The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul; He guides me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You have anointed my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and lovingkindness will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.
— Psalm 23 (NASB)
We often read "green pastures" and imagine a vacation brochure—a gentle invitation to relax. But the text uses a specific Hebrew phrasing for "makes me lie down." It implies necessary intervention. In the world of animal husbandry, sheep are notoriously high-strung. It is almost impossible to get them to lie down. They can be exhausted, stumbling with fatigue, but they will still stand and pace if everything isn't perfect. They need to feel safe from predators, free from friction with other sheep, clear of pests, and their bellies must be full. If one thing is off, they will not rest.
Because sheep are rarely smart enough to find this equilibrium on their own, the Shepherd often has to curate the environment for them. And sometimes, when the sheep is particularly stubborn—or perhaps just driven by a misguided sense of duty—the Shepherd has to physically intervene.
In 2019, right near the beginning of the pandemic, my wife Gina and I both clearly heard God tell us that He was bringing us into a "season of rest." I heard the word, but I didn't listen to the intent. I was a man in motion. I was serving heavily in the church, carrying the weight of the youth ministry—making sure the Word was brought on Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday evening. I was working at the USGS. I was trying to meet the needs of my family. I was so busy pouring out for everyone else that my own hobbies—the woodshop, the things that usually ground me—sat gathering dust. I assumed "rest" meant a spiritual deep breath, or maybe a lighter schedule. I didn't realize it was an eviction notice from my normal life.
It started on a Sunday night. My son Arch and I both fell ill. By Tuesday, we went for testing. Arch tested positive for COVID—he was legitimately sick—but I tested negative. Because of his diagnosis, the whole house was locked down for quarantine. We assumed my test was a false negative and that the virus was just working its way through me. But the pain wasn't respiratory; it was gut-wrenching. I spent the night moaning in agony until Gina finally made the call. At 6:00 AM the next morning, she drove me to the emergency room.
This is where the reality of the pandemic protocols hit us. She pulled up to the curb, but she wasn't allowed to get out. She couldn't walk me in. She couldn't advocate for me. She had to watch her husband, who was doubled over in pain, shuffle through the automatic doors alone. As she drove away, she had no idea what was happening inside. A terrifying thought nagged at the back of her mind: Is this the last time I’m going to see him alive?
Inside, the diagnosis was immediate. It wasn't COVID. My appendix had ruptured, likely three days prior. My body was septic. They rushed me into surgery, and suddenly, the lights went out.
I spent the next three weeks in that hospital. No visitors. No family. Just nurses checking vitals and bringing food. And then, once I was released, the family passed COVID around to the degree that we spent four months in total quarantine. God had prescribed rest, and then He made it happen.
Looking back, I realize why He had to be so drastic. I was that sheep who refused to lie down. I realized that the four things that keep a sheep awake were the very things driving my life in 2019, and God had to systematically remove them.
I couldn't rest because of Fear. Like a sheep worried about the wolf in the shadows, I carried a constant, low-level anxiety about managing the future. What if things fall apart? What if I’m not there to fix it? By placing me in a hospital bed where I physically couldn't protect my wife or care for my sick son, God forced me to realize that He was the Shepherd, not me. He removed my ability to be the sentry so I could finally sleep.
I couldn't rest because of Friction. In a flock, this is often about dominance, but for me, it was the friction of obligation. It was the constant rubbing of competing needs—the youth group, the job, the family. I felt the weight of being the provider, the teacher, the one who made sure everyone else was spiritually fed. I was so busy feeding the flock that I was starving myself. In that hospital room, the demands ceased. The youth group went on without me. The work waited. The friction of being "essential" was removed, and I realized the world turns just fine without my hand on the wheel.
I couldn't rest because of Pests. These were the daily annoyances, the to-do lists, the constant buzzing of responsibilities that kept my head twitching. In the hospital, those were stripped away. I didn't have to fix the cars that broke down while I was gone. I didn't have to mow the lawn. The Shepherd applied the oil of isolation to keep the flies away.
And finally, Hunger. I had been hungry for completion, trying to satisfy myself by finishing every task and meeting every need. But in that bed, unable to do anything, I found I was still sustained.
From the outside, 2019 looked like a disaster for our family. But honestly? Aside from the hospital food, it was the best vacation I have ever had. I experienced a supernatural peace that surpasses all comprehension. The burden of being the Provider was crushed under the weight of the circumstance, and all that was left was a son, finally lying down in the green pasture, totally dependent on the Shepherd to keep the world spinning.
He made me lie down. It wasn't a punishment; it was a rescue. He broke my self-reliance to save my sonship.
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