Psalm 23:1-4

1 Yahweh is my shepherd: I shall lack nothing.

2 He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters.

3 He restores my soul. He guides me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

4 Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

World English Bible, public domain

A valley, a shepherd, and someone walking through the dark who is not walking alone. That is the heart of the first four verses of Psalm 23, and it is why so many people reach for this psalm in the weeks after someone they love has died.

This reflection is not medical advice; if you are in crisis, contact your local emergency services or a crisis line (in the US, call or text 988).

The psalm opens in a gentle place: green grass, quiet water, a shepherd who makes sure nothing is lacking. Then the path drops into “the valley of the shadow of death” (Psalm 23:4). The writer does not skip that part or pretend it is somewhere else. The valley is real. What changes is the company. Partway through, the psalm stops talking about the shepherd and starts talking to him directly, as if the darkness has drawn the speaker closer.

Grief often feels like that valley. Ordinary days carry a shadow. You might find you cannot pray the way you used to, or that the only honest prayer left is a name and a long silence. The psalm makes room for that. It does not ask you to feel peaceful first. It describes someone still walking, maybe still afraid of the dark, and still choosing to speak. Whether you trust that a shepherd is there or you honestly cannot tell right now, the valley is language you can borrow.

Picture a neighbor’s casserole dish sitting by your front door the week after the funeral, washed and waiting to go back. You keep meaning to return it. It holds two things at once: the kindness of someone who showed up, and the plain fact of why they needed to. Sometimes the tears come less from the loss itself than from a small beauty inside it, like that dish. You might write one line, such as “The dish is still by the door,” and find the rest of the page fills with what that week was really like.

The psalm also says “He restores my soul” (Psalm 23:3). Restoring is slow work. It does not mean the valley ends tomorrow, or that grief has a schedule. It can mean a meal, a walk, a night of sleep, a friend who sits with you and says very little.

Before you write

Choose one prompt below, not all of them, and let the writing be slow. Short sentences are fine. Tears on the page are fine too, and you can stop the moment you have had enough. When you want more to come back to, we keep a gathering of prompts for grief for the weeks and months ahead.

Journal prompts

  1. Describe your grief this week as a place you are walking through. What is the ground like under your feet, and how far ahead can you see?

  2. The psalm moves from green pastures into the valley with no warning. Write about the day your own path changed, as plainly as you can.

  3. Think of someone who walked beside you after your loss, even for an afternoon. What did they actually do, and what did it mean to you?

  4. Write a short, honest prayer from inside the valley. You might name what you are afraid of, what you miss most, or simply that you have no words today.

  5. The psalm speaks of a soul being restored. What, if anything, has felt even slightly restored lately, and what still feels empty?

  6. Some days comfort is hard to feel, and a shepherd may seem far away or not there at all. Who or what has kept you company in the dark anyway?

  7. Tears can come from beauty as well as loss. When did something kind or lovely make you cry recently, and what was it touching in you?

  8. Choose one small act of care for this week, for yourself or for someone else who is grieving. What will it be, and when will you do it?