I’ve seen the valleys where the shadows of death dance about madly. I’ve known places where prayers bounce around in hollow echoes and cries return vacantly to the weeper. People die in these valleys, while others live for days, weeks, or years in them.
Over the years, I’ve also watched people take the hand of the gentle Shepherd as he leads them through these experiences. Unless you’ve seen the bleak and barren valleys, you wouldn’t understand the yearning for the Shepherd in Psalm 23. Until you descend into the valley, you can’t fully know the comfort of His rod and staff.
When we think of Psalm 23, images of a peaceful, stream-filled valley come to mind. David certainly didn’t share that perception. David was accustomed to seeing countless comrades butchered in basins of war. He would sidestep valleys when fleeing for his life. In verses four and five of Psalm 23, David alludes to death and enemies, both valley experiences common to him. Much like David’s, our valleys are real and painfully practical. Cancer. Job loss. Racial injustices. Debt. A cheating spouse. Church injury. Often death in the valley is the moratorium of hope, not just the end of physical life.
Whatever the death, whatever the fear, I honestly believe that Jesus can meet you in time and space to comfort you. He is our refuge and strength, a very present help in time of trouble (Psalm 46:1). He is real, present, and always on time.
I understand it can be difficult sometimes to imagine the gentle Shepherd in the flowing, white robe helping us through grimy and dangerous slopes. In reality, this Shepherd knows the turf. He can maneuver with skill and expertise around the jagged edges of the hillsides.
Hebrews 4:15 says our Shepherd also knows the pain and confusion of our valleys. He is not only covered with the filth from picking up the fallen, but also bloody from fighting our battles.
Several years ago, I had the experience of seeing someone take the hand of Jesus through the final valley. This elderly woman had fought cancer, but not alone. She had the Shepherd in the trenches with her. I knelt by her bedside in fear that she had never known the Savior. Her chances had probably passed, as medical science intervened with morphine to remove her pain, clouding her reasoning and twisting reality. She was distant and seemed removed from her wiry body. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in a couple of days and I was told not to expect any kind of responses or reactions.
I couldn’t bear to gaze at this fragile scene for long as this poor woman looked as thin as bone. My eyes wandered upward. Directly above her on the wall was a painting of Jesus guiding a lone sheep with his staff. I grabbed Mrs. Snoddy’s hand and asked if she had been talking to Jesus. Her grip tightened around my fingers as some hidden energy returned to her. She peered above the morphine induced wall and looked into my eyes. “Yes”, she said with resurrected vigor, “Jesus is the best friend we’ve got”. Having made her stand, she retreated into the trench for a few final steps with Jesus. Two weeks later, she left the valley behind forever.
Jesus was there in concrete reality. A Good Shepherd who is more powerful than morphine, more practical than religion.
Very real.
Very present.
Always on time.