it. Like how to remember someone by making room for strangers. Like how to leave the door open… just in case love still has one more thing to say.”
Outside, the rain stopped.
The clouds parted just enough to let one stream of gold light fall through the high window above the pulpit.
It landed square on the pew.
A single beam.
Soft. Sure. Unmistakable.
And on the cushion?
The pawprint wax began to glow.
Just for a second.
Long enough for everyone to see it.
Long enough to believe it.
No bark came that day.
No ghost. No dog.
Just warmth.
Just the presence you feel when grief becomes gentler.
When memory isn’t so sharp.
When love stops walking ahead of you and simply walks beside you.
Winter came.
Then spring.
The pew stayed.
So did the harmonica.
The collar.
The wax print.
And the steady stream of offerings left by people who no longer needed to be alone with what they carried.
Years later, long after Elsie had grown, she returned with her own child.
The church was smaller now. Older. But still breathing.
She showed her daughter the pew.
Told her about Mercy.
About Scout.
And Clarence.
And the day the bell didn’t ring.
Her daughter asked, “Was the dog a ghost?”
Elsie smiled.
“No. He was a gift.”
“From God?”
She paused.
Then nodded.
“From someone who knew how to sit beside the broken parts. Until they weren’t so heavy.”
Her daughter climbed up on the pew.
Closed her eyes.
Listened.
And said,
“I think he’s still here.”
Elsie laid a hand on her shoulder.
“He always will be.”
[End of Part 10 — End of Story]
“The Church Pew Pup”
