A reflection between Psalm 23:5 and 23:6

There are seasons when Psalm 23 doesn’t feel like comfort—
it feels like confrontation.

The valley was hard enough.
The fear was real.
But the table?

The one God set “in the presence of my enemies”?

It feels like a setup.
Like He invited me to sit in a place I didn’t ask for—
and now expects me to be grateful for the bread.

To be grateful for the oil?

Grateful that the Shepherd showed up,
but didn’t stop the pain from coming?
Grateful for a meal I don’t have the appetite to eat?

No… I didn’t want the table.
I wanted the rescue.
I wanted vindication.
I wanted healing without humiliation.

And if I’m being honest…
some days, I still feel the sting.
Some days, the cup He fills just reminds me of the one I lost.

And deep down, a thought lingers:
Maybe “surely goodness and mercy” isn’t meant for me.
Maybe that promise is for the healed,
for the whole,
for the ones who made it through with their faith intact.

But He stays.

Not in a patronizing way.
Not with spiritual platitudes or pressure to smile.
He just… stays.

The table doesn’t wait for my faith to feel strong.
The table exists because He chose to prepare it.

And maybe that’s the beginning of healing—
not gratitude,
not clarity,
but presence.

The Shepherd doesn’t demand that I enjoy the feast.
He just invites me to sit.
To breathe.
To rest.

Even with clenched fists.
Even with unhealed wounds.

He anoints my head—not to make a scene—
but to protect what’s been exposed.
To soothe what’s been scraped raw by the valley.

I’m not ready for Psalm 23:6 yet.
But the table reminds me—even when I’m not ready,
He still comes.
He still claims.
He still sets the table.

And somewhere deep beneath the ache,
I know I need to claim the truth of verse 6—
that it is meant for me.
Not because of me.
But because of Him.

A Prayer for the One Who Resents the Table

Shepherd,
I know You’re here—
but part of me still doesn’t want to be.

I didn’t ask for this valley.
I didn’t ask for this table.
And I don’t know how to be grateful
for bread I didn’t want
and oil I didn’t feel ready to receive.

I confess it—
sometimes Your care feels too quiet.
Too slow.
Too late.

I’ve said You are good.
I’ve sung it.
I’ve taught it.
But lately, I’m not sure I believe it for me.

So I bring You what I have:
not praise,
not clarity,
just presence.

I’m sitting.
I’m tired.
I’m still here.

Teach me to receive, even when I don’t rejoice.
Teach me to trust, even while I ache.
And when I can’t chase after You,
remind me that goodness and mercy
still know how to find me.

Not because of me.
But because of You.

Amen.