Creative Writing
The Lord is my Shepherd
Holy Spirit take my words and speak to each of us according to our needs.
We are still in the season of Easter, a season that insists that life can rise even where loss has taken root. In towns, such as Blaenavon, shaped by industry and then by its absence, the story of death and resurrection is not abstract. It is written into the history of its buildings, into changed the livelihoods of its communities, into the quiet endurance of people learning how to live differently.
Psalm 23, from today’s readings, speaks into this reality, not as a distant piece of pastoral poetic writing, but as a living promise: that God walks with us through decline and renewal alike, and that resurrection is not only a past event, but a present possibility. And so, today, I wanted to do something a little different and look at how that psalm maps our reality here today.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
The One who guides me is not absent in these streets of shuttered and changing shops and weathered brick. In a town that remembers its heritage, what it used to be, where work once gave rhythm and meaning, we are still held. Even when opportunity feels scarce and the future unsure, we are not abandoned to lack.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
In a place where green spaces are reclaimed from old rail lines and factory grounds, rest does not always come easily. Yet there are moments in quiet parks, the hush of the lakes, a bench beneath a grey sky, where we are invited to pause. Stillness becomes an act of resistance against the noise of worry and the pressure to keep going when weary.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Among stories of decline, addiction, and struggle, there are also stories of renewal. Community groups, food banks, neighbours who look out for one another, signs of a deeper restoration. We are called not only to be healed but to walk a path that brings healing to others, even when the road feels uphill.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.
There are valleys around here: empty factories, broken systems, lives marked by loss. The shadow lingers in unemployment, in strained households, in quiet despair. But even here, we are not alone. Presence, both divine and human, meets me in the darkest places, refusing to let fear have the final word.
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Guidance does not always feel gentle. Sometimes it comes as challenge, as truth spoken plainly, as a nudge toward change. Structures that support through mentors, leaders, and community champions, steady us when we might otherwise fall. Discipline and care are not opposites; together they shape a way forward.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.
In the midst of scarcity, tables are still set. Shared meals, community kitchens, acts of generosity defy the narrative of ‘not enough’. Even where division, resentment, or hardship exist, there are glimpses of abundance that cannot be taken away.
Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Dignity and pride is not erased by circumstance. Every person carries worth beyond economic value. In places, often overlooked, there is still blessing. Creativity, resilience, humour, and hope spill over in unexpected ways.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
Not every day feels good, and mercy can seem in short supply. Yet, again and again, kindness appears; in a neighbour’s help, in a stranger’s smile, in the persistence of those who refuse to give up on making this place welcoming and thriving. Goodness may be quiet, but it is stubborn.
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
This town, with all its scars and stories, can once again become a dwelling place of grace. Not because everything is fixed, but because presence abides here. In community, in compassion, in shared endurance, there is a glimpse of something eternal. A home that cannot be lost.
Easter tells us that the story does not end in the valley. The stone is rolled away, not only from a tomb long ago, but from every place where hope has been buried. In towns that have known loss, resurrection may not arrive all at once but it comes in signs: in people who stay, in lives rebuilt, in courage that refuses to disappear.
Psalm 23 becomes, then, not just a comfort, but a quiet defiance and a declaration that here, especially, life is being restored.
Risen Christ,
You walk our streets as surely as you walked from the tomb.
Where there is weariness, breathe new life.
Where there is loss, plant the seeds of hope.
Where there is fear, stand beside us in the valley.
Shepherd of our lives,
Lead us through what has been,
into what can yet be.
Restore what is broken in us and among us,
Until this place, and its people,
Bear witness to your resurrection life.
Amen.