A hungry baby is all fists and frantic mouth — a small machine for getting fed. A weaned child on the same lap is a different creature: two years old, done crying, cheek against collarbone, heavy and warm. The lap didn't change. The child did. It stopped demanding and stayed anyway. Weaning, from the child's side, was not gentle. There was protest. It's over now.

That's the whole psalm. The writer doesn't claim answers. He says the opposite: some matters are too great for me, and I've stopped working them. Not because they got resolved — because he put them down. "I have stilled and quieted my soul." It's a verb. Something he did, on purpose, probably more than once.

You have questions that won't close. Whether you chose right. Whether the person you lost is anywhere at all. You can keep grinding at them tonight, or you can be the older child: still close to the mystery, no longer demanding it feed you on schedule. Quiet isn't the prize for figuring everything out. It's what becomes possible once you admit you won't.