Valleys and Tables

“The Lord is my shepherd,” even when declaratively stated, becomes etched into our souls—not in an instant, but over time. It takes reflection, remembering the countless ways the Lord has guided, supported, and proven His faithfulness.

But that confession is not born in ease. It is forged in valleys and confirmed at tables. It comes through seasons of following the Shepherd’s lead, hearing His voice, learning His ways—sometimes with glad surrender, other times with clenched fists and unanswered questions. It comes in the wrestling, in the long nights of wondering why prayers linger or why life refuses to bend to our timelines. And yet, through both valleys that test us and tables that surprise us with abundance, the Shepherd’s care carves those words deeper and deeper into us until they become not just a statement we recite, but a truth we know and live by.

To confess, “The Lord is my shepherd,” is to admit that we’ve struggled with him, questioned his ways, and wondered—quietly if not aloud—whether he truly has our best interests at heart.

We discover that trust is forged slowly, in the waiting. It is shaped in the crucible of time—God’s time. It takes time to move from being restless, anxious sheep—ears twitching at every shadow—to the kind that actually lies down in green pastures, beside still waters, unafraid.

It takes time for the soul to be restored. Because God takes time.

God Takes Time

From the first words of Genesis, we are invited to see this truth: God takes time. Creation did not erupt in a single moment. It unfolded in rhythm. “And God said … and it was so.” Step by step. Day by day. Word by word, life was called into being.

The point is not whether those “days” were literal or poetic. The point is this: God was not rushed. He was not anxious. He was showing us something about His way. Not because He lacked the power to accomplish it all at once, but because He acts with intention—not in a rush of power, nor in a single sweep, but in the patience of purpose and the sacredness of sequence. He works in seasons. He works in fullness. He works not in haste, but in time. As Paul would later write, “In the fullness of time, God sent his Son.”

And so it is with us. The Shepherd does not hurry the work of restoration. Trust is not born in an instant; it is forged slowly, in the waiting. What feels like delay is often His design. For God is not merely shifting our circumstances—He is shaping our souls.

If God takes time to create the world, to redeem humanity, to restore the soul—should we be surprised that He takes time with us?

And yet this waiting is never wasted. It is in the valley of shadows—when life overwhelms us, when our strength is spent, when self-sufficiency crumbles—that we discover the Shepherd’s nearness.

And it is His presence itself that restores. And as that presence shapes us over time, trust begins to take root and we learn that the Shepherd who walks with us in the valley is also the One who prepares a feast for us in the wilderness. The journey with Him is never wasted—valleys become the crucible where trust is forged, and tables become the places where that trust overflows into abundance.

Valleys expose our need.

Tables reveal His provision.

Valleys strip us of self-sufficiency.

Tables surround us with undeserved abundance.

Valleys remind us we cannot save ourselves.

Tables remind us we are already loved.

A Table in the Wilderness

As trust deepens, the psalm leads us to one of its most surprising images:

“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.”

Notice what is not said. God does not remove the enemies. He does not whisk us away to a conflict-free pasture. Instead, right in the heart of tension and brokenness, He spreads a feast.

And this feast is not a victory banquet for gloating, not an invitation to sneer across the table at those who oppose us. No—it is a picture of abundance so extravagant it cannot be contained. A cup that runs over. Oil poured without measure. A love that does not stop where hostility begins, but flows right into it.

Paul would later put it this way: “While we were still enemies, Christ died for us.” This is the Shepherd’s way. He loved us when we were far off. He reconciled us when we had no interest in reconciliation. His overflowing love did not wait until we deserved it; it met us in our enmity and made us His own.

And so when Jesus says, “As I have loved you, so you must love one another,” He expands the reach of love. Not just to those who are openly hostile, but also to the overlooked, the estranged, the ignored, the inconvenient—the ones who slip through our circles unnoticed, who live just outside the boundaries of our concern. To sit at His table is not only to receive His abundance, but to be drawn into His way of life.

This is the miracle of the Shepherd’s feast: it does not stop at satisfaction, it spills over into reconciliation. It widens the table, placing before us not only the enemies we fear but the neighbors we forget. And there, at the table, the Shepherd calls us to love as we have been loved—generously, undeservingly, without measure.

Love That Overflows

The Shepherd’s table does more than satisfy; it transforms. Sheep whose bellies are filled and whose souls are restored are not meant to hoard the feast but to become vessels of its abundance. What the Shepherd has done for us now flows through us.

Valleys and tables both become teachers.

In the valleys, we learn dependence.

At the tables, we practice generosity.

In the valleys, we discover our need.

At the tables, we share from the Shepherd’s provision.

For the truth is this: the table spread before us is not for conquest, but for communion—even with those once called enemies.

The Shepherd loved us in our distance, welcomed us in our resistance, restored us in our estrangement. And now, He calls us to love as we have been loved—those hostile toward us, yes, but also the ignored, the overlooked, the forgotten.

This is the overflow of grace:

As we are loved, we love.

As we are filled, we overflow.

And this is why the psalm can close in settled confidence:

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Not because valleys vanish.

Not because enemies disappear.

But because the Shepherd’s love, in the crucible of time, turns valleys into places of trust, and tables into places of abundance.

In valleys deep, where shadows press the soul,

The Shepherd waits, unhurried in His care;

Through nights of doubt His presence makes us whole,

And teaches trust when answers linger spare.

The crucible of time refines our way,

Each season shaped by patience, not by haste;

He works in rhythm, night gives birth to day,

No moment lost, no waiting turned to waste.

At tables spread, His mercy overflows,

A feast prepared where foes and neighbors meet;

The oil of love upon our heads He throws,

A cup runs over, reconciliation sweet.

Thus our valleys teach us need, at His table we find grace,

Till we dwell in His house forever, and behold His face.