It was almost midnight when Claire heard the first creak. That slow, sideways groan of wood that shouldn’t be moving. She froze in bed, breath held like a cup she didn’t want to spill. Her husband was away on business. The house had never felt so hollow, or so loud.
Another noise. This one from downstairs. A soft shuffle, like something – or someone – brushing against the hallway wall.
Fear flooded her lungs. She reached for her phone with trembling fingers, unsure whether to dial a number or pray. Her mind raced: What if someone had broken in? What could she do? What would happen to her children asleep in the next room?
She didn’t know why it came to her just then—maybe it was childhood memory, maybe it was mercy—but Claire whispered aloud the words she hadn’t said in years: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
The words came soft at first, like a song remembered. “He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters.”
She kept going, her voice gaining ground against the fear. “He restores my soul. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” Her words paused there.
That’s exactly where she was, wasn't it? The valley of the shadow. That in-between place where danger feels real, and faith flickers like a candle in wind.
“...I will fear no evil, for You are with me. Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”
The house went silent again. No thumps. No creaks. Just the normal, blessed stillness of a home holding its breath. A few moments later, the furnace clicked on. The sound she’d feared was nothing more than air adjusting inside an old vent.
Claire exhaled, shaky but safe.
Centuries separate the psalmist’s words from our world of doorbell cameras and dead bolts. But the truth hasn’t moved an inch. “The Lord is my shepherd,” David wrote in Psalm 23, and John 10:11 tells us who that shepherd is: Jesus Himself. “I am the good shepherd,” He says; “the good shepherd lays down His life for the sheep.”
It’s not just poetic. Not just something carved onto memorial stones or printed in greeting cards. That verse is oxygen for anxious nights. Because it tells us this: we are never alone, and we are never unguarded.
A good shepherd doesn’t lose sight of his sheep. He doesn’t sleep through danger. He stays awake through every windstorm and watches through every hour. His rod defends, His staff directs. And when wolves come close, He steps forward—between them and us.
Not because we’re brave. Not because we never stumble. But because we belong to Him.
That’s what Claire remembered in the dark: not that she was brave, but that she was His.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the sting of aloneness. Maybe the night outside your window hums a little louder these days. Maybe the headlines, the diagnoses, the silence—they all tell you that danger is near and no one is coming.
But Someone has already come.
That whisper in the night? The Scripture rising up from somewhere deep? That’s Him. That’s the Shepherd who never forgets a single sheep. Not even the anxious, trembling ones who think they’ve lost their way.
And here's the pivot: the promise isn’t that we’ll never walk through valleys. It's that we’ll never go through them alone.
He doesn’t promise a life of green pastures only—but a presence in the shadow. "For You are with me," David says. No conditions there. No “if I believe hard enough” or “if I get it right.” Just this steady, shepherd-strong truth: You are with me.
And let’s be honest. There are hours when that’s the only promise we can cling to—and the only one we need.
The name He carries is not just “God Most High” or “Sovereign King”—though He is those, and more. But in the valley? In the waiting room, in the unemployment line, in the moment the phone rings with news that stops your heartbeat?
Then we need tender titles. Gentle names.
Shepherd.
Guide.
Protector.
That’s who He is. And He still is.
That night, Claire fell asleep with Psalm 23 open on her lap, the words like a blanket over her soul. The Shepherd hadn’t just calmed her fears. He’d stayed with her in them. Awake. Alert. Unshaken.
Maybe you need that reminder tonight.
There is a Shepherd who never sleeps.
And you’re still His sheep.
It was almost midnight when Claire heard the first creak. That slow, sideways groan of wood that shouldn’t be moving. She froze in bed, breath held like a cup she didn’t want to spill. Her husband was away on business. The house had never felt so hollow, or so loud.
Another noise. This one from downstairs. A soft shuffle, like something – or someone – brushing against the hallway wall.
Fear flooded her lungs. She reached for her phone with trembling fingers, unsure whether to dial a number or pray. Her mind raced: What if someone had broken in? What could she do? What would happen to her children asleep in the next room?
She didn’t know why it came to her just then—maybe it was childhood memory, maybe it was mercy—but Claire whispered aloud the words she hadn’t said in years: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
The words came soft at first, like a song remembered. “He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters.”
She kept going, her voice gaining ground against the fear. “He restores my soul. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” Her words paused there.
That’s exactly where she was, wasn't it? The valley of the shadow. That in-between place where danger feels real, and faith flickers like a candle in wind.
“...I will fear no evil, for You are with me. Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”
The house went silent again. No thumps. No creaks. Just the normal, blessed stillness of a home holding its breath. A few moments later, the furnace clicked on. The sound she’d feared was nothing more than air adjusting inside an old vent.
Claire exhaled, shaky but safe.
Centuries separate the psalmist’s words from our world of doorbell cameras and dead bolts. But the truth hasn’t moved an inch. “The Lord is my shepherd,” David wrote in Psalm 23, and John 10:11 tells us who that shepherd is: Jesus Himself. “I am the good shepherd,” He says; “the good shepherd lays down His life for the sheep.”
It’s not just poetic. Not just something carved onto memorial stones or printed in greeting cards. That verse is oxygen for anxious nights. Because it tells us this: we are never alone, and we are never unguarded.
A good shepherd doesn’t lose sight of his sheep. He doesn’t sleep through danger. He stays awake through every windstorm and watches through every hour. His rod defends, His staff directs. And when wolves come close, He steps forward—between them and us.
Not because we’re brave. Not because we never stumble. But because we belong to Him.
That’s what Claire remembered in the dark: not that she was brave, but that she was His.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the sting of aloneness. Maybe the night outside your window hums a little louder these days. Maybe the headlines, the diagnoses, the silence—they all tell you that danger is near and no one is coming.
But Someone has already come.
That whisper in the night? The Scripture rising up from somewhere deep? That’s Him. That’s the Shepherd who never forgets a single sheep. Not even the anxious, trembling ones who think they’ve lost their way.
And here's the pivot: the promise isn’t that we’ll never walk through valleys. It's that we’ll never go through them alone.
He doesn’t promise a life of green pastures only—but a presence in the shadow. "For You are with me," David says. No conditions there. No “if I believe hard enough” or “if I get it right.” Just this steady, shepherd-strong truth: You are with me.
And let’s be honest. There are hours when that’s the only promise we can cling to—and the only one we need.
The name He carries is not just “God Most High” or “Sovereign King”—though He is those, and more. But in the valley? In the waiting room, in the unemployment line, in the moment the phone rings with news that stops your heartbeat?
Then we need tender titles. Gentle names.
Shepherd.
Guide.
Protector.
That’s who He is. And He still is.
That night, Claire fell asleep with Psalm 23 open on her lap, the words like a blanket over her soul. The Shepherd hadn’t just calmed her fears. He’d stayed with her in them. Awake. Alert. Unshaken.
Maybe you need that reminder tonight.
There is a Shepherd who never sleeps.
And you’re still His sheep.
