Psalm 3 Knows What Anxiety Sounds Like

Photo by Ayo Ogunseinde on Unsplash

“You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.”— Maya Angelou

Here’s the theme of Psalm 3 spoken like we were thinking and praying it today:

There are mornings when you wake up already tired. Before your feet even hit the floor, you can feel the weight —the worries, the whispers, the stuff you thought you’d shaken off yesterdaybut somehow crawled back onto your shoulders overnight.

That’s the kind of day Psalm 3 understands.

“Lord, how many are my foes.”Or in my language: Okay, God… it feels like everything is coming at me at once.

People around me have opinions. People inside me have opinions. And not all of them are kind.

Some days, a little voice says, “There’s no help for you.”And I almost believe it.

But then something steadies inside me —not loud, not flashy —just a gentle strength that feels like it comes from somewhere deeperthan the noise.

“You, O Lord, are a shield around me.”Not the kind of shield that blocks me from living my life, but the kind that reminds me: I’m not walking through any of this alone.

My head lifts — not because I’m impressive, not because I finally figured everything out —but because Love keeps nudging my chin upwardwhen all I want to do is stare at the dirt.

And David says he cried out to Godand God answered from His holy mountain.

I get that. Most of my prayers don’t sound spiritual. They sound like, “Help.”“Please.”“Can we not do today like this?”And somehow that’s enough.

Then this line hits me like a deep breath after holding it too long: “I lay down and slept; I woke again, for the Lord sustained me.”

Sleep isn’t small. Waking up is grace. Being held through the night — even when my thoughts run wild —that’s mercy.

So I say to myself, “I don’t have to fear the ten thousand thingstrying to run circles in my mind.”

Arise, Lord. Not like a warrior charging out with fireworks —but like the quiet courage You tend to place in mewhen I think I’ve run out.

You break the hold of the lies I’ve believed. You silence the voice that keeps telling me I’m on my own.

Salvation belongs to the Lord. But the blessing? That lands right here —on the ordinary, messy, hopeful people trying to live another day.

And that includes me. And you.

© Gary L. Ellis