Peace in the Boat — Learning to Stay in the Captain’s Care

  “You will keep him in perfect peace,
whose mind is stayed on You,
because he trusts in You.” — Isaiah 26:3 (NKJV)

The older I get, the more I realise that peace is not something I can manufacture. It isn’t achieved by controlling what’s happening around me. And it isn’t something I lose accidentally. Peace is a gift, a promise — and a spiritual armour. It’s something I can only keep when I let go of trying to be the god of my own world.

I’ve come to see peace like the hull of a boat. When the storms come — and they do — it’s not the weather that determines whether I sink or float. It’s the strength of the hull. That hull, for me, is peace. Not emotional calm, not positive thinking, but the deep, stable, protective peace of Christ.

But peace can be given away.

I give it away whenever I step into the captain’s chair — when I start acting like the ship is mine to control, defend, or steer. That’s when fear, pride, anger, and anxiety rush in through the cracks. Not because peace failed me — but because I stepped outside of its shelter.

Here’s the truth I’m learning:

I am not the captain.
This is not my boat.
These are not my storms to calm.
And I am not in charge of keeping myself afloat.

Jesus is the Captain.
Jesus is the Owner of the boat.
Jesus is the Protector, the Provider, and the Teacher on board.

My security is found in surrender — not in control.

When Jesus is the Captain, I don’t have to fight for position, defend my worth, prove my value, or manage the outcome. I’m a crew member on His ship. My job is to respond to His direction, obey His voice, and trust His care. And that — simply being faithful to Him — is where peace is found.

Whether I’m misunderstood, criticised, or even hurt by someone on board, it doesn’t change my place in the crew. The One who determines my worth is the One who called me — the One who gave Himself for me — the One who commands both the wind and my heart.

And then there’s this:

This boat I’m in isn’t alone. It’s part of a flotilla — a fleet. A gathering of lives, families, and churches, each with its own waves, but all directed by the same Commander.

In my boat, Jesus is the Captain — close enough to calm the storm, steady my breath, and teach my heart.

But over the whole fleet — every vessel in every sea — He is the Admiral of Heaven. He commands the mission, charts the course, and governs the tides.

I don’t just belong to Him.

I belong to something bigger than myself.

And that, too, is peace.

“And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds                 through Christ Jesus.”

— Philippians 4:7 (NKJV)

Being Understood — Seeing from the Other Side

 

“Let each of you look out not only for his own interests, but also for the interests of others.”

— Philippians 2:4 (NKJV)

My supervisor and friend once told me a story that’s stayed with me.

A man was standing on a riverbank when someone on the opposite side called out,

“Can you tell me how to get to the other side?”

The man smiled and replied, “You are on the other side.”

I’ve often thought about that story, and how it captures the difference between seeing and understanding. From where each man stood, the other side meant something completely different. Both were right — and both were wrong — depending on where they were standing.

It’s such a simple story, yet it speaks to the heart of empathy. We can hear the same words, see the same scene, even share the same storm, yet still feel worlds apart if we’re each looking from our own side.

When I think about it in the context of the boat, I imagine a couple sitting at opposite ends. The waves rise, the wind changes, and each one rows harder in their own direction, believing they’re moving toward calm. But from where they sit, the other seems to be rowing against them. Neither realises they’re turning the boat in circles.

In moments like that, I imagine Jesus sitting quietly between them. He doesn’t take sides. He doesn’t even tell them who is right. Instead, He gently turns their faces toward one another and says, “You’re already in the same boat — just try seeing from where they sit.”

Understanding often begins there — not with the words we say, but with the perspective we’re willing to see from. Sometimes the greatest act of love is to pause rowing, look across the boat, and realise that what feels like opposition might simply be the other side of the same experience.

The more I reflect on this, the more I see that being understood and understanding are not two separate shores we must cross between, but one continuous flow of grace where Christ meets us in the middle. The river that divides is the same water that carries both sides, and His presence stills it.

“For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face.”

— 1 Corinthians 13:12 (NKJV)

Learning to Understand

  “Then He opened their understanding, that they might comprehend the Scriptures.”

— Luke 24:45 (NKJV)

If being understood brings such peace, then learning to understand others must be one of the most loving things we can do.

When I think about it, understanding doesn’t begin with knowledge. It begins with presence — with choosing to stay long enough to see beyond words. I’ve noticed this in counselling, in marriage, even in conversation with friends: real understanding rarely happens quickly. It grows through quiet attentiveness, through noticing what isn’t being said as much as what is.

I  think about how the Lord understands me. He listens without interruption, discerns without condemning, and waits until I’m ready to hear truth. That is the kind of understanding that changes people. It isn’t agreement or correction, but the patient holding of another person’s heart until fear begins to settle.

Sometimes I see glimpses of that in ordinary life. With Laddie, it’s in the stillness — a look, a small movement, a shared peace that says, “I’m with you.” With Sunshine, it’s in the patience of waiting for her to return, learning her patterns rather than trying to control them. In both, understanding comes not through demand but through consistency.

Perhaps understanding others begins when we stop needing them to be like us. When we make room for difference and allow space for another’s way of seeing. It is, in its truest form, an act of grace.

In the boat with Jesus, the disciples were still learning to understand Him. They knew His power but not yet His heart. Even after the storm was calmed, they asked, “Who can this be?” Understanding took time — but He stayed with them, teaching by presence more than by explanation.

So I’m realising that understanding others is less about insight and more about imitation — learning from the One who understands perfectly. When I slow down enough to listen, when I allow the Spirit to shape my reactions rather than my pride, I catch a glimpse of how He sees.

And when that happens, the boat feels calmer again.

“Therefore comfort each other and edify one another, just as you also are doing.”

— 1 Thessalonians 5:11 (NKJV)

Navigating the Storm — The Need for Understanding

 

“With all your getting, get understanding.”

— Proverbs 4:7 (NKJV)

Over recent days, I’ve been aware that much of life seems to turn on the simple yet profound desire to be understood. In conversation, in silence, in moments of tension or calm — that need surfaces again and again. When we are understood, we rest. When we’re not, we struggle.

It reminds me of being in a boat with others. We may share the same vessel, the same direction, and the same waves — yet if we don’t truly understand one another, it can still feel lonely and uncertain. Misunderstanding creates distance even in the closest of spaces. The waters feel rougher when we cannot read one another’s hearts.

With Laddie (on the right), whose hearing has faded so much now, I’ve discovered that understanding doesn’t depend on sound. Our communication has shifted to something quieter — gestures, looks, and shared knowing. Over time, this silent understanding has brought a deeper peace between us than words ever could.

Then there’s Sunshine (on the left). When she races off unexpectedly, I sometimes feel a flicker of anxiety — not knowing what she’ll do next. But the more often she returns, the more trust grows. Familiarity replaces fear. Understanding begins to take root.

I see the same truth in human life. Much of our unease — the frustration, the distance, the sadness — springs from feeling misunderstood. We long for someone to know us, to grasp what we mean, to hear what we can’t quite express. And though we glimpse that sometimes in others, the only one who truly understands us completely is God.

He sees the motives beneath our mistakes, the longing beneath our anger, the hope beneath our silence. His understanding reaches where no human understanding can. When we rest in that, the storm inside us begins to calm.

Understanding, then, is not something we possess but something we receive. It is the quiet assurance that God knows us fully and loves us still. In that knowledge, we find the peace to sit again in the boat — with Him, with others, and with ourselves.

“The peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”

— Philippians 4:7 (NKJV)

Focusing on the Leader of the Armada

 

“Looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith…”

— Hebrews 12:2a (NKJV)

I picture myself in my small but steady boat again, sailing as part of a great Armada. There’s life and movement all around — some of it calm, some of it hostile. I see leaders toward the front. Some speak words of warning; others stir for action. And I find myself wondering:

What am I called to do in all this?

The answer that rises first is this: focus on Jesus.

That’s easy to say and harder to live. What does it mean to “look unto Jesus” when the seas around us are turbulent and the voices from other boats are loud?

First, it means knowing His heart well enough to discern the fruit of what’s around me. Not fully — I can’t understand everything. But there’s enough revealed in His Word and His ways to help me see what belongs to Him. If something produces good fruit, it’s from Him. If it draws out bitterness or fear, it’s not.

That means Scripture isn’t just ancient truth — it’s ongoing guidance. The Bible was the anchor Jesus Himself used when He came in the flesh, and it’s the same treasure He’s given us today, to keep us steady and discerning in the storm.

So I don’t need to see every ship. I don't need to lead the front. I just need to hold my post, to listen, and to live from the stability of knowing who is in the boat with me. And that’s where peace begins.

When I fix my eyes on Him, I know when to speak and when to pray, when to move and when to wait. I don’t need to understand the whole strategy of the Armada — only to follow the Captain of my soul.

“My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me.”

— John 10:27 (NKJV)

Through Jesus, Not Just With Him

 

“I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing.” John 15:5 (NKJV)

There’s a growing urgency in the world right now, especially here in the UK. A sense that we’re being pushed toward a fight — culturally, spiritually, perhaps even physically. And many are calling for action. For a revolution, even.

But as I sat with this idea — and with the word “revival,” which features heavily in my own writing — I felt a quiet caution rise up. A reminder that even good words can be emptied out by overuse, and even good action can be emptied out of power when it begins in us rather than in God.

Revolution is what we do.

Revival is what God does.

And yet, this doesn’t mean we sit passively by while the world burns. There is a call to act — to stand, speak, resist, and sometimes even to fight. But the order matters. The direction matters. The source matters.

If we rush into the storm in our own strength, shouting “Jesus, come with me!”, we’ve already begun the battle without Him. But if we draw close to Him first, and stay there, and move only when He moves — then what we do is not simply resistance, it becomes obedience. Not striving, but alignment.

That’s the difference between saying:

“I’m going to the fight for Jesus,”

and saying:

“I’m going through Jesus to wherever He’s asking me to stand.”

This matters, because if revival is something God does, then our part is not to make it happen, but to prepare the soil — in our own hearts, in our communities, in how we stand and pray and speak. We can resist evil, yes, but we do so in Him, not just for Him.

It’s easy in times like this to feel the pressure to do something, to take up arms whether physical or ideological, to react to the darkness. But the harder invitation is to first take up closeness — to listen, to yield, to obey, and then to move. Not dragging Jesus behind us, but staying tethered to the One who knows the way through the storm.

Revolution is urgent and loud.

Revival is deep and rooted.

One burns fast. The other grows slowly — but shakes nations.

I don’t know yet how or whether I’ll share this publicly. But I know I need it as a reminder for myself — that every action begins with presence, that every battle begins in His shadow, and every call to stand must be answered from a place of being rooted in Him.

May God give us the wisdom to discern the difference.

And the courage to stay close as He leads us into the heart of whatever is coming.

“You will not need to fight in this battle. Position yourselves, stand still and see the salvation of the Lord, who is with you…” 2 Chronicles 20:17 (NKJV)

Keeping My Boat in Order — The Strength of the Armada

 

“Be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart, all you who hope in the Lord.”

— Psalm 31:24 (NKJV)

I was thinking about Christian Concern, the Free Speech Union, and others standing for truth in a world that no longer welcomes it. I was thinking about people like Wayne Broadhurst — an ordinary man walking his dog — and about the Darlington nurses who stood by their convictions and paid a heavy price.

Each, in their own way, faced the front edge of the storm. And as I thought about them, I found myself asking: what should I do? how should I be at this time?

The storm isn’t coming — it’s already here. The waves are high, the winds are fierce, and I can feel the strain on the ropes that hold my little boat together. Some of the damage I see is from within — old cracks I haven’t fixed. Some is from without — unexpected blows and hard winds that come without warning.

Still, I sense the Lord reminding me: keep your boat in order. Check the sails of faith. Mend what’s torn. Calm the crew within. Before I can help another boat, I must make sure mine will stay afloat. Before I can speak peace to another, I must let His peace rule in me.

We are already in the battle, but the Captain is still at the helm. My part is to stay faithful in the waters where He has placed me. Yet I don’t think this is only about looking inward. It’s about looking both ways — inward and outward at the same time.

If I only look inward, I lose sight of others. If I only look outward, I neglect what God has entrusted to me. The balance is in doing both — tending my own vessel and keeping watch for those sailing nearby. That, I think, is what faithfulness looks like in these days.

The Call to Fellowship

An Armada is not a collection of perfect ships but of faithful ones. Each boat matters. When one struggles, the others draw near. When one is struck, others help to steady it.

The strength of the Armada isn’t in its size or power but in how well we stay connected — how willing we are to look out for one another. We speak truth into each other’s storms. We pray for those whose sails are torn. We offer encouragement to those drifting. And when we can do no more, we stay close. Sometimes presence itself is grace.

So I tend my boat, and I keep watch for those around me. Both are acts of obedience. Both are ways of saying to the Captain, “Here I am, still in formation.”

Different Waters, One Purpose

Not all are called to the same waters. Some sail on the front edge where the waves break hardest. Others chart the course ahead. Some hold formation in the middle — carrying encouragement and prayer for those who grow weary.

None of these callings are lesser or greater. The one who prays unseen is as vital as the one who stands in public view. The one who quietly steadies another’s heart is as needed as the one who speaks boldly.

Our task is not to compare positions but to stay faithful in our own — repairing what’s broken, offering help where we can, and holding our line with courage. When each of us keeps our boat steady and our eyes open to those around us, the Armada becomes strong indeed.

Holding the Line

Some at the front face the fiercest winds; others at the back repair and pray. The Armada only moves forward when we all hold the line together.

We hold it by staying true to Christ.

We hold it by speaking truth in love.

We hold it by keeping our sails trimmed and helping to lift another’s when they falter.

Faithfulness isn’t always loud or heroic. Sometimes it’s found in steady obedience — in prayer, perseverance, kindness, and courage to stand where God has placed us.

So I will keep my boat in order.

I will lift my eyes to those sailing beside me.

I will not drift into isolation, nor drown in self-concern.

I will stand my watch and lend my strength when others grow tired.

We sail not alone.

We sail under the command of Christ — the Captain of our salvation, whose light still cuts through every storm. And when the sea grows dark and the horizon disappears, His voice remains:

“Take courage. It is I; do not be afraid.”

“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.”

— Galatians 6:2 (NKJV)