Scorched Grace (Sister Holiday Mystery, #1)

by Margot Douaihy

The fire, how easily it devoured wood, with the raw hunger of a tide. Fire is immense and immeasurable; it will keep expanding, reproducing, until water or air stop it. If the Lord cherishes us, why are we so fragile and fire so grand? Pointless debate. We are the fire, and the fire is us. We were born with electricity in our hearts, the divine flame. When we die, we return to the elements. Ashes to fucking ashes.

People view nuns as nameless clones, a collective noun rather than individuals. That was ironic, because, denuded of so-called luxuries like cell phones and social media, leading lives of service and prayer, nuns cultivated rich inner worlds. Real inner dialogue. Most female mystics were nuns. Beatrice of Nazareth. Consolata Betrone. Sister Helen Prejean is more of a badass than most self-proclaimed radicals moaning about the ethical failings of single-use plastic straws. Nuns forge genuine connections, soul to eternal soul. What choice do we have but to be achingly present?

Revenge is a stupid way to feel in control. Like all drugs, it doesn’t last, but it sure is fun in the moment.

“What we feel inside is what we give to the world,”

The difference between me and other sleuths isn’t that I’m a nun. It’s not about me at all. It’s about maintaining the balance—fighting for the greater good. And what good is greater than God?