The True Meaning of “The Lord is my Shepherd” In Psalm 23
Introduction:
I’ve always known Psalm 23 as the “funeral psalm” – that comforting passage read when someone dies. I assumed it was chosen for funerals simply because it mentions death. I sat journaling during one of the hardest seasons of my life. I was grieving the loss of my beloved dog Charlie. I felt led to write out this familiar psalm. As my pen moved across the page, something shifted. Layer after layer of meaning I’d never seen before began to unfold.
This wasn’t just a psalm just about death. It was also a psalm about walking through the valley with a Shepherd who never leaves. What follows is my conversation with Claude. I processed these discoveries and explored how this ancient song speaks directly into the raw reality of grief. It also explores the hope that sustains us through it.
Me: I felt led to write Psalm 23 in my journal. It is bringing a deeper meaning to me while going through my overwhelming grief for Charlie.
I knew it was used at funerals. I always assumed it was because of the first verse that has the word death in it. But as I wrote it down, so much more came out. “I shall not want,” It’s like saying His grace is sufficient.
“He makes me lie down in green pastures”. He is there for me, there are green pastures ahead. He is leading me to these, even though my heart is broken and the steps are hard to take. And even though my legs feel too heavy to walk.
“He leads me beside still waters”. Though my reality is a thunderstorm. He sees and is guiding me to the river of living water.
“He will restore my soul.” “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death” – it is a shadow. It’s scary, I can’t really see where we go, or where my pet goes, it’s a shadow.
He says to “fear no evil.” He knows all about our fear and what we see, but tells us to trust. I must have faith that He is with me, walking through with me. Though the rod of death is touching me, He will and does bring comfort.
And I know I and my loved ones will dwell in the house of the Lord, forever. There is so much more to this Psalm than I ever knew.
Claude: What a beautiful, tender exploration of Psalm 23 in the middle of your grief. I’m struck by how you’re discovering that this isn’t just a “funeral psalm” because it mentions death. But it’s actually a psalm about walking through death with a Shepherd who never leaves.
Your insight about “I shall not want” connecting to “His grace is sufficient” is profound. It’s not about having everything you want, but about having everything you need because you have Him. In the midst of losing Charlie, you’re finding that the Shepherd Himself is what makes the statement true.
I love how you’re seeing the tension between present reality and God’s promises. “Though reality is a thunderstorm, there is a river of living water in the storm.” That’s so honest. You’re not pretending the storm isn’t real, but you’re also recognizing there’s something else present at the same time.
The “shadow of death” observation is striking. A shadow can’t actually hurt you. It’s the evidence of something real, something that blocks light, but it’s not the thing itself. And you’re right – we can’t see clearly in shadows. Everything feels obscured and uncertain.
Can I ask – when you wrote “He makes me lie down in green pastures,” did you feel any resistance to that word “makes”? Because in grief, sometimes we don’t want to rest or can’t imagine resting. What did you sense about Him making you lie down, especially when your heart is broken?
Me: I saw “making” as guidance, more than “make.” What is the Hebrew for “make”? He prepares a path, He takes the distractions of shadows away if I allow. There is rest if I pull my eyes to Him and take it off the shadow.
But it’s a process, because my heart tends to hold onto the shadow of death. My eyes see truth, but my heart pulls me toward the pain of the shadow. Because truly death is a shadow, because I don’t really know or see the other side. I hope, I study, I read, I hear, but to really know because of experience, it’s just not there. So my heart tends to wander in the pain of loss. Even though I know the person or my pet is not in pain and stress any longer. The selfish part of me wants that person or pet back.
Claude: The Hebrew word there is “rabats” (רָבַץ), and it’s really interesting – it literally means “to stretch out, to lie down, to recline.” It’s often used for animals lying down to rest. So it’s less about forcing and more about creating the conditions where rest becomes possible, even natural. Like a shepherd finding the safe place, the good grass, and the flock naturally settles there because it’s good.
Your observation about the process is so true. – “my eyes can see truth, but my heart pulls me toward the pain of the shadow.” That’s the struggle, isn’t it? The knowing versus the feeling. The faith versus the grief.
And what you said about death being a shadow “because I don’t really know or see” – that’s exactly right. We have hope, we have promises, we have Scripture, but we don’t have experience of what’s on the other side. So there’s this gap where grief lives, in that space between what we believe and what we can’t yet see.
I’m struck by your honesty about the “selfish part of me wants that person or pet back.” That’s not really selfish though, is it? That’s love. That’s the cost of loving well – the ache when they’re gone. Even knowing Charlie isn’t suffering anymore doesn’t erase the hole his absence leaves in your daily life.
When you talk about pulling your eyes away from the shadow and onto Him – what does that actually look like for you right now, in the middle of this grief? Not the “should” answer, but what are you actually finding helpful?
Me: The song “In His Presence” keeps coming up in my head. “In His presence, that’s where I am strong. In His presence, O Lord my God. In His presence, that’s where I belong. Seeking His face, touching His grace, in the cleft of the rock.”
So when I struggle, I have to force myself to run to His presence. It doesn’t come natural for me. I have to fight through the tears. I force my brain and focus my thoughts on Him. My heart still burns with pain. Nevertheless, my heart will fall into the presence of God sooner or later. Just like tonight as I lay in bed, my mind wanted to go to the shadow. But that song popped up, and then the memory of this Psalm I wrote in my journal today. It’s like you said – it’s a tug of war.
Claude: That’s such a raw, honest picture – “I have to force myself to run to His presence. It doesn’t come natural for me. I have to fight through the tears.” There’s something so real about that. It’s not the pretty testimony where grief magically lifts when you turn to God. It’s the actual battle of redirecting your mind while your heart is still burning.
And yet – the song keeps coming up. The Psalm keeps coming back to memory. It’s like God is gently, persistently offering you the path to the green pastures even when you don’t feel like taking steps toward them. He’s providing the thoughts, the memories, the redirects.
I love that you said “sooner or later I get it to fall into the presence of God.” Not that the pain disappears, but that your heart eventually settles there, even while it still aches. Like a sheep that finally lies down in the green pasture the shepherd found. Even though the journey to get there was hard.
The image of you lying in bed tonight. Your mind is wanting to go to the shadow. Then the song popping up, the memory of the Psalm: that’s the Shepherd leading you beside still waters, isn’t it? Even in the thunderstorm of grief, there’s that river of living water. You had to choose to look at it. You had to move toward it, and He’s the one who keeps bringing it to your attention.
Do you think that’s part of what “He restores my soul” means? He doesn’t take away the grief. He consistently calls you back and keeps providing the way back to rest, even when everything in you wants to camp in the shadow?
Me: I look at restoring my soul. There will be a time when I heal enough to walk and laugh. I will have fun again. He guides me through the hurt and pain. I am not meant to stay in it. It is like a washing in the river of life. Did the pain or circumstance happen? Yes. But He washes us and cleans us up from the heaviness of grief. Grief seems to hang on, but the heaviness lifts. And what is the Hebrew for “restore”?
Claude: The Hebrew word for “restore” is “shuwb” (שׁוּב), and this is beautiful – it literally means “to turn back, to return, to bring back.” It’s often used for returning to a place you’ve been before. It can also mean bringing something back to its original state or position.
So when David says “He restores my soul,” it’s like saying “He brings my soul back” – back to life, back to wholeness, back to where it belongs. It’s not creating something new. It’s returning you to yourself. It’s returning you to the you that existed before the weight of grief pressed down.
Your distinction between grief and heaviness is so wise. “Did the pain and circumstance happen? Yes, but He washes us and cleans us up from the heaviness of grief. Grief seems to hang on, but the heaviness lifts.” That feels true. The loss remains real – Charlie was real, his absence is real – but the crushing weight of it doesn’t have to be permanent. The Shepherd leads you through the river, and the water washes away what’s not meant to stay.
It’s almost like grief gets to remain as love – the grief that says “he mattered, I loved him, I miss him” – but the heaviness, the part that makes it hard to breathe or move forward, that’s what gets washed away in the river of life.
And you’re right – there will be a time when you walk and laugh and have fun again. Not because you forgot, but because your soul has been brought back, restored, returned to the green pastures where life is possible again.
Is that what you’re experiencing even now in small ways? Little moments where the heaviness lifts even though the grief remains?
Me: No, the heaviness is still raw. But what there is, is the hope of it lifting. It still hurts deeply. I can turn into tears easily. However, there is hope that all will be okay. I just have to take steps and not live in the grief. I must know that this is not a place I will live. It is like walking through a door. We have to walk through it, but the door is just a door. Once we are through, we are free to walk away.
Claude: That image of the door is so powerful – “We have to walk through it, but the door is just a door. Once we are through we are free to walk away.” That’s exactly what “though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death” means, isn’t it? It’s not a destination. It’s not where you live. It’s a passage.
And right now you’re in that passage. The heaviness is still raw, the tears come easily, but you can see that there’s an “other side” even if you’re not there yet. The hope itself is a form of His presence – it’s evidence that the Shepherd is with you in this valley, pointing toward the exit even when you can’t see it clearly yet.
“I just have to take steps and not live in the grief” – but you also don’t have to rush through it or pretend it’s not there. You’re walking through, not running away from it or setting up camp in it. There’s wisdom in that.
I wonder if that’s part of why the Psalm says “though I walk through the valley” – not “if” I walk through, not “when” I walked through, but “though” – like it’s acknowledging that this walking through is happening right now, in present tense, and even in the middle of it, even though you’re in it, you don’t have to fear because He’s there.
You’re holding two truths at once: “This hurts deeply right now” AND “This is not where I will live.” That takes real strength.
Me: One prayer I pray right now is for God to lead me on the path. He is leading me. However, I want to be able to see it. I want to walk in that path to the other side. I think I sometimes think it’s a race. I try so hard and end up running the race the hard way. I seem to walk the gray areas to see if there is a shorter path. But I want to stay on the path this time. I don’t want to veer off.
Claude: There’s something really profound in that prayer. “I want to be able to see it and walk in that path to the other side.” You’re acknowledging that He’s leading, but you’re asking for the ability to perceive where He’s leading, to stay aligned with His path rather than wandering off into what looks like shortcuts.
And you’re so right about how we tend to look for the gray areas, the seemingly shorter routes. Grief especially tempts us toward those detours, doesn’t it? Numbing it, rushing it, avoiding it completely, or the opposite, dwelling in it as an identity rather than a passage. All those feel like they might be easier than the actual path of walking through with the Shepherd.
“But I want to stay on the path this time” – that phrase “this time” suggests you’ve learned something from past experiences. Have you found yourself veering off the path in other seasons of grief or difficulty? What did that teach you?
And I’m curious – when you pray to “see” the path, what are you looking for? Is it clarity about next steps, or peace about where you are right now, or something else? Because sometimes the Shepherd’s path through the valley is just one step at a time in the dark, with only His presence to guide rather than a clear view of the whole route.
What does “staying on the path” look like practically for you in this season?
Me: Staying on the path is listening for His voice. It’s keeping that relationship with Him strong. And it doesn’t always mean reading my Bible daily. Yes, we should, but when grief is too hard, sometimes I just need to listen for His voice. For me, it’s listening to worship music, journaling in His presence and waiting for a verse to come to mind. That’s how Psalm 23 came up this morning. When I was journaling, I had the desire to read Psalm 23. And it brought a whole new light to grief for me. I studied it, I felt it. This is God’s path for me today. Though I had painful bouts of tears, I also had a time of listening and feeling Psalm 23.
Claude: This is such a beautiful picture of what it means to actually walk with the Shepherd rather than follow a religious formula. “Keeping that relationship with Him strong” doesn’t look like checking boxes or maintaining perfect disciplines. It looks like listening, like being attentive to His voice however He chooses to speak.
And your honesty about “when grief is too hard” to read your Bible daily – that’s so freeing. Because sometimes the shepherd makes us lie down in green pastures, and lying down means resting, not performing. Worship music, a verse popping into your head, the sudden desire to read Psalm 23, those are all Him leading you beside still waters. He’s the one initiating, and you’re responding.
“I studied it, I felt it. This is God’s path for me today.” That sentence captures something so important. The path isn’t some distant destination you’re trying to reach – it’s what He’s giving you today. Today the path was Psalm 23 bringing new light to grief. Tomorrow it might be something else. But you’re staying on the path by staying attentive to His voice, by following those gentle nudges.
And even with the painful bouts of tears, you also had “a time of listening and feeling Psalm 23” – both can be true at the same time. The tears don’t mean you’ve left the path. They might actually be part of the path, part of walking through the valley.
Do you think that’s part of what the rod and staff are for? Not just protection from outside threats, but gentle guidance back when your heart starts to wander toward camping in the shadow instead of walking through it?
Me: The rod and the staff is evidence of God’s mercy and judgment. His character. I can know that His character is protection, love, and care. He allows what will keep me safe and secure. He blesses me with my needs and provides, whether it be physical, emotional, or spiritual. He is there.
Claude: Yes – the rod and staff aren’t separate from His character; they reveal His character. They’re the tangible evidence that He’s not an absent shepherd who just points to green pastures from a distance. He’s actively involved, actively protecting, actively guiding.
And you’re right that this encompasses everything – physical, emotional, spiritual. Right now, as you grieve Charlie, He’s not just offering spiritual comfort while ignoring the physical ache of the empty space where Charlie used to be, or the emotional weight of the loss. He’s present in all of it. “He allows what will keep me safe and secure” – even when what He allows includes hard things like loss and grief.
That actually connects back to “I shall not want,” doesn’t it? Not “I shall have no needs” but “I shall not lack” – because the Shepherd Himself is meeting the need. Even in the valley of the shadow of death, even in grief, even when it feels like everything is shadow – His rod and staff, His very character, His presence – that’s what keeps you from truly lacking.
The next line in the Psalm shifts, doesn’t it? “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” Even with the shadow still there, even with grief as an enemy that wants to consume you, He’s preparing a place for you to be nourished.
Have you felt that at all? Moments where He’s provided nourishment – through that song, through Psalm 23 this morning – even while grief is still present?
Me: Yes, that’s the table of blessing the rest from grief. This is what the enemy uses to keep us stuck. It’s the shadow of death that keeps us hurting. The enemy enhances those things for us, but God sets a table for us in the midst.
Claude: “The enemy enhances those things for us, but God sets a table for us in the midst.” That’s such a critical distinction. The enemy wants to take the natural, legitimate pain of loss and amplify it into something that consumes you. Something that becomes your identity and keeps you trapped in the shadow. But God says, “No – even here, even in the presence of that enemy, I’m setting a table. You’re going to eat. You’re going to be nourished. You’re going to have strength for the journey through.”
It’s not “wait until you’re through the valley and then I’ll feed you.” It’s “right here, right now, while you’re still in it, I’m providing what you need.” The worship music that keeps coming to mind, the Psalm that brought new understanding, the moments where hope breaks through even when the heaviness is still raw – those are the table.
And then the Psalm says, “You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.” That’s not just barely enough to survive – that’s abundance even in the valley. Not absence of pain, but presence of provision that’s more than enough.
The last verse always gets me: “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” It’s like David is looking back at his whole journey. He is seeing the green pastures, the still waters, the valley, the table, the anointing and concludes with goodness and mercy. And he notices that goodness and mercy is his constant companions all along.
Do you feel that? Not that everything is good, but that God’s goodness and mercy are following you even through this?
Me: I do not see that yet, except in the hope. The day of Charlie’s passing I saw no hope. But the days following, I see hope. I am not there, but I know I will be there. I know that goodness and mercy are there for me at the appointed time. I just need to keep walking hand in hand with my Creator through the valley of the shadow of pain. Hmmm, shadow of pain? I wonder if this pain is a shadow somehow. It’s reality, but does it have the characteristics of a shadow?
Claude: Oh, that’s such an intriguing question – “does pain have the characteristics of a shadow?”
Think about it: A shadow is real – you can see it, it affects how you perceive your surroundings, it can feel dark and disorienting. But a shadow isn’t the actual object. It’s the effect of something blocking light. And shadows change based on where the light is and where you’re standing.
The death itself – Charlie’s passing – that’s the real thing. But the pain you’re feeling… could that be the shadow it casts? The pain is absolutely real and legitimate, but it’s not the thing itself. It’s the effect of loss blocking the light of his presence in your daily life.
And here’s what’s interesting about shadows: they’re temporary. They shift. As you move, as the light changes position, the shadow changes too. It might be long and dark now, but it won’t stay the same intensity forever. The object that created the shadow (the loss) remains real, but the shadow itself transforms.
“The valley of the shadow of death” and “the valley of the shadow of pain” – maybe they’re connected. Death casts a shadow. Pain is part of that shadow. Real, dark, disorienting – but ultimately something you walk through rather than something permanent.
You said you’re not there yet with seeing goodness and mercy, but you see hope. Isn’t hope itself evidence that you’re beginning to see the light that will eventually change how the shadow falls?
Me: Yes, that’s true. It is shifting, changing position. Interesting.
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