Many years ago, I spent my summer babysitting a three-year
old and a seven-year old. And one day I took them to the pool. I don’t remember
what happened to make the three-year old, a little girl with long curly blonde
hair, erupt in tears. I just know that once she started wailing, I picked her
up. But she was so upset, she interpreted my arms as punishing ones. She
thought I was trying to constrain her, when I wanted to comfort her. I knew she
couldn’t calm herself down, and yet holding her was only making it worse. As
her cries became shrieks, I started to sing. Softly, in her ear. And she
started to settle down. The arms that had been a prison to her became what they
were meant to be, an embrace. She lay her head on my chest and cried for a bit
until she finally felt better. And then I let her go.

As I read over Psalm 23 today, I remembered that little girl
crying by the side of the pool. And I remembered scooping her up into my arms.
Her resistance. My insistence. And eventually, her willingness to receive my
care for her.

I wonder whether David wasn’t a lot like that little girl. I
know I am.

It’s a famous Psalm, with soothing words and beautiful
imagery. But I’m always struck by the beginning of the second verse:

He makes me lie down in green pastures.

He makes me lie down.

He makes me.

The verbs change from there. The action moves from he makes
me to he leads me to he restores me to he guides me. But it starts with God
forcing the Psalmist to take a rest, and it implies that the Psalmist couldn’t
“lie down” without God’s intervention. Only once he has rested can he move
forward with the presence of God as a guide, a healer, a protector, a living
hope.

So I have to ask myself, in what ways is God forcing me to
lie down, to receive his embrace, that I might rise up and walk forward
refreshed, restored? And so I pray, knowing that it might feel like a
straightjacket at first, Lord, make me
lie down.