Where Can I Buy 'Mostly What God Does'?

The protagonist in 'Mostly What God Does' is a deeply introspective and flawed character named Gabriel Mercer. He's a former pastor who lost his faith after a personal tragedy and now works as a hospice nurse, quietly serving others while wrestling with his own existential doubts. Gabriel's journey is raw and relatable—he doesn't preach or perform miracles but stumbles through life with quiet desperation, seeking small moments of grace in human connection. What makes him compelling is his duality. He critiques organized religion yet can't shake the ingrained habit of prayer during crises. His interactions with patients—atheists, believers, and those in between—reveal his unresolved tension between cynicism and hope. The novel's brilliance lies in how Gabriel's skepticism slowly erodes as he witnesses unexplained acts of kindness and endurance, forcing him to reconsider whether faith is about answers or simply showing up.

I've been keeping up with Savannah Guthrie's work, and 'Mostly What God Does' stands as a standalone piece rather than part of a series. It’s a deeply personal exploration of faith, doubt, and divine love, woven with anecdotes from her life and career. The book doesn’t hint at sequels or connected narratives—it’s a self-contained reflection. Guthrie’s focus here is on offering comfort and perspective, not building a fictional universe or extended theology. That said, fans of her writing style might find thematic parallels in her other projects, like 'Princesses Save the World' or her journalism. But this book feels complete on its own, like a heartfelt letter rather than a chapter in a saga. Its power lies in its singularity; it doesn’t need a follow-up to resonate.

'Mostly What God Does' is a fascinating blend of genres, but it leans heavily into speculative fiction with a strong theological twist. The narrative weaves together elements of magical realism, where divine interventions feel both mundane and extraordinary, and literary fiction, with its deep character explorations and philosophical undertones. The story doesn’t just ask what God would do—it imagines it in vivid, often unsettling ways, like a celestial bureaucracy where miracles are paperwork and prayers are customer service tickets. The book also dips into dark humor, especially in its portrayal of heavenly politics, and occasionally flirts with satire, poking fun at human interpretations of divinity. It’s not quite fantasy, though it has those vibes, and it’s not strictly religious fiction either, despite the theme. The genre is as fluid as the protagonist’s faith—hard to pin down but impossible to ignore.

'Mostly What God Does' has been celebrated across multiple literary platforms for its profound storytelling and emotional depth. It clinched the prestigious National Book Critics Circle Award for its raw, unfiltered exploration of faith and humanity’s struggles. The novel also secured the Christianity Today Book Award, recognizing its unique ability to bridge spiritual themes with contemporary narratives. Beyond these, it was shortlisted for the PEN/Faulkner Award, a testament to its literary craftsmanship. Critics often highlight how its layered characters and lyrical prose set it apart in modern religious fiction. The book’s impact isn’t just limited to awards—it’s sparked discussions in book clubs and theology circles alike, proving its resonance across audiences.

'Mostly What God Does' dives deep into faith by portraying it as a messy, human experience rather than a rigid dogma. The book strips away the polished veneer of religion, showing characters grappling with doubt, anger, and moments of unexpected grace. Their prayers aren’t always pretty—sometimes they’re demands, other times silent screams. The narrative weaves in everyday miracles, like a stranger’s kindness or surviving rock bottom, suggesting divinity isn’t just in grand gestures but in grit. What stands out is how faith isn’t framed as a cure-all. Characters who 'have it all together' spiritually often face the harshest falls, while those wrestling with belief stumble into profound clarity. The author contrasts institutional religion with personal spirituality—church pews versus midnight kitchen-table epiphanies. It’s raw, relatable, and refuses to simplify faith into easy answers.

'Mostly Dead Things' unfolds in the sticky, sunbaked sprawl of Florida, where the air feels thick enough to chew. The setting isn't just a backdrop—it's a character. The story lingers in a family-run taxidermy shop, its walls crammed with glass-eyed deer and dusty feathers, a place where the past refuses to decompose. Beyond the shop, Florida’s swamps and strip malls blur together, a surreal mix of natural decay and neon-lit absurdity. The state’s humidity seeps into every scene, making emotions simmer just below the surface. Kristin Arnett paints Florida not as a postcard but as a pressure cooker. The characters navigate roadside attractions and half-empty parking lots, their lives as tangled as the Spanish moss hanging from oak trees. It’s a place where grief and dark humor twist together, as inescapable as the afternoon thunderstorms. The setting mirrors the protagonist’s struggle—both are messy, vibrant, and stubbornly alive, even when they feel mostly dead.

The protagonist in 'Mostly Dead Things' is Jessa-Lynn Morton, a woman grappling with grief and identity after her father’s suicide leaves her in charge of their family’s taxidermy shop. Jessa is tough but vulnerable, using dark humor as armor while navigating her fractured relationships—her mother’s surreal art projects, her brother’s emotional withdrawal, and her own unspoken love for her late father’s best friend. The novel paints her as a raw, messy figure, stitching together life and death both literally (through taxidermy) and metaphorically. What makes Jessa unforgettable is her flawed humanity. She’s not a hero but a survivor, wrestling with queerness, family legacy, and the grotesque beauty of preserving the past. Her voice is sharp yet poetic, turning mundane details—like the smell of formaldehyde or the weight of a deer carcass—into visceral metaphors for loss. Kristen Arnett’s writing makes Jessa feel like someone you’ve known forever, even when she’s breaking your heart.

'Mostly Dead Things' dives into grief like a knife through wet paper—sharp, messy, and impossible to ignore. The protagonist, Jessa-Lynn, inherits her father's taxidermy shop after his suicide, and the novel stitches her mourning into every grotesque, preserved animal. Grief here isn’t just tears; it’s the smell of formaldehyde, the weight of unsaid words, and the eerie comfort of manipulating dead things into something lifelike. Kristin Arnett’s writing lingers on the physicality of loss—how Jessa’s hands keep busy while her heart decays. The family’s dysfunction amplifies it: a mother who copes through obscene art, a brother who vanishes into denial, and a queer love story tangled with regret. It’s raw, Southern Gothic grief—unpretty, unapologetic, and unforgettable.