Amusenu

           

Reflecting on the amusenu takes me back to quiet afternoons in the village, where the steady rhythm of  threshing millet would echo through the compound like a kind of sacred music. As a    child, I didn’t think much of it. It was just another part of life—watching aunties and grandmothers take turns with the amusenu, swinging it with practiced strength, dust rising with every beat. But now, I see how much more was happening in those moments—how the ordinary became a parable.  

The amusenu is a simple tool, a wooden stick. Nothing fancy. But its work is essential. Without it, millet remains locked in its husk—useful in potential, but not yet nourishing. It’s only through the beating, the pressing, the patient, repetitive striking that the grain is released and made ready. That image has stayed with me, especially in times when life feels like a series of heavy blows.

I’ve had seasons like that—when prayers seem unanswered, when doors close, when everything feels uncertain. And I’ve asked God the hard questions: Why this pain? Why now? What’s the point? Yet Scripture reminds us: “No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it” (Hebrews 12:11, NIV). Just as millet must endure the amusenu, so must we face hardship if we are to grow strong. Not all suffering is in vain. Some of it is shaping.

The Bible also reminds us of this gentle but necessary work: “His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his barn, but he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire” (Luke 3:17, NIV). The amusenu becomes a metaphor for the Holy Spirit’s work in our lives: separating what is good and life-giving from what no longer serves us. It is hard, yes. But it is also holy.

I wonder how often we resist the very process that’s freeing the grain in us. We want ease, but we pray for depth. We desire comfort, but we ask for faith. And God, in His wisdom, allows the amusenu to strike—not to destroy us, but to reveal what is precious.

So I hold this reflection close: May I not despise the threshing floor. May I trust that the beating is not punishment, but preparation. And may I believe that something good—something strong, something nourishing—is being brought forth through it all.

If you are going through a hard season, perhaps this is your amusenu moment. It may not feel pleasant, but it has purpose. Let it form you, not just bruise you. Let it bring out the grain.

And maybe today, take a quiet moment to ask:

What is God separating in me?

What is He preparing me for?

Can I trust the process, even when it hurts?

You’re not alone on the threshing floor. God is present, lovingly at work.

And when the dust settles, you’ll see: the grain remains.