Scorched Grace (Sister Holiday Mystery, #1)

by Margot Douaihy

We all had tattoos, scars, secrets, and losses. We all wanted to be forgiven.

“The school’s running low on nuns. Don’t forget to stop, drop, and roll.”

And God had my back. A dyke David to the patriarchy of Goliath.

This is my blood, I prayed, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. Matthew 26:28.

But our bodies are holy and meant to be shared, for a time, at least. Jesus was given to us in the form of a human. During Communion, the wafer transforms into Jesus’s body and blood on our tongues. Transubstantiation. Inking my body was also holy. Sure, the needle hurt sometimes. But it should hurt. Salvation required sacrifice. “Pain is temporary,” Sister Augustine always said, “but God is everlasting.”

Rays of divine light emanated from the tattooed heart. The heart’s fire, the transformative power of love. Fury of a resurrected body.

Ceci n’est pas une pipe.

How scary and sacred it is, to place your trust in someone. To ask for help. Almost like love.

I’m supposed to believe that God is a powerful white man with a white beard residing on a marshmallow-white cloud, but I don’t. God isn’t a person. God is everything, everywhere, in all of this, the details I remember and everything I’ve forgotten. The stubbornness of fire. In clues so obvious they blind you. Blood that cleanses and blood that kills. God is perfection, even in devastation. This might be the only thing I’m sure of: God is especially alive in women. The arc of a shoulder, the gray depth of a stare, the hand that is strong enough to reach out and take, the hand that is strong enough to give.