Psalm 91: God as refuge. shelter, protector

Meaning: God shelters and protects us when we are afraid, sick, or in deep trouble. The writers faith in the almighty God as his protector would carry him through all of life’s dangers and fears. This is a picture of how we should trust God – trading all our fears for faith in him, no matter how intense they may be. To do this we must “dwell” and “rest” with him. By entrusting ourself to is protection and pledging our daily devotion to him, we acknowledge that he will keep us safe.

Reflection: What does “safety” feel like in my body?

I don’t think I ever learned what safety was supposed to feel like. Not in that deep, marrow-level way where your body exhales without asking permission. Most of my life, my body has lived like a storm about to break—always scanning, always bracing, always waiting for impact. That’s what life long trauma will do to you, incase you didn’t know.

But when I sit still long enough to listen, I think “safety” in my body feels like quiet earth. Like when the wind stops for half a second and everything settles. It’s a calm mind that isn’t sprinting in ten directions. It’s hands that don’t shake. It’s breathing that doesn’t feel like work. It’s a soft hum instead of that wired electricity trauma leaves buzzing under my skin.

I feel it most when I’m alone. Not because my family is unsafe—God knows my husband and my kids are my heart—but because I don’t always trust myself to be safe for them. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a “something terrible might happen” way. Just in the way trauma steals your fuse and your softness. In the way mental illness can twist your tone or your reactions before you even realize it’s happening.

Sometimes I fly off the hinges. Say things too sharp, too loud, too heavy. I hate that. I can apologize immediately to my kids—it’s like my heart jumps out of my chest, reaching for them the second my voice cracks wrong. But with my husband… yeah, that’s still a battlefield I’m learning how to walk through without armor. My therapist says there’s a tangle of resentment toward men knotted up inside me, and I know she’s right. Healing those knots takes time. Takes patience. Takes more gentleness than I’ve learned to give.

When I’m alone, all that pressure drops away. I’m not measuring my words. I’m not trying to balance everyone’s emotions. I’m not scared of becoming the “mean mom” or the disconnected partner or the girl who gets overwhelmed too fast. When I’m alone, I’m not protecting anyone from me. I can just breathe. My shoulders fall. My heart slows. I can hear the tiny things—the hum of the fridge, birds outside, the way the light hits the floor. Life gets vivid in a way it doesn’t when I’m stuck in survival mode.

That’s safety.

But then there’s the hard truth: only about 40% of my life feels like that right now. The other 60%? It still feels like I’m climbing out of mud with a backpack full of old pain. So what do I do with that? Do I just keep going until therapy finally smooths the edges? Until the Lord finishes whatever quiet work He’s doing in me?

Honestly… yeah. Because the version of me from a few years ago didn’t feel any peace. None. Not a drop. So the fact that I can mark even pockets of safety now—that’s proof something inside me is shifting. Softening. Strengthening. Growing green again in places I thought were dead.

So I’ll keep going. I’ll keep doing the ugly work, the holy work, the gritty work. I’ll keep letting therapy unhook the old stories. I’ll keep letting God lay His hand over the scared parts of me. I’ll keep believing that one day safety won’t be a rare visitor—it’ll be home.

One day, I’ll feel safe everywhere. With others, with my family… but most importantly, with myself. That day is coming. I can feel the ground moving already.

XOXO, The Healing Wildflower