Scorched Grace (Sister Holiday Mystery, #1)

by Margot Douaihy

To suffer is a privilege. Pain is evidence of growth. The ache means we’re changing.

Earth can be a heaven or a hell, depending on perspective.

God never judged me as harshly as I judged myself.

Music was the connective tissue of New Orleans—there when you needed it, like prayer.

If bad timing was a religion, I’d be the pope.

Praying is schizophrenic,

my God is a They, too powerful for one person or one gender or any category mere mortals could ever understand.

If punishment is straight, forgiveness is queer, if only because we are addicted to apologizing.

White supremacy is like wet rot—hiding deep inside,

insatiable, and utterly destructive, disguised very well until it falls in on itself.

Aren’t we all sacred flares in the mystifying fire of life?

Is there any torture more elegant than chasing what you’ll never catch?

Hurt people hurt people,

healed people heal people.

I begged only Mary—only women—for forgiveness.

“Religion is like art, we all get to make our own interpretations.”

Grief never

goes away fully, but if it can be shared, it can be managed.

The act of remembering is a maze.

Sometimes the potential of a thing was better than the thing itself.

The same trigger can launch two people in staggeringly different directions.