Thanksgiving Lessons From The Shepherd’s Psalm

How Off-Grid Gratitude Fills Empty Spaces

Looking out my cabin window on the Mississippi, where the wind moves over the river like an old hymn and the East River Bank here keeps its own stubborn time, gratitude doesn’t come quickly with parade floats or supermarket sales. Nope. It arrives slower, steadier… more like a sunrise than a holiday.

When November days are carved out of hard outside work and cold nights settle in around a fire you brought to life with your own hands, Thanksgiving stops being an event circled on a glossy wall calendar.

It becomes a muscle. A habit. A way of breathing.

And, along the river, uninsulated life… where weather, work, and God’s providence are the three legs your table stands on… the 23rd Psalm doesn’t read like a funeral passage. It reads like a field manual. A survival guide. A trail marker hammered into the soil by a Shepherd who actually knows the terrain.

Because God doesn’t sprinkle blessings like pocket change, He spreads big feasts… lavish, defiant feasts… right in the very places you expect to find emptiness, such as valleys, hard seasons, and cold fronts rolling in when your energy is low. The places where fear whispers and the coyotes howl from the treeline on the ridge.

But that’s where the Shepherd works best.

Because Thanksgiving… real Thanksgiving… isn’t about turkey.

It’s about trust.

A Table in the Wild

Alright, let’s get outside, so picture this: a long wooden table moved outdoors, straight into a clearing where frost bites your boots and the sky presses close. Maybe the wind hits your cheek hard and bites at your unzipped jacket. Maybe the pines creak overhead like an old cathedral roof stretching before dawn. It’s the kind of place where fog hangs low in the morning and every breath feels borrowed from a river that’s two miles wide- bottom line: table outside in the elements. Just trying to get you into David’s table concept: He’s basically having a nice meal while in Kenny Loggins’ danger zone.

“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”

Now, David could never have imagined a polite arrangement of napkins and silverware. He saw a feast planted smack in the middle of that danger… where wolves circle, darkness gathers, and nothing feels guaranteed. God doesn’t wait until the threats vanish. He sets the table anyway.

Every meal… whether it’s from venison that took a while to track, or some heirloom beans simmered over an old stove, or the last heel of sourdough you snacked on through the week… feels like a whisper of provision.

Not an accident.

Not luck.

Provision.

It’s all a reminder that you have not been forgotten, not abandoned, not left to the mercy of chaos and chance.

People in easier places talk about gratitude like it’s a polite nod before dessert, but when you’ve survived those “rub two nickels and hope they don’t fight” seasons… when your paycheck hits the bank and vanishes like it slipped down a storm drain… gratitude becomes a vital act of trust in God’s provision.

Gratitude becomes more than courtesy.

It becomes survival.

It becomes rebellion.

And strangely, it becomes joy.

When Prosperity Makes People Forgetful

Here’s a truth humanity never quite grows out of: we forget God fastest when our barns are full.

The Pilgrims saw it. The prophets saw it. Every generation relearns it the hard way.

If the fridge is full and life runs smoothly, the heart gets sleepy. Prosperity doesn’t automatically turn people grateful… it often turns them inward. Soft. Entitled. A little too impressed with its own reflection.

It’s like getting 99% of your Christmas list, then sulking because the last trinket didn’t show up.

But off-grid life… has a way of humbling you in all the right ways.

When the ground gives you one ripe tomato but frost steals the rest, you thank God for the one. When a neighbor drives up the lane offering a bucket of vegetables, you treat it like a sermon with a handle.

Prosperity may dull the heart.

Hardship sharpens it.

Gratitude grows best in soil that’s been plowed by adversity.

“I Shall Not Want”: The Shepherd’s Promise

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

Here’s a verse we rush past because we’ve heard it so often. But hold on. Stop for a second.

“I shall not want” doesn’t mean you never feel longing or have needs, but it affirms that you won’t lack what is essential because God’s timing and provision will meet those needs when the moment is right.

It doesn’t mean you never have needs.

It means you won’t lack what you consider to be essential.

It means nothing necessary for your soul, your purpose, your survival, or your journey will be withheld, because trusting God means believing He provides what is truly necessary for your well-being and growth.

And you understand this with startling clarity when the nearest Farm And Fleet is a long way away, and a supply run through Clinton, Iowa often feels like a voyage to another continent with your old truck. (I guess some of that is old age.)

The truth is, you start trusting God for things. But sometimes urban life teaches you to outsource things that can’t be outsourced: rain at the right time. Animals staying healthy. The last cord of firewood stretching through the cold in late March. Foraging seasons. All that.

You learn that provision isn’t just what drops existentially into your hands.

Provision is God’s timing.

Provision is His restraint.

Provision is the people He sends, the strength He gives, the instincts He sharpens.

Off-grid life teaches that “I shall not want” isn’t theory… it’s weathered truth.

Attributes of the Good Shepherd

Think about it… David wasn’t writing poetry from a hammock or a hot tub.

He was a guy who kicked the crap out of lions for messing with his sheep.

A man who stood in dark storms with nothing but a sling and calloused hands.

A man who slept under more stars than roofs.

He knew shepherding was dirty, even dangerous work. No glamour. No applause. Just grit, vigilance, and heart. Yet when he looked at God, he didn’t see a distant cosmic landlord. He saw Someone who leads with real hands and genuine care. David’s God is a Shepherd who doesn’t turn a blind eye to your struggles or overlook your wandering. Instead, He actively seeks you out, knowing your weaknesses, fears, and patterns better than you do yourself, walking with you every step of the way.

He knows your weaknesses, your patterns, your fears… better than you admit them secretly to yourself. And unlike the lists of things to do we draw up or the routines we trust, God doesn’t just point the direction. He walks it with you.

Green Pastures and Still Waters

There’s a certain peace that only appears after a storm. Maybe it’s a patch of green returning after a drought you thought would never break. Maybe it’s the sudden quiet of a big river like mine after days of wind, choppy waves, and whitecaps.  Sometimes the Mississippi here gets so calm it feels like God pressed His finger to the windy, watery chaos and whispered, “Be still.”

David’s “green pastures” aren’t manicured suburban lawns. His “still waters” aren’t spas.

They’re places where the soul can breathe again. They’re the moments when God leads you out of the frantic, the stressful, the seemingly unwinnable… and into rest that feels earned yet undeserved.

Where I grew up, sturdy old Lutheran farmers would tell you that rest isn’t a luxury. It’s a lifeline. And when it comes, you recognize it as a gift… too precise to be a coincidence.

Because God doesn’t just feed bodies. He restores souls.

Restoration in Rugged Places

“He restores my soul.”

If you’ve ever watched something break at the wrong time… a fence, a clutch, a water line, a relationship—you understand why the word “restore” matters.

Restoration is more than repair.

Repair patches a problem.

Restoration strengthens the whole frame.

It’s healing that reaches the roots.

It’s courage breathed back into tired bones.

It’s clarity after confusion.

It’s hope where there was once only grit-your-teeth survival.

And restoration… true restoration… is God’s specialty.

The Crooked Paths Are Still His Paths

“Lead me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.”

God leads. We follow. And the paths aren’t always straight.

Some twist through brambles. Some climb ridges where the wind tries to peel the breath out of your lungs.

Some drop into valleys you’d never choose. But here’s the thing: the sheep don’t always get the map. They get the Shepherd. And the Shepherd is good… so the path, however rough, becomes holy ground.

When the Shadow Valley Comes

Every life gets some shadows of death… some valleys. Loss. Fear. Illness. Financial strain.

Family fractures.

Long seasons where dawn feels late and night feels early. In those shadows, David shifts his language. He stops talking about God… and starts talking to Him.

“Thou art with me.”

In the valley, God isn’t a concept. He’s a companion.

Not a doctrine. A Presence.

When the furnace goes out when it’s twenty below.

When the weather turns on you.

When the ache in your chest won’t quiet down.

“Thou art with me” gives you the rope you hang on to when everything else shakes.

Rod and Staff: Comfort with a Few Edges

“Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me…”

Today, we all tend to sanitize these words, but shepherd tools were not cute props. They were weapons. Shepard’s crooks of necessity. Tools for protection. Tools for correction.

The rod beats back predators.

The staff pulls you back from cliffs you don’t even see.

God’s correction is comfort because it proves something vital:

You’re not abandoned.

You’re not ignored.

You’re worth intervening for.

Chased by Mercy… Carried by Goodness

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me…”

Okay, the Hebrew word for follow is fiercer.

It means “pursue.”

“Chase down.”

“Hunt with intention.”

God’s mercy isn’t passive.

His goodness isn’t shy.

If you have an  off-grid life… slow, honest, uninterrupted… you start spotting “goodness” everywhere… footprints in the dew of ordinary days.

Overflowing Cups in Lean Places

“My cup runneth over…”

David’s overflowing cup then – is a picture of outrageous abundance… clear spring water sloshing over the rim, flowing onto the ground, you know, more than you can carry.

Which makes no sense until you realize God’s blessings aren’t measured in rations.

Even when money is tight…

Even when food is simple…

Even when life is rough…

Faith, joy, wisdom, fellowship, peace… these don’t come by the spoonful.

They come poured pretty darn heavy.

The Ultimate Feast: God Himself

In the end, the greatest blessing in the Shepherd Psalm is not the green pastures or the oil or the table or the cup.

It’s God.

His presence.

His nearness.

His companionship.

Everything else is by-product and overflow.

And once you experience His presence in the quiet hours… beside a woodstove, under stars, between chores… you realize that the greatest abundance is Him.

Offering Thanks For All Our Abundance

So this Thanksgiving… whether your meal comes from a garden, a smoker, or a simple pot on the stove… remember this:

Those who walk with the Shepherd are already living in abundance.

Goodness behind them.

Mercy beside them.

Provision before them.

Strength within them.

Let gratitude spill over.

Let it run wild across your days.

Let it rise with the warmth of every supper and the light of every sunrise.

Not because life is easy.

Not because the table is full.

But because God… the Shepherd of your soul… is faithful, generous, and near.

That’s Thanksgiving’s essential message.

Source: https://www.offthegridnews.com/religion/thanksgiving-lessons-from-the-shepherds-psalm/