Easter Hope in the Arghandab Valley—A reflection on Psalm 121
contributed by Reggie Fuller
Every year around this time, my mind drifts to the celebrations of Holy Week that I’ve experienced. Especially the one where my life was being threatened. I, along with a small contingent from my infantry unit, had been on patrol for about a week in the Arghandab Valley in Afghanistan. As the sun began to rise on that Easter morning, I thought of my wife and knew that she would be driving to church to rejoice in the risen Christ. I wanted to be home. I was nearing the end of a lengthy military career. I was weary and anxious. I was ready for the next installment of God’s plan for my life.
“I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come?” Psalm 121:1
In a place like the Arghandab Valley, the hills are not just scenery. They are places of vigilance, danger, and memory. You scan them because you have to. You remember what came from them. Peril is both expected and yet still unexpected. Pilgrims heading to Jerusalem could certainly relate to threats, and the Psalm meets us right there, not by denying fear but by redirecting it.
“My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” Psalm 121:2
This Psalm is not a cliché reassurance; it is a reorientation of reality. The psalmist does not look inward for strength, nor outward to circumstances for control. He looks upward to a sovereign, covenant-keeping God.
This redirection matters deeply for the soul shaped by trauma, anxiety, or moral injury.
Because what Psalm 121 confronts is the illusion of self-sufficiency:
If I stay alert enough, I’ll be safe.
If I manage my thoughts perfectly, I won’t spiral.
If I carry this alone, I can control it.
Nice try, but Scripture gently dismantles that:
“He who keeps you will not slumber.” (v. 3)
You are not the one holding everything together. God is.
And then Easter speaks.
The resurrection of Christ is the ultimate proof that the Keeper of Israel does not fail. The God who “does not sleep” watched over His Son, even through death and separation from Himself, and raised Him in power. That means your safety is not defined by what you can prevent, but by what God has already secured.
In counseling terms, this reshapes both fear and identity:
Fear is no longer ultimate—it is real, but it is not sovereign.
Control is exposed as limited—but you are not abandoned.
Identity is no longer “the one who must hold it together,” but “the one who is kept.”
Not partially. Not temporarily. Not dependent on your performance.
“The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forevermore.”