9. On Psalm 6
She knocks at my office door, enters. She is the student who shows up far too infrequently to class, and in what little writing she has submitted, she gives just a glimpse of a life teetering on the brink of chaos.
“I wanted to recite psalm,” she says.
It is an assignment–memorize and recite ten psalms over the course of the semester. This is her first–somewhere at the midpoint of the semester, and considering her lack of work and attendance thus far, and our recent interventions to encourage her to come to class and to do the homework, I take this as a positive sign that she is making an effort to turn her semester around.
“Which one?"
“Psalm 6.” She is pretty and extremely bright. But her eyes have an omnipresent, weary sadness about them.
I flip to Psalm 6 in our textbook–The Message–so I can follow along as she recites.
1-2 Please, God, no more yelling, no more trips to the woodshed.
Treat me nice for a change;
I’m so starved for affection.
2-3 Can’t you see I’m black-and-blue,
beat up badly in bones and soul?
God, how long will it take
for you to let up?
4-5 Break in, God, and break up this fight;
if you love me at all, get me out of here.
I’m no good to you dead, am I?
I can’t sing in your choir if I’m buried in some tomb!
6-7 I’m tired of all this—so tired. My bed
has been floating forty days and nights
On the flood of my tears.
My mattress is soaked, soggy with tears.
The sockets of my eyes are black holes;
nearly blind, I squint and grope.
8-9 Get out of here, you Devil’s crew:
at last God has heard my sobs.
My requests have all been granted,
my prayers are answered.
10 Cowards, my enemies disappear.
Disgraced, they turn tail and run.
She does not stumble. She does not pause awkwardly searching for the right word. She recites flawlessly, as if she has written the words on her soul, and allowed me for just a moment to peer into it. It is beautiful.
“Wonderful!” I say, and she manages a half smile. I pause. “I like this psalm. Why did you choose it."
The sad eyes mist over, she glances at the floor, and then quickly back up.
“Because it’s exactly how I feel."
I take it she means especially the first seven verses. Now I fight back tears. “You keep praying that prayer,” I say. Then, as if to set her free from what must feel like confinement–the office of her professor–I say, “Thank you, for this. I needed to hear this psalm.” And she’s gone.
She does not make it to the end of the semester at my college, and I do not know where she is now. It wouldn’t be all that hard to find out, for we live in a world with Facebook, a world where virtually no one disappears forever anymore. I have thought of that day from time to time since then, but I had forgotten the psalm until this morning when I read it again and remembered and wanted to say to the sad eyed one, “I remember you, I have thought of you, I will pray for you."
And “Thank you.”