Tag: poem

When the Sun Was a Poet: A New Chapter

“Poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence.”
— Audre Lorde

Somewhere along the arc of my teaching and writing life, poetry moved from the edges of my academic work to the center of it. It didn’t happen all at once. But as I wrote more poetry and discovered its connection to my teaching and scholarly life, I one day found myself no longer just writing poems but living as a poet. A poetic theologian.

Today, I’m excited to share that my poetry collection, When the Sun Was a Poet: A Lyrical Almanac of Life’s Seasons and Seasonings, has been published by Kelsay Books, and is now available through both Kelsay and Amazon.

This is my first poetry book to be accepted by a publisher. My earlier collections were self-published, labors of love, offered from a place of conviction and care. I embrace this book is a turning point, not because it matters more, but because it marks a kind of affirmation, an affirmation of voice, of craft, of calling.

Poetic Theology, Seasoned

When the Sun Was a Poet is a thread woven through my new understanding of myself as a poetic theologian. The book reflects a way of listening to time, memory, body, ritual, and breath. The poems follow the shape of a year, with its solstices and harvests, its cold bones and blooming springtimes. The poems are rooted in the quiet power of seasons, both liturgical and lived.

For me, poetic theology is not only about writing poems that reflect faith or spirituality. It’s about practicing theology through the language of image, silence, and metaphor. It’s about bearing witness to the sacred in ordinary rhythms. It’s about holding joy and grief in the same weathered hand.

This book is an offering shaped by those convictions.

A Threshold of Gratitude

You can now order When the Sun Was a Poet here:

I’m so grateful to Kelsay Books for this opportunity, and to everyone who has supported my journey into poetic theology. Your encouragement, your listening, your witness—these are the real affirmations.

Blessings,
Jill

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Like a Tree

We thank you for trees–and for human lives.

The pecan tree had provided a canopy over our yard for as long as I have lived here. It was so present, I forgot to remember it was there. Does that make sense?

Last week, the tree was cut down. Thundered to the ground.

Now, it is gone. And I don’t think I realized until now just how important that tree was to how I see our yard. The yard looks vacant now. And up above, where the tree touched the skyline? Empty.

That tree shaded a corner of our world. Provided fruit for wintering squirrels. She was a noble tree, and birds of many kinds were drawn to her and made their nests in her kind and welcoming branches.

I am going to miss that tree. It is amazing just how much sunlight she filtered out from our yard, and I celebrate the new light gifted to us by the tree’s absence. But–yes–I will miss her.

So, today, I honor who she was in our lives and give thanks for God’s gift of trees. They teach us, I think, to send roots down deep into God’s earth. And they teach us to be nesting places for those who need shelter from life’s storms.

Planting, cultivating God,

We thank you for trees.
For roots that search out the depths of the earth.
For branches that reach out.
For leaves that dance and play in springtime sun.

Planting, cultivating God,
We thank you for trees.

Creating, loving God,

We thank you for human lives.
For faith that searches out the depths of life.
For actions that reach out, touch, and transform communities.
For hearts that dance and play in your gracious light.

Creating, loving God,
We thank you for human lives.

We gather today to thank you especially for human lives lost to Covid-19 and for those who risk their lives to care for others in these days.

They are like trees. Planted. Growing. Thriving.
We honor them today and seek your blessing on their lives.

Create us again, loving God.
Plant us by living streams.
Cultivate in us courage to reach out, touch, and transform.

We give you thanks. For trees. And human lives. Planted.

Amen and Amen.