Secrets in the sanctuary: reviewing The Secret Lives of Church Ladies
Happy Sunday folks! I recently discovered the Libby app and with it, The Secret Lives of Church Ladies by Deesha Philyaw. Heard of it?
Okay, so I didn’t just find out about the Libby app—I’ve known about it for quite a while. It’s just that if you have an iPhone or any Apple product, you can’t download apps if you have any subscriptions that are due. My bad for not wanting to pay $0.99 for a random app I used like one time. But it’s the principle, dammit. Anyway, iykyk. I’ve been on Libby as much as possible, holding virtual books, and while I was waiting for a few to become available, I came across this beauty! All primped and primed, ready to be read by moi!
Speaking of the Libby app, it seems to have become my favorite. I’ve deleted Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter is not too far behind. So I highly suggest it! Books are wings—they take you places. Now, if you’ve been a faithful reader or if you know me in person, then you know my background in the church. I must admit, when I saw this book, I couldn’t tap fast enough!
The title alone intrigued me—how could a collection of short stories centered on “church ladies” possibly hold the kind of complexity and depth I was looking for? But by the time I finished the first story, “Eula,” I knew this book wasn’t just going to meet my expectations—it was going to surpass them.
What struck me immediately was how intimate and real these stories felt. Philyaw writes with such tenderness and precision that it was impossible not to feel personally connected to her characters. They are Black women from all walks of life, navigating the messy intersections of faith, desire, family, and identity. Each story felt like sitting down with someone you’ve known for years but are just now getting to truly know.
In “Eula,” the opening story, I found myself completely captivated by the relationship between two women whose bond is equal parts love and frustration. Their connection is palpable, yet it’s constantly undermined by the weight of their shared religious upbringing. Every New Year’s Eve, they come together, their intimacy unspoken yet undeniable. I couldn’t stop thinking about the tension between what they wanted and what they believed they should want. It felt so familiar, so human.
Then came “Peach Cobbler,” a story that gutted me. The narrator recalls her childhood and her mother’s affair with their pastor—a man who only ever comes over for peach cobbler and sex. As I read, I could feel the narrator’s longing for her mother’s love, her desire to matter more than the man who takes up all the air in the room. The peach cobbler itself became such a powerful symbol. I couldn’t look at that dessert the same way after finishing the story.
Philyaw’s ability to layer emotion and meaning into every detail—food, a gesture, a conversation—blew me away. Every story feels like it’s hiding something just beneath the surface, a secret waiting to be unearthed.
One of the things I appreciated most about this collection was how it grappled with faith. I’ve spent a lot of time in church myself, and I know what it’s like to feel the tension between religious teachings and personal desires. In The Secret Lives of Church Ladies, that tension is at the forefront.
Take “Dear Sister,” for example. It’s written as a letter from a woman to her half-sisters after their father, a church deacon, dies. The father’s hypocrisy—preaching virtue while living a double life—felt all too familiar to me. It made me think about the ways we reconcile the ideals of faith with the realities of the people who claim to uphold them.
Philyaw doesn’t condemn religion outright, and that’s part of what makes her stories so powerful. Instead, she explores how it shapes the lives of her characters, both positively and negatively. It’s not an easy conversation, but it’s an honest one.
I can’t overstate how much I loved the voices in this collection. Philyaw captures the rhythm and warmth of Black Southern speech so perfectly that I felt like I was eavesdropping on real conversations. The characters speak with humor, wisdom, and raw vulnerability, and their stories feel alive because of it.
For me, “How to Make Love to a Physicist” was one of the most memorable stories in this regard. It’s about a woman who finally starts to open herself up to love after years of shutting herself off. The way she talks to herself—her insecurities, her humor, her yearning—felt so familiar to me. By the end of the story, I was rooting for her as if she were a close friend.
Philyaw has a gift for making her characters feel real. They aren’t archetypes or stereotypes; they’re complicated, flawed, and beautiful.
What I appreciated most about The Secret Lives of Church Ladies is how it celebrates Black women in all their complexity. These stories aren’t about respectability politics or trying to fit into someone else’s idea of what Black womanhood should look like. Instead, they’re about women living on their own terms, even when those terms are messy or painful.
Reading this collection made me think about the women in my own life—my mother, my sisters, my friends—and how often their stories go untold. Philyaw shines a light on the experiences we don’t always talk about, the ones that exist in the quiet spaces of our lives.
When I finished The Secret Lives of Church Ladies, I sat with it for a long time. I kept turning the stories over in my mind, thinking about the women I’d met in its pages. I thought about their struggles, their joys, and the ways they reminded me of myself.
This book is a testament to the power of storytelling. Philyaw doesn’t just write about the secret lives of church ladies; she writes about the secret lives we all have—the parts of ourselves we keep hidden, even from those closest to us.
If you haven’t read The Secret Lives of Church Ladies yet, I can’t recommend it enough. It’s funny, heartbreaking, and profoundly moving. And even though it’s a slim collection, it contains worlds. Philyaw has created something truly special here, a book that will stay with me for years to come. I’ll see you next time, suge, and maybe when I see you? You’d have picked up TSLOCL? You should.