The Secret Lives of Church Ladies

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Eric strokes your furrowed brows until your face relaxes. You say, “Rumi said, ‘Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.’ Do you believe that?” There are several women, however, who leap from that thin line of grace out to freedom in Deesha Philyaw's stunning first collection of stories, The Secret Lives of Church Ladies. Women (& girls) who for better or worse, know exactly who they are & refuse to give even a penny less.

Deesha Philyaw’s collection of nine stories about church ladies is fresh, tender, biting, raw, deeply moving and just downright beautiful. I think there was a moment I was holding my breath while reading a story and I could only release after finishing. These stories beg to be read, and be read widely. After he drops his luggage into your trunk and closes it, he turns to you and says, “Finally.” And you say, “Finally.” And he draws you into his arms and kisses you. His lips are as soft as you thought they would be. Full disclosure: I totally thought this was a nonfiction book until a friend read it. I saw it was getting an immense amount of praise but I just figured it was something I probably wouldn't read. But as soon as I found out it was a story collection I jumped on it and boy, am I glad I did! These stories are truly unforgettable. You chide yourself for walking too far ahead—for regressing into eighties song lyrics territory so soon. Williams, John (2020-10-06). "National Book Awards Finalists Announced". The New York Times. ISSN 0362-4331 . Retrieved 2020-10-22.The stories of these women and their friendships come alive, beating with tenderness and imperfection, and build upon one another to create a beautiful melody of female determination.” Every single one of these stories were flames! Every. Single. One. Not one of them fell below a four star rating for me. I especially loved:

The title refers to the catch-all term for church-going women that Philyaw learned growing up. [3] These women were prim, conservatively dressed, and those "who make[] sure not a hair is out of place, never speak[] out of line, and does all the right Godly things." [4] Breathtaking and heartbreaking. This book felt like a hot cup of tea and a warm bath after a long cold day. Philyaw shows the Church as another extension of patriarchy oppressing women as well as a too-rigid institution that shames people into compliance. This is echoed in How to Make Love to a Physicist as well: Daisy Ridley To Star In Survival Thriller From Zak Hilditch, The Penguin Empire and Campfire Studios; Neon & UTA To Shop At AFMBut truly all of them had astute observations of womanhood, complex relationships between mothers and daughters, love and the church. It was messy and realistic and beautifully written. I need you to use your words, though,” he says. “If we’re going to do this, I need you to try. And I promise I won’t ever do anything to make you regret trying.” Is it better to have the one big hurt of your father not being around and not all those little hurts that come when he disappoints you? Or is it better to have a piece of a father, hurts and all?”

Daughter. Housekeeper. Cook. Babysitter. Nurse. Slave. That’s what she felt like…Meanwhile her brothers Rico and Bruce had been called by their given names and did only what they pleased.’ This collection was such a pleasant surprise. More important, it was a pleasure to read. What a joyful experience. Warning: Do NOT open this book on an empty stomach!! The descriptions of food, peach cobbler in particular, will make you drool like a baby. DO open this book when you want to read a very robust collection of short stories full of strong and independent women. These are women that walk their own path, not the road others have paved for them. There are battles between their desires and those obstacles that get in the way more often than not. Judgments are passed on them through the conservatism of their church, but also by their families and society at large. They wage inner wars with their own consciences at times, too. I don’t know,” he says, then yawns. “Sounds like a mystic’s take on fated love, and I don’t believe in fate.”You both begin to doze. At some point you wake up, with your head in his lap and your mind in overdrive. You think about your art show opening tomorrow. You imagine looking at him from across the gallery floor as he looks at your work; introducing him to your girlfriends, your colleagues, your students. And your mother. You think that even if today and tomorrow were all there was, that would be okay. But then you hear your therapist’s voice asking what you feel, not think, right now. And you struggle at first to find the words before settling on warm, hopeful, joyous, full. He sighs. “Which is why I didn’t trip when you didn’t respond to my messages at first. I figured if you’d wanted me to leave you alone you would’ve said so. But you didn’t. Now I did trip a little when you ghosted me, but”—he shrugs and pulls you closer—“I figured you had your reasons.”