God Is Not Pixie Dust

“Let me tell you quickly. If I tell you quickly, like ripping a Band-Aid from a scab, I might be less likely to romanticize it, to recount my memories as some jaded love story. It wasn’t. Actually, it was a slaying, a murder to harvest fresh blood.”

So begins the beautifully poignant memoir of Portia Bates, born in North Carolina where her mother’s family held reunions in nightclubs, and her father’s people sang songs to Jesus, praying for blessings to rain down on them like pixie dust. Yet,...