Still & Sustained
Psalm 3:1-5
Lord, how are they increased that trouble me! many are they that rise up against me.
Many there be which say of my soul, There is no help for him in God. Selah.
But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.
I cried unto the Lord with my voice, and he heard me out of his holy hill. Selah.
I laid me down and slept; I awaked; for the Lord sustained me.
The choir used to sing Psalm 3 at a church I attended years ago, and it has stayed with me ever since. At one point, I found a version by the Brooklyn Tabernacle on YouTube. It’s simple and repetitive, but there’s something powerful about it—key change after key change, building until it feels like you’re being lifted right out of anxiety and into freedom.
It makes me wonder: Is peace in the midst of the storm really possible?
If I’m honest… I’m not always sure. People often tell me I’m not alone, and I hear them—but sometimes I don’t feel it. Emotions can be convincing, even when they aren’t telling the truth.
When I look at Psalm 3, I realize David understood that tension deeply. He wasn’t writing from a place of comfort or calm. He was running for his life.
When I started digging into the backstory of this psalm, it honestly felt like something out of a soap opera or a Netflix drama.
David’s own son, Absalom, had turned against him. The story is accounted for in 2 Samuel 13-18. I highly encourage you to read it.
What began as family brokenness spiraled into betrayal and rebellion. After his sister Tamar was assaulted by their half-brother Amnon, Absalom’s bitterness took root. When David didn’t act decisively, Absalom took matters into his own hands, killing Amnon and fleeing into exile. Even after returning, the resentment didn’t fade—it grew.
Over time, Absalom carefully positioned himself as the better leader. He stood at the city gate, listening to people’s complaints, telling them he would bring justice if he were king. Slowly, intentionally, he “stole the hearts” of the people.
Eventually, he declared himself king, forcing David to flee Jerusalem to avoid bloodshed. What followed was full-scale civil war.
This wasn’t just political conflict.
This was deeply personal—a father being pursued by his own son.
And in the middle of all that chaos, David writes:
But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.
A shield.
His glory.
The lifter of his head.
David doesn’t ignore reality. He openly acknowledges the fear, the opposition, and even the voices saying God wouldn’t come through for him. But he chooses to anchor himself in something deeper than what he sees or feels.
And then comes the part that stops me every time:
I laid me down and slept; I awaked; for the Lord sustained me.
How do you sleep when your world is falling apart?
Maybe peace in the storm doesn’t mean the storm disappears. Maybe it means that somehow, in the middle of it, you are held. Sustained. Carried—even when your emotions are loud, and your circumstances feel overwhelming.
David’s story doesn’t end neatly. It ends in heartbreak. Absalom dies, and David mourns with raw, gut-wrenching grief: “O my son Absalom, my son, my son!”
Nothing about that situation was easy or clean.
And yet, David still chose to place his hope in God.
Honestly, that gives me comfort. Because it means peace isn’t reserved for perfect situations. It’s available right in the middle of messy, painful, complicated realities.
So maybe peace in the midst of the storm isn’t about having everything figured out.
Maybe it’s as simple—and as hard—as this:
A choice.
Laying down.
Closing your eyes.
And trusting that God will sustain you through the night…
Even when you don’t feel it yet.
Even when the grief is so heavy, you can’t think of anything else.
I wonder how much of our anxiety could be alleviated by simply making a choice…
to trust God.
To trust Him—right here, in the middle of the storm.
Sandy
