What He’s Weaving

Some winds are long-awaited refreshment from heavy heat. I love fresh breezes that make the grass shiver in delight. But when the winds ramp up to high speed, they become terrifying, destructive. Trees that are aged or wedged into shallow soil topple over, even homes are not safe. One year in Ferkessedougou, a tropical cyclone tore off rooftops and destroyed mud huts. This one was the rolling kind that bounces, hitting the ground while whirling around bottom-to-top and rising again.  We had a large gazebo-type structure in our back yard, an open-air shelter used frequently for group gatherings. The cyclone hopped over the courtyard wall, leaving it intact, and lifted the huge thatched roof completely off this special house of meeting, toppling it onto the ground. When Glenn replaced it he attached it far more firmly to the frame than before. It has stayed in place.

These days there are high winds of another kind, news of possible violence in major areas in this United States of America that is no longer very united. We commemorate the legacy of Martin Luther King Jr., with wonderful quotes flying through social media, many times forgetting the background of the racist abuse of the peaceful demonstrators that he led, and the way his reputation was mostly maligned until years after his death. Others focus on those very issues and the present-day need to address them.

And today is Inauguration Day. Parts of the nation rejoice; other parts mourn. Both sides wonder what lies ahead. Will the stormy weather calm down, or will more destructive high winds whip through our nation? The forecasts are mostly grim.

It’s a good time to remember where our sure hope lies: in the presence and goodness of the Sovereign King who always has a plan he is working out. And even when it leads through scary times, he reminds us over and over to “fear not!” Our job is to let go of fear and rest in him. And wait, trusting.

In the Wind (Isa 44:8)

Wind whips wisps of hair

into eyes blurred by despair;

gusts grab my pulsing heart.

Nearly toppling,

scrambling for safe purchase,

I scream!

Don’t be afraid!

Stand up,

throw roots

to deep soil,

twirl them ‘round

all obstacles –

go further down,

further in;

wrap them ‘round

my love!

Know that


here with you,


active inside

the twisters,


my rescue plan.

I rise, reach out,

send soul tendrils

into the silence

of rich loam,

plunge them further

into firm foundations,

wait to see

what he’s weaving

in the wind.

When Garbage is Blown About

If I were still across the ocean, north in the woodland savannah where Ferkessédougou, Côte d’Ivoire, is situated, there would be cool wind when I walked outdoors in the morning. Right now the harmattan blows daily south from the northern lands, where it scooped up dust as it crossed the nighttime Sahara then miles of dry lands to pass over other countries, heading toward the Gulf of Guinea. As it passes it lets dust filter down to earth, covering whatever leaves have survived the seasonal drought with a layer of rusty brown.

Nothing can stay clean. When we took down our little artificial Christmas tree in early January, we had to wash each piece and hang it on the clothesline to dry, stowing it away before the next day’s wave of harmattan came by. I could dust my desk in the morning and write my name in the powder by 10 a.m.

Outside, whatever plastic garbage has been littered along the road is blown into courtyards to wrap itself around barren tree limbs or just accumulate by the wall. Pieces of paper or rags are scooped up and piled elsewhere.

These days garbage is flipped into our faces by the chaos in our country. If we don’t watch out, sharp-edged fragments blown by the wind can cut into our skin. Lies, slander, innuendo stings like dirt whipped into our eyes. It seems as if one thing that God is doing is revealing hidden things, debris left by evil in secret or camouflaged places and now revealed as his wind uncovers it. And how can we ourselves be kept clean, when the dust just keeps on coming?

At our church service this Sunday, the theme song we sang together spoke the words we need to hear and remember: “Be still. Know that I am God.” He is the God who is King of the world, and even when we can’t see it, he is accomplishing his purposes. So we keep on keeping on, moving ahead and letting him clean us up from whatever soils us or from any participation in the littering, even though there will yet be dust in the wind. And we must take time to be still, to breathe clean air inside the protection of our Father’s love. He is the Breath of Life.

The Cleansing

(February 6, 2010)

I stand in the wind

while it whips through,

plastering my body

with fine dust,

the powdered aftermath

of life and death

and thirsty earth.

Deadwood and seedpods

hit the roof, my legs.

Birds of prey swoop overhead

looking for the innocent,

uncovered, to devour.

O Wind of God,

protect your own.

Hover over, cover us.

Breath of Life, strengthen us.

Heart of Sun, empower us:

your heat, our hope;

your air, our life;

your still small voice

our Word of choice,

while all around us

innuendo and

assumptions swirl.

I brush dust from my face.

His breeze flies by,

consoles my soul

then shivers all the trees

with swoops of power.

The Spirit breathes

and lifts away debris.

The land is swept,

cleaned up and clarified.

I watch. I wait. I listen for

the Whisper of

my heart’s desire.

Be still and know

that I am God,

and I still rule.

Wait patiently for me.

Let go of your concern

regarding those

whose schemes succeed.

My strength is

all you need.

I fight for you;,

and you, my child,

need only to be still.

 (Ps. 46:10; 37:7; Exo. 14:14)

In the Combat Zone

Chaos is all around, and we all feel it: the pandemic, politics, injured relationships. It helps me to remember that, unique as it is, this is not the only time I’ve experienced such pressures. In fact, my list could go on and on! That is what life is like in this broken world, especially when we have “taken up our cross” to follow Jesus.

When the battle is raging, the one sure place of refuge is to run to is Jesus. His three years of earthly ministry were filled with challenges and lots of unkind pushback from those who should have known better. He even said that, if everyone is pleased with you, something is wrong (see Luke 6.26). That is comforting. But we are also faced with this counsel: “If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all people.” (Rom. 12:18 NET)  This is part of the struggle. What I’m learning is how important it is to stay close to the Lord, growing in my knowledge of him. This is my way to receiving the benediction of peace that I need. Peter wrote this blessing to people of faith: “May grace and peace be lavished on you as you grow in the rich knowledge of God and of Jesus our Lord!” (2 Pet. 1:2 NET).

During a daunting time period when I was still serving as a missionary in Côte d’Ivoire, I wrote this lament. I’ve discovered that writing out my sorrows to the Lord this way brings healing, and there are many illustrations of this in the Psalms. The key element is remembering where our hope is found!

Psalm in the Combat Zone

The battle rages all around:

     literal gunshots

     fired by hunters

     chained to the occult –

     symbol of all

     the spiritual combat

     in this place.

Shots are fired that pierce the soul:

     harsh words that cut,

     put-downs, silence

     when support should come –

     the people on our “teams”

     are also broken

     chained to weaknesses.

But you, Lord of lords, Chief of chiefs,

     you are our one

     perfect leader,

     unchained, in charge –

     compassionate, wise,

     completely good,

     reliable in every situation.

You have our backs:

     you tell us who we are,

     speaking truth

     when the Enemy shouts lies –

     he says we have failed,

     pointing out issues,

     determined to kill.

But you in your great love

     have chosen us,

     paid the high cost

     to make us yours –

     so you are here,

     shielding, on guard

     in this combat zone.

Open our eyes to this truth:

     show us evidence

     that we can see,

     and love we can feel –

     because you are invisible

     and our faith trembles,

     longing for you!

Transition Stress

Sometimes I run across a poem written ages ago that somehow applies to the Now, or I want to share some thoughts that came to me while meditating on Scripture this morning. Sometimes I just want to share the joy that unexpectedly came my way. If you would like to walk this journey with me, I welcome you!

Right now I continue to face “transition stress,” the challenge of discovering how to enter a new phase of life. We retired last year, remaining involved in the ongoing work back “home” in Nyarafololand while learning to move forward here in Detroit. One thing I miss is my Sacred Grove, the part of my courtyard over there where I spent a few hours almost every Saturday morning, practicing the discipline of solitude and silence, learning to listen to my Lord rather than always blabbing at him. I sat under golden rain trees, some so old their trunks broke when high winds came through, some of them the burgeoning row of children spurting up from parental roots underneath. The trees lost their leaves in dry season, November to January, then — before the rains began in March or April — would burst into clusters of hanging golden blossoms in February. That would become a carpet of gold all around as the petals fell and were replaced by green leaves. This became a picture of life as a missionary in many ways, for me. For one thing, these trees blossomed when everything around was still dry and brown, because their roots reached down deep to underground streams. We also needed to be sure to remain deeply rooted in the source of Life and Joy, our Lord, even when times were hard and we were moving forward in lonely spaces.

Here is a poem written during one of my last seasons in the Sacred Grove, as retirement drew near. It represents the current moment too, as we enter 2021:

Moving On (Linnea Boese 4/1/2018)

Green leaves take over
as golden rain
begins to peter out.
The last mangoes seem
all too much in a hurry
to cover the ground
becoming wine
before they melt into earth,
and the season moves on
as flowers give way
to liquid showers,
quickly absorbed
into thirsty soil.

This paints the contours
of my current phase
of life and work
as so many things seem to be
dropping off
or jerking suddenly
into different colors,
ripening or rotting,
losses bringing grief
as well as hope
for new perspectives.

Transition stress
is the invisible thread
of yellow to green,
of orange to brown,
of heavenly blues
going gray with blessing
that pounds my soul
but drenches me
with just enough energy
to look up as well as down,
to look ahead
while carefully living
this moment.

Linnea’s Lines Take Off

I’ve been a writer since I learned the English alphabet, and throughout my growing up years I discovered that picking up a pen expressed things deep within. These thoughts sometimes surprised even me. It was fun most of the time. In moments of distress it helped me to debrief in a safe place. And poetry flowed as easily as prose.

I was seven when I climbed up onto my mother’s desk chair and carefully typed out my first poem:

Lemon and lime
and what’s the time?
Six o’clock
and around the block!
Soap and paper!
Can you caper
around the block
in half that time?

It rhymes and has alliteration and meter. That’s about it. But it started me off on a journey of playing with words, and using words to express my deepest thoughts.

I hope to share both kinds of writing in this blog while digging into the stories of what God has been teaching me. Welcome to the adventure!

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