The Fleet, the Ocean, and the Four Kinds of Hearts

 

“He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”

Matthew 13:9 (NKJV)

This morning’s reading from the Psalms set me thinking again about the difference between ignorance and wickedness. Scripture warns against arguing with the wicked, yet I often assume that people speak out of ignorance rather than malice. Most of the time, though, I can sense the difference. The Spirit gives a quiet discernment of the heart behind the words. Some people are searching. Others are resisting.

But it is not only a matter of two kinds of people. Jesus’ parable of the sower reveals four kinds of ground, and that has helped me understand the hearts I meet far better. The seed of truth falls everywhere, yet only one quarter of it bears fruit. Even so, three quarters receive something of the seed. There is often some hope, some glimpse, some chance to grow.

The Ocean and the Armada

I picture humanity as a great ocean where everyone sets sail. The ocean has its own laws, with currents, winds, and storms that cannot be ignored. Within that sea, God calls us to join His Armada, to sail under the command of Christ. Within the fleet there is real freedom in how we trim the sails and how we steer, yet the boundaries of the ocean itself remain God’s. When we sail within His course, the journey, though rarely calm, is purposeful.

Freedom without those boundaries would destroy us. Choice and responsibility are what keep us seaworthy. God does not force anyone to join His fleet, but He invites all who will to travel under His protection. Even beyond the Armada, the Captain’s voice still carries across the waves.

Four Responses to the Captain’s Call

Some hearts are hardened. The Pharisees and the leaders of the Sanhedrin were like ground packed down over time. They knew the Scriptures, yet resisted the living Word standing before them. Pride and fear had flattened their hearts. Jesus spoke truth to them plainly, but when they refused to hear, He often walked away. Truth was never shouted. It stood firm and calm.

Other hearts are shallow and impulsive. Judas may belong here, one who responded quickly but without root. The crowds who cried “Hosanna” one week and “Crucify” the next also stand on rocky soil. Jesus met these people not with argument, but with invitation. “Come and see.” He offered encounter rather than explanation, experience rather than debate.

Some hearts are crowded and distracted. The rich young ruler, Martha, and some of my clients live here. They believe, yet still try to steer their own boat. Jesus exposed their thorns gently, not to condemn but to free. He looked at them and loved them before speaking the hard truth. My calling with such people is not to yank out weeds, but to help them see what is choking growth.

Then there is the good ground. Simon Peter represents this heart. He stumbled, misunderstood, and wept bitterly, yet he always returned. Jesus taught him patiently, challenged him honestly, and restored him tenderly. This is the heart that hears, obeys, and bears fruit.

Speaking Truth Without Fighting the Wind

When Jesus encountered hardened hearts, He did not shout. He spoke once, clearly, and allowed silence to do its work. He refused to be drawn into battles of pride. He asked questions that revealed motives, and when hearts closed, He withdrew.

To speak truth without confrontation is to stand where He stood, firm, unflustered, and faithful. Truth carries its own weight. It does not need anger to make it heard. I am learning that walking away can sometimes be obedience rather than weakness.

So I will keep sowing the seed, watching the seas, and steering within His Armada. The Captain knows every current, every storm, every sailor. My task remains simple. To sail faithfully, to speak gently, and to let Him steer the rest.

“The Lord will guide you continually,

and satisfy your soul in drought.”

Isaiah 58:11 (NKJV)

Untangled, Not Replaced — Grace That Restores Responsibility

 

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.”

— 2 Corinthians 5:17 (NKJV)

I was talking recently with a client whose son, a recovered addict, had been criticising his father for not “changing.” The son was trying hard to be a different person, believing that following Christ meant leaving the old version of himself behind completely. My client and I spoke about that, and I shared something that God has been showing me for a while, the difference between being tangled and untangled.

The truth is, I am the same person I was before Christ, but my life has been untangled in relationship with Him. The thread is the same, but the knots are being loosened by His patient, loving hands.

When Paul wrote that we are “a new creation,” he didn’t mean that God replaces us with a better model. He meant that our old state of separation, our guilt, alienation, and self-reliance, passes away, and our life is now reconnected to its source. We are the same person, but now we live in Christ instead of apart from Him.

So often, though, people hear new creation as new identity in the sense of new person, and they start striving to become someone else entirely. They try to erase their past and sometimes even reject who they’ve been. It sounds holy but ends up producing something false, a self that’s disowned rather than redeemed.

And here’s where another danger creeps in: when we believe that being renewed means the old self is gone, we may also stop taking responsibility for what that old self did. We can end up using grace as a kind of amnesty for reflection, avoiding our own story rather than letting Christ redeem it.

But forgiveness doesn’t erase accountability. It removes the shame that stops us facing it. Christ’s untangling doesn’t happen to us while we sit still; it happens with us as we begin to face the knots He puts His hand on. His grace removes fear, not responsibility.

My client saw this clearly as we talked. His son’s drive to be different was understandable, but the Father’s heart is for us to be restored. When we try to become someone new, we may avoid the work of reconciliation and confession that healing requires. But when we let the same thread be untangled, we honour both grace and truth, we face what’s ours to face and trust God to do what only He can.

In reality, it’s never about becoming a different person; it’s about becoming a redeemed version of the same person, the one God always intended us to be before sin, shame, and fear knotted us up.

Without grace, responsibility becomes crushing.

Without responsibility, grace becomes cheap.

But in Christ, the two meet perfectly, grace makes responsibility possible, and responsibility makes grace visible.

Lord Jesus, thank You that You never throw away the old thread. Thank You for Your patient untangling and for the courage to face what needs facing, knowing that we do not face it alone. Amen.

Watching Jesus – How a Child Learns to Walk Steady

 

“Looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith.”
Hebrews 12:2 (NKJV)

I was thinking this morning about what it means to be a well-balanced adult, the kind of person who stands steady in life and becomes a safe example for a child. It is easy to make a list of qualities we imagine we need: composure, wisdom, patience, consistency. But the older I become, the more I recognise that none of these qualities grow naturally in me. They slip through my fingers when I try to hold them by myself, and they fade when I focus on performing them rather than living honestly before God.

While I was reflecting on this, I had Christian country music playing in the background. A song came on, “Watching You” by Rodney Atkins, and it caught my attention in a way I did not expect. The song tells a simple story of a father realising that his little boy copies everything he does. The child was learning not from instruction but from observation. He became shaped by what he saw. And in that moment, I felt the Lord speak into my own thoughts with a clarity that settled everything I had been wrestling with.

A child becomes steady when the adult they are watching is steady. And an adult becomes steady when the One they are watching is Jesus. It was as simple and as direct as that. Suddenly so many threads from this past month came together: the desire to be a safe presence for the grandchildren, the reflections about generational influence, the longing to help adults care for their children in a way that honours God, and the quiet prayer to be more grounded, more balanced, more whole.

The answer had nothing to do with perfecting myself. It was not about tightening my self-control or trying to hold myself together. And it certainly was not about presenting myself as an unshakable father figure. The real answer was where I fix my eyes. If I watch myself, a child ends up watching instability. If I watch my worries, a child learns fear. If I watch my frustration, a child feels the weight of it. But if I watch Jesus, something in me settles. My steps slow. My reactions soften. My balance returns. And a child watching me begins to learn not just from my behaviour but from my direction. They see where my eyes are looking, and their gaze begins to turn the same way.

This is one of the quiet miracles of discipleship. We watch Him, and the next generation watches us, and somehow they learn to watch Him too. It is not complicated. It is not heavy. It is not another pressure to carry. It is simply the daily choice to look toward the One whose balance never falters and whose steadiness becomes our own. When I follow Him, the children who follow me find their footing on firmer ground.

I am not sure yet how this insight will unfold in my wider reflections on parenting, children, and the generations to come. It may become another thread woven through the themes God has been giving me recently. But for now, it is enough to hold this simple truth. A child becomes balanced by watching an adult. And an adult becomes balanced by watching Jesus. Sometimes the clearest guidance comes in the simplest way, and sometimes it arrives through a country song reminding us that little eyes are always noticing where we look.

“Be imitators of me, just as I also am of Christ.”

1 Corinthians 11:1 (NKJV)

Speaking to the Mountain in the Storm — Relaying the Captain’s Command

 

“The words that I speak to you I do not speak on My own authority; but the Father who dwells in Me does the works.”

John 14:10 (NKJV)

When Jesus told His disciples to speak to the mountain, I do not believe He was giving them permission to command creation at will. He was not handing them independent authority. He was inviting them to carry His authority. He was calling them to become crew who faithfully relay the Captain’s orders into the storm.

The sea does not obey my voice. It obeys His. Yet when He gives the command and I repeat what He has spoken, His authority flows through my obedience. Nothing moves because of my strength. Things move because I am aligned with His voice.

To speak to the mountain, then, is not to make declarations out of determination. It is to echo what the Captain is already saying. It is faith in transmission. Hearing. Trusting. Relaying the message exactly as given.

When He says, “Peace, be still,” I carry that word into chaos.

When He says, “Fear not,” I speak courage into trembling hearts.

When He says, “Forgive,” I loosen the anchor of resentment that holds the boat back.

These commands are never random. They come through the harmony of Word and Spirit working together. The Word gives the chart, the unchanging truth of Scripture. The Spirit gives the wind, the direction for this particular voyage. As I align with both, what I speak carries the resonance of Heaven. The mountain yields not to volume but to alignment.

Sometimes the command changes in the middle of the storm. A subtle shift. “Ten degrees starboard.” I may not understand why, but obedience brings the turn that keeps us from the rocks.

And if the mountain still stands, I trust that the Captain has chosen another route. Perhaps through calmer waters. Perhaps directly across the ridge. But always toward His destination.

The mountain’s movement or stillness is not the measure of faith. Obedience is.

I am not the captain of this boat.
Nor the master of the storm.
My role is simply to hear and relay the command faithfully.
The authority is His. The echo is mine.
And when I speak what He speaks, mountains bow, storms settle, and peace returns to the deck.

“So shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth;
It shall not return to Me void,
But it shall accomplish what I please,
And it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it.”
Isaiah 55:11 (NKJV)

When the Storm Becomes a Mountain — Seeing What Stands Before Us

 

“For assuredly, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be removed and be cast into the sea,’

and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that those things he says will be done, he will have whatever he says.”

Mark 11.23 NKJV

Some storms rise as waves and others rise as mountains. Both can block the horizon and test whether my trust remains in the One who commands the wind and the sea. When Jesus spoke of a mountain being cast into the sea, He was not describing geography. He was revealing authority. His authority reaches over anything that stands against the purpose of God. A mountain is simply another expression of a storm. Sometimes it appears within me as fear, pride or unbelief. Sometimes it takes shape in relationships through tension or misunderstanding. Sometimes it breaks in from outside as injustice, resistance or attack.

Whatever form it takes, it becomes the same thing. It stands between my heart and His command. When my attention shifts from the Captain to the mountain, my hands tighten on the oars and I begin to row by sight rather than faith.

In the boat, the Captain never loses sight of the horizon. He knows which mountains will crumble beneath His word and which ones we will climb together. He does not ask me to analyse the storm. He asks me to remain attentive to His voice. Sometimes that voice is quiet and steady. Hold steady. At other times it comes as a small but decisive correction. Ten degrees starboard. My safety does not come from understanding the whole map. It comes from obeying the word He speaks in that moment.

Faith is not pretending the mountain is not there. Faith is trusting the Captain’s command more than my own perception. So I find myself asking: Lord, what are You showing me through this. Is this a mountain to be moved or a mountain to be crossed with You. And often I hear His gentle assurance. Keep your eyes on Me. Whether I flatten the mountain or lead you over it, My purpose will stand. The crew who obeys My voice will always reach safe harbour.

Some storms roar and others stand silent, but both reveal where my attention rests. Faith does not call me to stare at the obstacle. Faith calls me to listen for the Captain’s next word. It is obedience, not understanding, that keeps the boat on course.

I will lift up my eyes to the hills.

From whence comes my help.

My help comes from the Lord,

Who made heaven and earth.

Psalm 121.1 NKJV

When the Fog Thickens — And the Accusations Begin

 

                “Fear not, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by your name. You are Mine.”
                Isaiah 43:1 (NKJV)

There are seasons when my thoughts feel clouded, not with passing worries but with something heavier. It settles quietly, like fog on still water, and it brings questions I did not expect. I found myself wondering why I felt accused simply for being who I am. It was not personal sin. I know my faults and I ask the Lord daily to search my heart. This was something different, something that seemed to rest around me rather than rise from within.

It felt as though I was sitting in a small boat while a storm formed around me. I had not stirred the waters, yet the waves seemed to lean toward me. I listened and read and prayed, but the fog did not lift. It pressed in and made me feel as though guilt was being placed on my shoulders for a story I had not written.

In the middle of this, my thoughts returned to Laddie and Sunshine. Laddie carries himself with such faithful steadiness. Sunshine moves with joyful unpredictability, sometimes disappearing for a moment before bounding back as if her heart never left home. The other morning she ran off and my thoughts ran with her. They scattered and grew anxious. When she came back, full of life and certainty, it felt like the Lord whispering to me that He had not lost sight of me. He reminded me that I am still His.

That stayed with me. In a world that often tries to describe people by guilt, God describes me by grace. Where there is an unspoken pressure to apologise simply for being, He speaks a different word to my heart. I am forgiven to live. I belong to Him. My identity is not something the world assigns to me. My identity is something He speaks over me.

I also found myself wondering what guilt actually accomplishes when it is placed upon someone. I noticed that it does not lead to understanding. It does not lead to reconciliation. It certainly does not clear the fog. Guilt shifts weight, but it does not remove burden. It echoes accusation rather than healing. And it leaves the heart weary.

What God asks of me is very different. He does not place inherited guilt upon me. He teaches me to walk humbly, to listen with compassion, and to speak truth with grace. He invites me to look at the past with honesty but not condemnation. He shows me how to acknowledge the pain of others without denying the story He has written in my life. He reminds me that I can stand without hardness and I can listen without losing myself.

So when the fog gathers and accusation seems to seep into the air around me, I remind myself that I am not alone. Feeling accused does not mean I am guilty. Feeling silenced does not mean I have lost my voice. The Lord is my shepherd and He leads me into clarity at His pace, not mine. He steadies my steps, clears my vision, and brings me back into His peace.

                    “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
                     He makes me lie down in green pastures.
                     He leads me beside the still waters.
                     He restores my soul.”
                     Psalm 23:1–3 (NKJV)

Awakening to the Story

 

                    “And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and men.”
                    — Luke 2:52 (NKJV)

I was thinking…

What it must have been like for Jesus to grow into the realisation of who He was. To wake each morning a little more aware, not in pride or sudden revelation, but in quiet remembrance, as if something once fully known was returning gently, piece by piece.

He learned the Scriptures as every Jewish boy did, yet I wonder how it felt when familiar passages began to move inside Him, not as lessons to memorise but as memories awakening. I imagine Him in the synagogue as a boy, tracing His finger along the scrolls, sensing a warmth He could not yet explain. Words others recited as history, He heard as heartbeat. Perhaps He didn’t know why, only that something in them felt like home.

As the years passed, that sense deepened. When He read of the Servant who would bear rejection, He felt it in His bones. When He prayed the psalms of anguish and trust, they echoed a truth He somehow already lived. And one day, standing to read from Isaiah, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me”, He realised the page before Him was not simply prophecy but autobiography.

The weight of that must have been immense. To see that the story He was reading was the story He Himself would live, to feel the cross not just as destiny but as memory rediscovered. And yet He did not shrink from it. He grew in wisdom, in stature, and in favour, not by stepping around the human condition but by entering it fully. He walked each day with the patience of One who knew where the road led, yet still chose to take every step with us, feeling hunger and weariness, laughter and friendship, grief and joy.

Sometimes I wonder whether, in those hidden years at Nazareth, there were moments when He paused mid-task, a carpenter’s hand resting on the wood, sensing the shadow of the tree that would one day bear Him. Not in dread, but in quiet acceptance.

He knew the story. He had written it. But He chose, day by day, to live it. And maybe that is part of what it means for us to follow Him, to live the story He has written for each of us, not as characters trapped by fate but as souls learning to trust the Author who stepped into His own creation so He could walk with us from within it.

He did not rewrite the story from above. He entered it, remembered it, fulfilled it, and redeemed every line. And when I think of that, I find peace. Because if the Author was willing to walk His own pages in flesh and tears, then I can trust that every page of my story, too, is known, remembered, and being rewritten by His love.

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

                       — Hebrews 12:2 (NKJV)

The Author in His Own Story

 “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”
— John 1:1 (NKJV)

I found myself thinking about a simple moment in the Gospels when Jesus said, “It is written.” I have always heard those words as a reference point, a way of locating Himself in the Scriptures already given. But it occurred to me that He may have been doing something even deeper than recalling a familiar line. What if He was remembering something He Himself had spoken long before His human voice ever formed the words? What if the Word made flesh was hearing His own voice echoing across time?

Once I began to think along those lines, it struck me that every sentence from His lips had first been breathed through prophets and poets who only ever wrote what the Spirit gave them. The One who stood in dusty streets and taught fishermen and tax collectors was reading from pages He had once inspired. The Author had stepped into His own story. He was walking through scenes He had written before the world began.

Imagining that opens a different kind of tenderness. He wrote the story of humanity knowing He would one day enter its frailty. He poured out the words of life knowing He would one day live every one of them. He shaped the promises, the warnings, the poetry of salvation, knowing that the betrayal, rejection, and suffering woven into the narrative were the very things He would choose to embrace.

It is something like an author who knows the ending before the first page is ever written, but then chooses to lay aside that knowledge, step into the book as a character, and feel the weight of each moment from the inside. As Jesus read the Scriptures of His childhood, the words would not merely have informed Him, they would have awakened something. Not belief in the way we experience belief, but recognition. The realisation that this familiar voice on the page was the same voice that had always been His own.

I often think of the young Jesus standing in the synagogue with the scroll of Isaiah in His hands. How must it have felt to read, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me,” and sense an ancient resonance rising within Him? Did He recognise the tone of it, the cadence, the eternal echo of the voice He had lived with from eternity past? I imagine something quiet and steady in that moment, perhaps even a kind of holy fear, as He felt the weight of every prophecy pointing to Him and realised that He had written them all.

And yet He did not draw back. He lived through His own sentences. He walked the path He had crafted, not observing from a distance, but experiencing each line from within a human frame. The Author became the character. The Word entered His own breath. The One who had written the story stepped into the story and let it carry Him all the way to Calvary, where through agony and wonder He wrote Himself into our redemption.

Thinking of Scripture in this way changes how I approach it. These are not merely ancient words about God. They are words of God, spoken once through prophets, spoken again through the human voice of Jesus, and spoken now to us whenever we read them with open hearts. Every “It is written” becomes “I have told you.” Every fulfilled promise becomes a memory returned.

And then comes the most humbling thought of all: He did not write these things for His sake alone. He wrote them so that we, centuries later, could open the same pages and hear the same whisper. When we come to Scripture longing for clarity or comfort, He is still able to say, I remember writing this, and I wrote it for you.

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

— Luke 24:45 (NKJV)

For the Parent Who Is Not the Day-to-Day Carer

 

                                            “The Lord is near to all who call upon Him.”

                                            Psalm 145:18 (NKJV)

There is a different kind of ache for the parent who is no longer the one the child wakes up to each morning. It’s not the constant exhaustion of daily routines. It’s the quiet heaviness of distance. The longing. The questions. The fear of being forgotten.

When the home changes and you are no longer the daily anchor, it’s easy to believe your influence has faded. But that is not how children work, and it is not how God works either.

Your presence still matters.
More than you realise.

Children do not measure love by the size of your schedule.
They measure it by the shape of your heart.

You may not set the week’s rhythms anymore, but you can set the tone of the time you do have. You can be the safe place, the calm voice, the steady presence. And when a child knows that your love does not rise and fall with circumstances, a deep trust begins to grow.

There’s a temptation in this position to compete without meaning to, to be the fun parent, the generous parent, the “please-don’t-forget-me” parent. But competition creates tension, and tension makes the child shrink instead of thrive.

The Lord teaches a different way:
“Let them love freely. Let them speak freely. Let them breathe freely.”

When a child never has to choose between their parents, they learn to rest.
When you bless their bond with their other home, you strengthen their bond with you.

And where you cannot be physically present, you can still be emotionally and spiritually present,  through gentle messages, consistent warmth, simple prayers, and the assurance that your love does not put pressure on their shoulders.

You may fear that they will drift away.
But children remember the faithful parent, not the perfect one.

Every moment of peace you bring, every calm transition, every patient conversation, every quiet blessing, these are seeds that grow long after the season of separation has passed.

You are not a visitor in your child’s heart.
You are part of their foundation.

And God walks with you too.
He fills the spaces you cannot fill.
He watches over the child when you cannot see them.
He weaves your presence into their story in ways only He can.

Your role is smaller in hours, perhaps, but not in importance.

Your love still reaches them.
Your steadiness still shapes them.
And your faithfulness will leave a legacy they carry for life.

For the Parent Who Carries the Day-to-Day Load

 

                           “A father of the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His holy habitation.”

                            Psalm 68:5 (NKJV)

There are seasons when a parent suddenly becomes the one who carries almost everything.
The morning routines.
The evening meals.
The emotions.
The tantrums.
The tiredness.
The bedtime prayers.
And the quiet tears when the house finally settles.

Sometimes this shift happens by choice.
Often it happens by loss.
But in both cases, the weight feels the same:
“I’m doing this on my own.”

And the question rises quietly in the night:
“Am I supposed to be both mum and dad now?”

I’ve walked with parents who carry this weight, and I’ve lived through my own version of it. When the family changes shape, it’s easy to think you must change shape too. The trouble is, God never asked any parent to become two people. He only ever asked them to be the one He designed.

What a child needs most is not two roles forced into one body.
What a child needs is one safe parent who is present, steady, and true.

It took me years to understand that God never required me to imitate the parent who was no longer there. I thought I had to compensate… soften where I wasn’t soft, harden where I wasn’t firm, stretch somewhere between both roles. But children read authenticity better than adults do. They know the difference between who you are and who you’re pretending to be.

And God gently says:
“Be the parent I made you.
Let Me cover what you cannot.”

When one parent is no longer present day-to-day, God fills the gaps in ways we could not imagine. Sometimes it’s through close friends or grandparents. Sometimes through church family. Sometimes through the child’s own growing relationship with Him. And often it’s simply through His quiet presence flooding a home that feels stretched thin.

You can’t be two people.
You were never meant to be.

But if you stay steady, stay warm, stay gentle, stay prayerful, and stay faithful, your child will grow around your presence, not around the absence.

One strong, loving, grounded parent shapes a child more deeply than two distracted ones ever could.

And the Lord walks with you in it.
You carry the child…

and He carries you.

Children in the Boat - Parenthood

 

                                            “Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord.”

                                            Psalm 127:3 (NKJV)

Every family is a boat. 

Some boats are small and steady, built for quiet waters. Others carry scars from storms they’ve survived. But whatever shape the boat takes, God entrusts children into it, little ones who cannot steer the vessel, cannot judge the tides and cannot calm the waves. 

Their protection rests in the hands of those God has placed at the helm. 

This morning, as I walked and prayed, I sensed again something the Lord has been uncovering in me for some time now: His heart for the protection of children. Not in a political sense, not driven by emotion, but in the quiet, steady way that comes when the Spirit highlights something again and again. 

When we protect the children in our boat, we also protect the mothers, and when mothers are protected and honoured, the whole society becomes healthier, steadier, more able to flourish. 

A nation that cares for its children and its mothers will always be stronger than one that does not.

The Father’s Role and the Mother’s Role

In the home, mothers and fathers carry different strengths, and the beauty is found when those strengths work together. 

A mother brings warmth, closeness, sensitivity and a quiet wisdom that fills the boat with life.

A father brings direction, security, firmness and a steady hand that keeps the boat pointed toward true north. 

Children need both. Not in competition. Not in fragments. But in coordination, like two hands working to guide the same rudder. 

When parents move together, not perfectly, but faithfully, the boat becomes a place of safety. A place where the child can breathe, learn, grow and discover who God created them to be. 

Guarding the Boat 

We live in days where the seas around us are unsettled.

There are pressures on children that previous generations would never have imagined. Pressures on their minds, their identities, their innocence and even their understanding of truth.

To protect the boat is not to seal it off from the world .It is to create a space where God’s truth is clearer than the world’s confusion. 

It is to bring Scripture into the home gently and consistently. To speak truth with calmness, not fear. To guide our children toward the Lord’s voice above all others.

And it is to recognise that when we guard the hearts of our children, we are honouring the heart of God Himself.

Jesus spoke strongly about this. He warned about causing little ones to stumble. He lifted children into the centre of His teaching and said that welcoming a child in His name is to welcome Him.

This tells us that protecting children is not simply a parental duty. It is an act of worship. A response to the heart of Christ.

A Prayer for Our Boats

Father, 

teach us to steer well.

Help us to protect the little ones You have entrusted to us.

Give us wisdom as fathers and mothers

to work together with gentleness and clarity.

Strengthen our homes.

Fill our boats with Your peace.

And let truth, Your truth, be the compass that guides us.

Amen.

The Single Man’s Boat: Finding Purpose in the Flotilla

  “It is not good that man should be alone; I will make him a helper comparable to him.”

— Genesis 2:18 (NKJV)

I was out walking Sunshine this morning, with thoughts stirring a little faster than I could keep up. I found myself thinking about the single man. I have blogged about married men and wives, about their shared calling, their shared storms, but what about the man in his own boat?

As I pondered this, the image settled into view: a flotilla, a gathering of boats, each on the same waters, each with its own journey. Some boats hold families. Some carry couples, leaning together as they face the wind. And then, among them, is the single man, alone in his vessel, yet still part of the flotilla. What does that feel like?

For some, it feels like freedom. For others, quiet contentment. But for many, if they’re honest, it feels like a curse. Something missing, something denied.

“God said He’d give me a helper, and I’m still waiting, what’s wrong with me?”

Those words echo in the hearts of many single men I’ve known, and even in a younger version of myself. It’s not uncommon to hear a man speak with resentment toward God, believing He’s withheld a promise. But as I walked today, I began to reflect on something I’d missed in the Genesis story.

When God said it wasn’t good for man to be alone, He didn’t say, “It’s not good for man to be without a wife.” What Adam needed wasn’t marriage, but relationship. A human companion. Someone to reflect love back, to speak, to share, to walk alongside. Even in Eden, even with God Himself walking in the cool of the day, man needed human presence as well as divine presence. That struck me deeply.

We are made for vertical and horizontal relationship. To know God, and to be known by others. The married man finds that in his wife; the single man must often look elsewhere. But that doesn’t mean God has abandoned him. In fact, the single man’s boat may not be empty, it may be spacious.

A boat with room for Christ to stand where another might have sat. A life with room to move freely among others in the flotilla, drawing alongside when someone is drifting or sinking. A heart not bound to one partner, but perhaps called to carry many in prayer, encouragement, or friendship.

Paul knew this. He was a single man with a life full to overflowing. He saw singleness not as a deficit, but as an opportunity for “undivided devotion to the Lord” (1 Corinthians 7:35). He didn’t deny the goodness of marriage, but he revealed the dignity of singlehood.

But this isn’t to say every single man feels content. Some long for a partner they’ve never found. Others have had chances but declined them, believing the woman wasn’t “quite right,” only to wonder years later if they misunderstood God’s provision. That’s a hard place to sit.

And that’s why this reflection isn’t a prescription. It’s not to say:

“Stop resenting. Just fill your boat with Jesus and you’ll be fine.”

No, it’s to say:

“Brother, you are not forgotten. Your story is still unfolding. The One who stands in your boat knows both your longing and your purpose. And the flotilla around you is still yours to belong to.”

So here we sit, in the tension of Genesis and Paul, of desire and devotion, of singleness and belonging. And perhaps the answer isn’t to solve the tension, but to hold it, gently, courageously, in the presence of God.

Let the single man in the boat know this today:

You may not be alone. And you were never abandoned. Your boat is not smaller, it is simply built for a different kind of journey. You still have horizon, purpose, and fellow travellers.

And Christ is not ashamed to stand in your boat, even when you feel the ache of the empty seat beside you.

Let this be your comfort: you are part of the story, part of the flotilla and part of God’s heart.

“I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

— Hebrews 13:5 (NKJV)

Taking Responsibility — Headship as Servanthood

 “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave Himself for her.”
Ephesians 5:25 (NKJV)

The weight of the call

There was a time when the word headship unsettled me.
It carried the echoes of misuse and too many examples of authority twisted into control.
But over the years, especially through the storms in my own marriage, I have come to see that true headship has very little to do with power and everything to do with burden.
It is not a title. It is a cross.
It is the willingness to stand before God for the tone of the home, the wellbeing of the relationship, and the spiritual direction of the family. Not because I am better, but because I am called.

“Linda is my helper; I am not hers.”

When those words first came to me, they stopped me.
Not because they elevated me, but because they humbled me.
They corrected something that had drifted out of place.
God never said that man was the purpose of woman. He said she would be a partner for his calling.
If I make Linda my purpose, I make her responsible for my peace, and no human being can carry that.
But if I take up the calling God has placed on me, then she becomes what she was made to be, a helper suitable, not a substitute for the Holy Spirit.
Taking responsibility means standing before God on behalf of my home, not standing before Linda on behalf of my pride.

Leadership as service

Jesus never led by dominance.
He led by washing feet.
That is the pattern. The towel, not the throne.
True headship looks like the small, unseen things.
Checking the doors at night.
Praying over the house.
Creating space for conversation when I would rather retreat.
Apologising first, even when I believed I was right.
Every quiet act of service calms the storm a little more.
It reminds me that leadership is not control but custody.
I have been entrusted with something sacred that belongs to God.

Carrying, not commanding

Taking responsibility does not mean I carry everything. It means I carry my part.
Order where there is confusion.
Protection where there is vulnerability.
Faith where fear has taken root.
But I do not dictate, demand, or dominate.
The moment I try to control outcomes, I step out of headship and into interference again.
Christ shows us gentle strength.
Power under restraint.
Confidence anchored in humility.
That is the pattern every husband is invited to follow.

When headship brings peace

When a man shoulders his responsibility in love, his wife feels safer to rest in hers.
Headship and help become a partnership of trust.
The home begins to breathe again. Not under tension, but under blessing.
I have seen this in my own marriage.
When I stopped trying to take charge and instead chose to walk in Christ, the atmosphere changed.
Linda did not need to agree with me for peace to return. She only needed to sense that I was listening to God before I spoke to her.
This is the heart of headship. Listening upward before speaking outward.

The quiet authority of love

True authority does not shout.
It carries peace.
When Christ calmed the storm, He did not wrestle with the wind.
He simply spoke what was already true.
Peace, be still.
That same authority rests on the man who abides in Christ.
It is not earned by position. It is granted through surrender.
And when that peace fills a husband’s heart, it spreads.
To his wife.
His home.
His children.
And far beyond.

Lord Jesus, teach me to lead as You lead.
Teach me humility and listening and love.
Help me carry responsibility without control.
Help me guide without dominating.
Help me serve without seeking recognition.
Let my leadership make room for peace.
Let my love reflect Yours.
Amen.

“Whoever desires to become great among you shall be your servant.”

Mark 10:43 (NKJV)

The Inner Storm — Forgiveness, Listening, and Letting God Work

                          “Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to                                 you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

                    — John 14:27 (NKJV)

The storm within

I used to think peace meant the absence of conflict.

Now I understand it means the presence of Christ within it.

Every outward storm I’ve ever faced began as an inner one, a collision between fear and faith, pride and humility, control and surrender.

The greatest waves aren’t the ones that batter the boat; they’re the ones that rise in the heart when we feel unseen, unheard, or misunderstood.

It’s here, in the still centre of that turmoil, that Christ whispers the lessons I keep needing to relearn.

Keep out of your head and listen instead

So often my mind rushes to interpret, defend, or explain.

But God keeps reminding me: “Be still.”

My head may analyse the storm, but my heart is where He speaks peace.

When I move from reasoning to listening, I notice a shift, from noise to knowing.

Faith doesn’t silence thought; it places it under trust.

Forgive quickly

Forgiveness is not agreement; it’s release.

And the quicker I forgive, the less time resentment has to take root.

There’s a prayer I once wrote that still defines this for me:

Father, it occurred to me that true forgiveness is evidenced by a blessing rather than just tolerance.         That complete forgiveness is not just a willingness to overlook an offence, but to bless the person             despite it. Please help me to be able to bless those who offend me through the supernatural ability         to forgive as You have forgiven me. Amen.

Forgiveness turns reaction into redemption.

It doesn’t always calm the storm around me, but it always calms the one within me.

Listen and do not argue

When Linda speaks from pain, the most loving thing I can do is not to correct her.

Arguing only tells her I haven’t heard.

Listening tells her she matters more than my opinion.

It’s not easy. Every instinct in me wants to defend or clarify.

But I’ve learned that when I hold back my rebuttal, I make space for God’s Spirit to interpret what words alone cannot.

Stillness in listening is not silence of weakness, it’s strength under control.

Allow God to work — don’t interfere

This is the lesson I keep returning to.

“Without My guidance, you will interfere, whereas I will intervene.”

Those words have shaped how I handle almost everything now.

Interference says, “I must fix this.”

Intervention says, “Lord, please step in.”

When I interfere, I take responsibility for outcomes I can’t control.

When I invite God to intervene, I take responsibility only for obedience.

The difference is peace.

Do the right thing because it is the right thing

Obedience without outcome.

Faithfulness without recognition.

That’s the narrow road of discipleship.

There have been many times when doing the right thing didn’t make things better immediately.

But each time, I’ve discovered that rightness before God carries its own quiet reward, the peace of a clear conscience and the steady hand of His favour.

Take responsibility for the house and family

“Linda is my helper; I am not hers.”

Those words don’t diminish her; they define me.

They remind me that headship means stewardship, not superiority.

It means taking initiative in prayer, protection, and practical care, not because she can’t, but because I’m called to.

When I walk in that calling with humility, Linda feels safer to walk in hers.

And when both of us respond to God’s design, peace returns to the boat.

The calm after surrender

The more I practice these things, the more I see that calm isn’t a moment; it’s a lifestyle.

It’s not found in getting life under control but in surrendering control to God.

Each lesson is a fresh invitation to let the storm draw me closer to the One who still speaks to the wind and waves.

Lord, teach me to recognise the first ripple of the storm within.

Remind me to listen before I speak, forgive before I react,

and pray before I interfere.

Let my stillness make room for Your intervention,

and my obedience become the calm that steadies our boat.

Amen.

            “Then He arose and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, ‘Peace, be still!’ And the wind                         ceased and there was a great calm.”

            — Mark 4:39 (NKJV)

Peace in the Boat — When Both Are Listening

  “Then they willingly received Him into the boat, and immediately the boat was at the land where they were going.”
— John 6:21 (NKJV)

When the wind dies down

There’s a silence that follows every storm, not the emptiness of exhaustion, but the stillness of arrival.
The disciples once experienced it when they received Jesus into their boat.
The storm didn’t end first; He entered first.
And the moment He was welcomed, “immediately the boat was at the land.”
That’s how peace works.
It’s not the absence of noise; it’s the presence of Christ.
It’s not escape from struggle; it’s unity within it.

Two hearts, one rhythm

There have been seasons when Linda and I weren’t rowing in time.
My strokes were heavy with frustration; hers were light with fatigue.
We were in the same boat but pulling against each other’s rhythm.
Those were the hardest waters, not because of distance, but because of difference.

But I’ve noticed something:
When either of us slows down long enough to listen to Jesus’ breath, the other begins to adjust.
Peace is contagious when it begins in worship.
The rhythm returns.
We find ourselves rowing together again, not perfectly, but purposefully.

When both listen

When both husband and wife quiet their hearts to listen to Christ, they begin to hear the same sound,  His breathing through the storm, His word cutting through the noise.
Arguments lose urgency, pride softens, and what once felt impossible starts to look small beside His presence.

That’s the miracle: peace doesn’t depend on agreement; it depends on surrender.
Agreement often follows, but peace arrives first, carried by humility, sealed by grace.
I think of it now as being in harmony with His heartbeat.

When both listen to Him, their hearts begin to move together, not through effort, but through grace.

What peace looks like

Peace doesn’t mean we never disagree.
It means we’ve learned how to disagree without losing connection.
It means knowing that the storm is never the enemy, it’s often the instrument that teaches us to row by faith again.
It’s sitting in the same boat, still damp from the waves, but grateful for what we’ve learned:
that Jesus was never absent, only silent;
that the storm was never wasted, only misunderstood;
and that every time we invite Him in, we find we’re closer to shore than we thought.

Peace that overflows

When peace enters the marriage, it doesn’t stay there.
It seeps into every part of life.
It changes how we speak to others, how we handle pressure, how we see pain.
Because once you’ve seen Jesus calm the storm in your own boat, you start to believe He can calm any storm at all.

That’s the testimony every husband and wife carry, not perfection, but perseverance; not mastery, but mercy.

The world doesn’t need to see flawless couples; it needs to see forgiven ones, listening ones, faithful ones, still rowing together in the same direction, trusting that the Lord of the wind still holds the tiller.

Lord Jesus,
thank You for being in our boat.
Teach us to listen before we speak,
to row together instead of apart,
to find peace not in the calm but in Your presence.
Let Your breath become our rhythm,
and Your Word our direction.
Bring us safely to the shore You’ve prepared for us,
and let our journey bear witness to Your peace.
Amen.

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

— Philippians 4:7 (NKJV)

The Helper Suitable — The Wife’s Part in the Boat

         “And the Lord God said, ‘It is not good that man should be alone; I will                                                     make him a helper comparable to him.’”

 — Genesis 2:18 (NKJV)

Two in the same boat

When I think about the boat again, Linda and me, I see how easy it is to forget that we are rowing in the same direction, even when it doesn’t feel like it.

In the heat of misunderstanding, it can seem as though we are on opposite sides, one rowing left, the other right, but in truth, we share the same destination.

The challenge is not who is right, but how we stay together when the storm hits.

A helper suitable - not subordinate

God’s design for the woman is both tender and powerful.

The word helper in Genesis doesn’t mean assistant; it carries the same Hebrew root used for God Himself , “Ezer,” meaning one who comes alongside with strength.

So when God gave woman to man, He wasn’t giving him someone to serve him, but someone to strengthen him, to steady him where he falters, to balance him where he leans.

Linda has often been that balance for me.

She sees what I don’t see, feels what I don’t feel, and sometimes senses what I can’t yet hear.

At times that difference has caused tension, especially when I have mistaken her discernment for challenge.

But over time, I’ve begun to recognise that her voice is often the echo of God’s wisdom reaching me through another tone.

The movement of grace

When a wife listens for Christ in the storm, her voice can shift the atmosphere.

Her strength is not in overpowering, nor in silent endurance, but in the grace that anchors the relationship when emotion threatens to tip the balance.

Just as the husband’s calm steadies the boat, the wife’s grace keeps it from drifting.

It’s the same Spirit expressed through a different gift, compassion that corrects, empathy that steadies, faith that looks beyond the immediate wind and waves.

When Linda and I have found that rhythm, when I hold peace and she holds grace, something holy happens: we begin to move together again.

Completing, not competing

In the counselling room, I often see how easily couples slip from completion into competition.

The wife starts fighting to be heard, the husband fights to be respected, and both end up rowing against each other in the same small boat.

But the truth is simple: neither can reach the shore without the other’s strength.

One provides the rhythm, the other the direction, and both are sustained by the same breath of Christ.

It’s not sameness that keeps the marriage afloat; it’s unity in difference.

God didn’t make two captains, nor did He make a servant and a master.

He made companions, partners in grace, who together, reveal His image more clearly than either could alone.

When both listen

When both husband and wife quiet their own voices long enough to hear Jesus’ breath, the storm begins to lose its dominance.

They start to hear the same rhythm, sense the same peace, and steer toward the same stillness.

Christ becomes the true centre, not him, not her, but Him in them.

And in that unity, leadership no longer feels heavy and submission no longer feels painful.

Both become worship, a shared act of trust in the One who calms every storm.

Lord Jesus, teach us the beauty of difference.
Teach husbands to lead through calm, and wives to steady through grace.
Help us both to listen for Your breath above our words,
that we may row together in the rhythm of Your peace.
Amen.

“Nevertheless, let each one of you in particular so love his own wife as himself, and let the wife             see that she respects her husband.”

— Ephesians 5:33 (NKJV)

The Husband’s Calm — Leadership as Stillness

 

Be still, and know that I am God.”

— Psalm 46:10 (NKJV)

The man in the boat

In the quiet of reflection, I often picture myself in the same boat with Linda.

When the waves rise, my natural instinct is to grab the oars, shout instructions, or try to correct the course.

But in those moments, I’ve come to realise something uncomfortable:

I may be the man in the boat, but I am not the Master of the wind.

That place belongs to Christ alone.

My role is not to command the storm but to steady my heart, so that my presence becomes a calm space where Christ can be seen.

Headship is not control

Many men I see in counselling struggle with this same tension.

They want to lead but don’t know what leadership looks like when emotions rise.

They know they’re called to be the head of the home, but what does that mean, to lead when the waves are crashing and words are flying?

The world’s version of leadership says “take charge.”

But the Kingdom’s version says “take responsibility.”

One relies on strength; the other rests on surrender.

Headship is not control — it is coverage.

It’s the spiritual posture of standing still before God, even when everything in you wants to fix what’s broken.

It’s choosing to be calm, not because you feel calm, but because Christ is calm in you.

The storm within

The storm around me is never greater than the one within me.

Before I can bring peace to my home, I must allow Christ to speak peace to my heart.

That’s what I’ve learned through painful repetition, that anger, fear, or defensiveness in me does not settle anything in Linda.

If I want calm in the boat, it has to start in me.

The moment I stop defending myself and start listening, the storm begins to lose its power.

It’s not weakness to be quiet; it’s wisdom.

It’s not defeat to stand still; it’s discernment.

Stillness is strength when it is rooted in trust.

When leadership looks like listening

One of the hardest lessons God has taught me is that listening can be leadership.

When I listen to Linda, really listen, without arguing, defending, or correcting, something shifts.

It’s as though my stillness gives God space to speak into her storm as well as mine.

This isn’t about passivity or silence; it’s about presence.

It’s about carrying the peace of Christ into the room instead of my opinion.

And in that peace, something supernatural happens, sometimes quietly, sometimes slowly, but always redemptively.

Calm is contagious

I’ve seen it in myself, in my marriage, and in other men I counsel:

when the husband finds his calm in Christ, it changes the atmosphere of the home.

Children feel safer.

Wives feel heard.

Arguments lose their grip.

Because peace is not just an emotion; it’s authority under Christ’s headship.

The calm of a husband who trusts Jesus carries more weight than any lecture, any defence, or any clever answer.

A reflection and a prayer

Lord, teach me the calm that comes from knowing You are in the boat.

When I am tempted to interfere, teach me to wait for Your intervention.

When I want to fix what only You can heal, help me to stand still and trust You.

Let my leadership be rooted in listening,

my strength found in stillness,

and my peace anchored in Your presence.

Amen.

“In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and confidence shall be your strength.”

— Isaiah 30:15 (NKJV)

Peaceful Obedience — Duties of the Crew

 

                                                            Be still, and know that I am God.”

                                                    — Psalm 46:10 NKJV

There are moments when the sea lies still, not because the storms have ended, but because the Captain has spoken peace over the waters. I felt that this morning. No striving, no urgency, just quiet. And my mind, so used to being stirred by the world and by what the Armada is doing, almost went looking for trouble, as though peace itself needed justification.

But it doesn’t. Peace is not a project; it’s a command post.

When Jesus said, “Peace, be still,” the wind obeyed. That’s the nature of true peace, it rests in obedience. It doesn’t come from my control, but from remaining under His.

If Christ is Captain, then my part is simple: to obey. There are, I think, two kinds of obedience aboard His ship. The first is standing orders, the ongoing duties we know to do even when no new command has come. The second is direct orders, the immediate call to act when the Captain speaks.

When I don’t hear a fresh command, I’m still not idle. I tend the ship. I keep the peace by being faithful in the duties already given.

The duties of the crew look something like this:

Keep the deck clear. Guard your heart. Remove clutter, bitterness, distraction — anything that                trips your footing when the order comes.

Maintain the sails. Stay attuned to the Holy Spirit’s wind, trimmed and ready to move at His                    breath.

Check the compass. Keep the Word before you; it points true north when feelings drift.

Watch for others. Encourage the crew, pray for them, steady their hands when they tire.

Stay at your post. Do what’s before you, faithfully, quietly, without needing to be seen.

Await the Captain’s signal. Don’t rush to take the wheel. He will steer when it’s time.

That, I think, is how obedience becomes armour. Not heavy, not rigid but fitted peace. Obedience keeps peace fastened. It holds the heart secure under the Captain’s command.

And it reaches further than the individual deck. When peace holds in one heart, it steadies the boat for others too. When I obey Christ in my thoughts, I interfere less in what isn’t mine to fix. The storm in my mind begins to calm, and so does the storm between us. Obedience restores order, first within, then between.

Interference breaks that peace, whether in my own mind or in the boat I share with others. Intervention, however, is His work, precise, timely, loving. My peace remains when I let Him lead and simply do what He’s asked of me.

When He gives no new instruction, He’s often saying: Rest. Keep the ship ready. I’ll call when it’s time to move.

So, I will.

“The Lord will fight for you, and you shall hold your peace.”

— Exodus 14:14 NKJV

Seventy Years of Grace — Learning to See What the Father Is Doing

 

“The Son can do nothing of Himself, but only what He sees the Father doing.” — John 5:19 (NKJV)

For much of my walk with the Lord, I’ve been trained to recognise storms.

I’ve learned how to discern the enemy’s tactics, how to guard my heart, how to take responsibility for what God has put in my hands.

But recently the Lord has been showing me something different — something far quieter, yet far more central to living as a son:

I haven’t spent nearly as much time learning to see what the Father is doing.

Not the enemy’s noise.
Not my own fears.
Not what I want God to do.
But the gentle, steady work of the Father Himself.

As I reach seventy, this longing has become clearer:
I want to learn the Father’s rhythm.
I want to recognise His hand.
I want to see His activity in the world and in the lives around me.

And the surprising truth is this:
seeing the Father begins not with discernment, but with thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving — The Lens That Reveals His Hand

Before I even finished reflecting on all these things, I sensed the Lord say:

“That is the point of thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving lets you see what I am doing.
If you look for things to be thankful for, you will find My works.”

Thanksgiving is not a Christian courtesy.
It is spiritual eyesight.
You cannot give thanks for what the enemy is doing.
You cannot give thanks for imagined threats or future anxieties.
You cannot give thanks for your own striving.
You can only give thanks for what is real,
and what is real is what the Father has done
and what the Father is doing right now.

So thanksgiving pulls the eyes toward the Father’s movements.
It redirects attention from fear to peace,
from noise to Presence,
from speculation to truth.
Thanksgiving is the doorway into seeing.
With that foundation, three reflections have begun to form in me.

1. The Drill Square — Learning the Rhythm of Another’s Steps

My mind went back to my days in the Army, standing on the drill square.
As part of a marching squad, my focus was narrowed:
• the sound of the steps
• the swing of my arms
• the rhythm of the group
• the voice of the drill sergeant
I wasn’t scanning the horizon for danger.
I wasn’t trying to out-think the one in front of me.
I wasn’t trying to lead.
I simply kept in step with the one whose voice mattered.

That is what Jesus lived every day:

“My sheep hear My voice.”

And thanksgiving functions like that rhythm.
It tunes the heart to the Father’s cadence.
It steadies the pace.
It quiets the noise.
It becomes the “left… right… left…” of spiritual sight.

Thanksgiving teaches us not to strain our eyes,
but simply to stay in step.

2. The Police Survey — Choosing to See Peace Rather Than Threat

Yesterday I received a local police survey asking about crime in the area.
And as I read it, I realised it was subtly discipling me into fear, suspicion, and threat-awareness.

But when I looked around me, none of that matched my reality.
There was peace.
There was quiet.
There was the sense of being placed by God in His protection.

And again I sensed the Father’s whisper:
“Give thanks for where I have set you.”

Thanksgiving pulls the eyes away from what is wrong
and fixes them on where God is already doing something right.
It reveals His covering instead of the world’s chaos.

In that moment, the act of thanksgiving became the act of seeing.

3. Recognising His Hand by Learning His Heart

The third reflection was this:
one reason I sometimes fail to see God’s hand is because He is revealing new aspects of Himself I have not yet learned to recognise.

I have known Him as:
• Commander
• Protector
• Teacher
• Rescuer
• Provider
• Captain in the storm

But now He is showing Himself as:
The quiet Worker.
The Father whose movements feel like peace.
The One who shifts hearts without fanfare.
The Presence who whispers instead of shouts.

And thanksgiving is what attunes me to this quieter side of Him.

When I thank Him, I notice Him.
When I notice Him, I recognise Him.
When I recognise Him, I understand what He is doing.

Thanksgiving is the training ground of sight.

Thanksgiving as the Daily Practice of Seeing

All of this has drawn together into one truth:

Sight grows out of nearness.
Nearness grows from rhythm.
Rhythm grows from attention.
And attention grows from thanksgiving.

If I begin each day looking for things to thank the Father for,
I will find myself noticing the works of His hands in places
I previously walked past without seeing.

Thanksgiving makes the subtle unmistakable.
It makes the quiet clear.
It makes the Father visible.

And that is where I want to live —
in the place where gratitude becomes vision,
and vision becomes partnership with the Father’s work.

Closing Scripture

“In returning and rest you shall be saved;
In quietness and confidence shall be your strength.” — Isaiah 30:15 (NKJV)