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)

Beyond the Armada

 “So he answered, ‘Do not fear, for those who are with us are more than those who are with them.’
And Elisha prayed, and said, ‘Lord, I pray, open his eyes that he may see.’
Then the Lord opened the eyes of the young man, and he saw.
And behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha.”
— 2 Kings 6:16–17 (NKJV)

I see the enemy’s ships drawing closer every day. Their sails fill with a wind that is strong, their line tight and determined. I can hear the rhythm of their oars — steady, unrelenting, closing the distance. And I’ll be honest, it scares me. And it should scare me. Because what I see is not illusion; it is the reality of a world that has turned against the light of God.

I see evidence of the enemy even invading the lines — slipping between the vessels of the Armada, sowing confusion and mistrust, tempting one boat to turn against another. The threat is not only out there; it is already among us. And yet even this does not take God by surprise.

But when I lift my gaze beyond the enemy Armada, I begin to see something else — not instead of the danger, but surrounding it. I remember that what surrounds us is itself surrounded. The same God who opened the servant’s eyes still commands His host. The same Commander who calls each of our boats into formation is still at the helm.

So I steady myself and look again. The enemy’s oars still beat their rhythm, but so does another — quieter, stronger, divine. It is the rhythm of purpose, the movement of God’s will among His people. We are not adrift; we are being positioned. The tightening of the lines, the shaking of the sails, even the pressure of the wind — all serve His purpose.

Perhaps God is using this threat not to destroy His Armada but to awaken it — to remind us that our strength was never in our numbers or formation, but in our obedience. The enemy may press close, but their advance may yet become the wind that fills our sails and drives us forward under His command.

So I return to my own boat. I ready it once more. I tie the ropes, check the rudder, look to the Commander’s flag. I cannot calm the sea or stop the approach of the enemy, but I can prepare to move when He gives the word.

And as I look beyond the Armada, beyond the storm and the threat, I see a greater light breaking on the horizon. The same light that terrified Saul and steadied David, that blinded Paul and guided the Magi — the light of the One who reigns above every army and every sea.

And that, I think, is enough for today.

“For You have been a shelter for me,
A strong tower from the enemy.
I will abide in Your tabernacle forever;
I will trust in the shelter of Your wings.”
— Psalm 61:3–4 (NKJV)

The Call to Move as One

  “Endeavouring to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.
There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called in one hope of your calling.”
— Ephesians 4:3–4 (NKJV)

The image of the flotilla has stayed with me. I can still see it in my mind — a long line of boats stretched across the sea, the wind filling each sail, moving together as one. There’s a rhythm to it: some surge forward with strong winds, others lag slightly behind, but all are heading in the same direction. Above them, the same sky. Beneath them, the same sea. Within them, the same hope.

Those leading the fleet — men and women God has called to speak boldly and set the course — are already moving under His hand. My part is not to stand at the bow shouting advice, but to keep my place within the formation. Somewhere in the middle, steady, helping those near me get their boats in order, just as others once helped me.

When one vessel falters, the whole flotilla feels it. The gap it leaves opens space for the waves to break through. But when each boat holds its line, the formation becomes strong — not rigid, but united. The wind that fills one sail spreads to the others. The Holy Spirit moves across the fleet like breath, uniting many into one movement.

There will always be storms on the horizon. There will always be forces trying to scatter the fleet or lure individual boats away. But our strength is not in the size of our vessel or the volume of our voice; it is in our obedience to the same Captain, Jesus Christ. He sets the course. He steadies the wind. He commands the sea.

So I’ll keep my eyes on Him, keep my boat sound, and keep close enough to encourage those sailing near. Together, we move as a flotilla — not perfect, not fearless, but faithful. And as the fleet advances, I believe the waves themselves will begin to change — not because of our power, but because of His presence moving among us.

“The Lord will guide you continually,
And satisfy your soul in drought,
And strengthen your bones;
You shall be like a watered garden,
And like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail.”
— Isaiah 58:11 (NKJV)

The Call to Strengthen Our Boat

  “Watch, stand fast in the faith, be brave, be strong.
Let all that you do be done with love.”
— 1 Corinthians 16:13–14 (NKJV)

Lately, I’ve been struggling to understand how to respond to what’s happening in our nation. There’s so much turbulence around us — the waves of confusion, division, and fear — and part of me has wanted to take up arms, spiritually speaking, to stand and speak out. Yet each time I’ve looked to the horizon, I’ve felt the Lord turn my gaze back to my own boat.

At first, I wrestled with that. It seemed almost selfish, even naïve, to focus on my own small vessel when the seas themselves were raging. But this morning, I believe God spoke clearly to me:

“You are part of a flotilla.”

It came like a revelation — simple, but deeply grounding. I saw not a single boat adrift on rough waters, but a flotilla of vessels moving together under the same command, led by those God has called to steer the course. Some were out in front, others were alongside, and some were still patching sails and bailing water. Each boat mattered. The strength of the flotilla depended on the condition of its vessels.

I realised that our calling — mine and Linda’s — is not to chase the horizon, nor to criticise the course, but to keep our boat in order. That means maintaining balance, attending to what’s within our reach, and making sure the ropes of relationship are secure. It means allowing Christ to steady the helm and to quiet the internal waves that rise within when the external storms rage around.

The more I reflected, the more I saw that this isn’t withdrawal. It’s obedience. A neglected boat cannot join a voyage. Before we can be useful to the wider move of God, we must be seaworthy ourselves. If we are careless with the leaks and loose rigging in our own lives, we risk not only drifting off course but weakening the formation around us.

So I’m learning again to value what feels small — to take the time to tend the planks and check the sails; to speak gently within the boat, to love Linda well, to keep faith steady and conscience clear. These are not private acts of maintenance; they are acts of readiness. A flotilla cannot survive the storm if its boats are not strong.

And in that quiet obedience, I sense peace returning — the peace of knowing that even the smallest act of faithfulness helps the whole fleet move forward.

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

When the Dog Ran Off — Just as My Thoughts

It was meant to be a quiet morning. I was out with Sunshine, recording my morning prayer as I often do while we walk the park. The air was cool, the ground still damp from the night before, and everything felt in its usual rhythm. Then I looked up — and she was gone.

No sound, no movement, no trace. One moment she was trotting alongside me, the next, she’d vanished. I stopped the recording, called her name — “Sunny! Sunshine!” — and began walking the same loop again, listening, scanning, circling back. It’s a strange feeling, the stillness that comes when something that should be there suddenly isn’t.

As I walked, I found myself half praying, half calling. “Lord, You know where she is. Keep her safe.” I kept retracing my steps, hoping she’d reappear around the next bend. Then, just as suddenly as she’d disappeared, she was there again — bounding up beside me, tail wagging, as if nothing had happened. I could almost hear her saying, “What’s all the fuss about?”

I clipped her lead on for a while. Not as punishment — she’d come back, after all — but as reassurance. For both of us. It struck me that this is what God does with me. I wander off at times — distracted, preoccupied — and then, when I come running back, He doesn’t scold. He simply holds me close until I’ve settled again, and then, in time, lets me roam a little once more, but never out of His sight.

Earlier on that same walk, my mind had been wrestling with heavier things. I’d been thinking about the state of the country, the spiritual confusion of our age, and how truth seems under attack from all directions. I’d been trying to work out how to respond — how to apply truth to lies, how to stand firm without being swept into endless arguments. It was just as those thoughts were circling that Sunshine disappeared.

Looking back, it felt as if God used that moment to remind me: Don’t get lost in analysing the darkness — keep your eyes on the light. It’s easy to become so focused on what the enemy is doing that I lose sight of what God is doing. Recognising deception has its place, but I can’t live there. My calling isn’t to stare into the fog, but to walk beside the One who leads me through it.

It reminded me of the storm on the sea — how the disciples panicked when the waves rose, forgetting that Jesus was right there with them in the boat. I can be like that too, easily drawn into the noise of the storm. Laddie has always represented security for me — the steady companionship that reminds me of God’s faithfulness. Sunshine, it seems, is teaching me about distraction and return. Together they’ve become living parables: Laddie, the assurance of presence; Sunshine, the grace of being found.

I’m learning that the strength of my faith doesn’t lie in how firmly I hold on, but in how faithfully He watches over me. Just as I didn’t lose sight of Sunshine — not really, not in my heart — so He never loses sight of us, even when we vanish from view.

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

And I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish;

neither shall anyone snatch them out of My hand.” — John 10:27–28

 

Laddie – Safe in the Master’s Care

“You did not choose Me, but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit.”
— John 15:16 (NKJV)

“So, Jesus is in the boat…

but if He isn’t calming the storm, why should I feel secure?”

That question came to me one morning as I was walking our twelve-year-old Border Terrier, Laddie. The air was cool and still after rain, and as he trotted along ahead of me, tail up and ears alert, I began thinking about what it really means to be safe.

When we first got Laddie, he was only six weeks old. We’d driven hundreds of miles to bring him home — a long journey, and quite an expense at the time. He had no idea what was happening, no sense of being chosen or loved. We simply saw him, decided he was ours, and brought him home.

He didn’t earn it. He couldn’t. And even now, he doesn’t need to. He just lives in the security of being loved.

Laddie trusts that there will be food in his bowl and a walk in the morning. He doesn’t question whether we’ll still love him tomorrow. When he’s hurt or frightened, he runs to us. When he misbehaves, he’s corrected — sometimes sharply — but always forgiven. His confidence isn’t in his own goodness; it’s in our care.

Once, years ago, he wandered out of the house without me realising. When I closed the door behind me, he was left outside — alone and anxious. He ‘knocked’ at the door, scratching and whining, until I heard him and let him back in. The moment he saw me, his tail wagged furiously. He didn’t sulk or hide. He was just relieved to be home.

That image has stayed with me. Because to God, I am Laddie.

I did nothing to deserve being chosen. Jesus came for me, paid the highest price, and brought me home. I am still learning what it means to live in His household — to trust, to obey, to stay close. And when I stray, He comes looking for me.

So when I ask, why should I feel safe if Jesus isn’t calming the storm?

The answer is simple:
because my safety doesn’t depend on the weather — it depends on whose I am.

I belong to Him.
And that’s why I’m safe.

“I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; neither shall anyone snatch them out of My hand.”
— John 10:28 (NKJV)

Listening to the Lord’s Breath

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

— Isaiah 30:15 (NKJV)

As I have been reflecting on what it means for Jesus to be in the boat — especially during a storm — I found myself thinking about something simple but profound: listening to Jesus’ breath.

The storm on Galilee must have been fierce that night. The wind howling, the waves breaking over the sides, and the disciples doing all they knew to do — rowing harder, bailing water, shouting to one another, each desperate to survive.
And still, the storm raged.

Then, in the midst of it all, a sound quieter than the storm — the sound of breathing.
Not hurried or anxious, but calm, steady, and sure.
Jesus — asleep.

I imagined one disciple, perhaps the youngest, hesitating in the chaos. While others battled the elements, he crept closer to where Jesus lay. There, in the midst of wind and water, he heard it — the soft rhythm of the Lord’s breath. Each rise and fall of His chest seemed to speak without words: Peace. Trust. Rest.

Something happened inside him. The panic loosened its grip. The noise outside didn’t change, but the noise within began to settle. That quiet sound reset his heartbeat, slowed his thoughts, and brought assurance that the Lord’s presence was enough.

He looked toward the others — soaked, exhausted, afraid — and whispered,

“It’s all right… the Lord is here. Sit down and rest.”

Perhaps he didn’t even know why he said it, but it was true. The breath of Christ carried more authority than the storm itself.

When my own mind feels loud, and the waves of worry rise, I remember that breath — not as a memory of the story, but as a living reality. His Spirit still breathes peace into those who will pause long enough to listen.

If I stop straining against the wind, sit still, and listen — really listen — I begin to hear it again.
And as I do, the storm may continue, but it no longer owns my heart.

“Surely I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with his mother;
like a weaned child is my soul within me.”
— Psalm 131:2 (NKJV)

Before I can navigate the storm, I must first learn to rest in it.

The Storm Within the Boat

 “Then He arose and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, ‘Peace, be still!’”

— Mark 4:39 (NKJV)

In every relationship there is a boat, and in that boat two people ride out storms together. Some storms come from outside the pressures of life, loss, or fear. Others rise from within old wounds, unspoken expectations, and the quiet clash between how men and women feel, think, and decide.

When the waves rise, it’s often the woman who feels them first. Her heart senses the change in air pressure, the threat, the movement, the emotion. It’s as though she can smell the storm before it breaks.
The man, meanwhile, may still be adjusting the sail, scanning the horizon, trying to work out where the wind is coming from. He’s less tuned to the waves, more to the course.

One husband once said to me that when he sensed a storm coming, whether from his wife’s unrest, a son’s struggle, or his own awareness that something was shifting, his instinct was to get out of the boat and pull it ashore. “I need to fix it,” he said. “The thought of sitting still feels alien to me.” 

And yet sometimes, that’s exactly what faith requires: to stay in the boat, to remain beside those who are afraid, and wait for Jesus to speak.

When fear grips one and striving grips the other, the boat begins to drift. But when they remember that the boat is not theirs alone, that Jesus is in it too, the panic subsides. The storm is still there, but no longer in control.

Perhaps the real call to men is not to dominate the sea or silence the waves, but to stay awake, to be present, listening for Christ’s command rather than reacting to fear. And perhaps the call to women is not to suppress what they feel, but to let their sensitivity become the early warning that brings the boat to prayer rather than panic.

When both trust the same Captain, strength and sensitivity become companions, not competitors.
The wind still howls, but the boat holds steady, not because they have mastered the sea, but because they have remembered Who commands it.

And maybe that’s the quiet truth behind all the storms we face, whether in marriage, ministry, or life itself. The goal was never to escape the weather, but to learn to stay with Him in it. Each storm becomes another lesson in trust; another reminder that peace is not the absence of wind, but the presence of Christ.

Jesus in the Boat — Finding Peace in the Storms Between Us

There’s a moment in Mark’s Gospel that has always spoken deeply to me. Jesus and His disciples are crossing the Sea of Galilee when a furious storm suddenly sweeps down. The waves crash into the boat, the wind howls, and the disciples — experienced fishermen — panic. Meanwhile, Jesus is asleep in the stern, on a cushion.

When they wake Him, shouting, “Teacher, don’t You care that we are perishing?” Jesus rises, rebukes the wind, and says to the sea, “Peace, be still.” And the wind ceases, and there is a great calm. Then He asks them, “Why are you so fearful? How is it that you have no faith?” (Mark 4:35-41 NKJV)

That story is more than an account of wind and waves — it’s a picture of what happens between people, especially within marriage. Sometimes the storm is not outside the boat but inside it — between two people who love each other but are caught in a moment of fear, frustration, or misunderstanding. Words are said, feelings rise, and suddenly the boat that once felt steady begins to pitch and roll.

We can’t always prevent these storms. Differences, hurts, and pressures come. What matters is whether we remember that Jesus is still in the boat. When we turn toward Him instead of against one another, His presence begins to calm the waters. It may not happen instantly — often we must ride out the storm together — but when the winds subside, He helps us to tidy up, to forgive, and to find peace again.

For me, this passage has become a living metaphor for relationships:

• The boat represents the life we share — marriage, family, friendship.

• The storm represents the conflicts that test our love and faith.

• The sleeping Christ represents the peace that is present but often forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Faith doesn’t mean we’ll never clash. It means that when we do, we have Someone greater than our emotions who can still the storm — within and between us.

“And suddenly there was a great calm.”

May that calm, born of His presence, steady your heart and home today.

Sitting Still in the Storm

Sometimes when the storm begins to rise, our first instinct is to row harder — to fix, to control, to make something happen. We think that if we can just do a bit more, push a bit harder, we’ll somehow quiet the wind. But faith often asks the opposite of us.

Jesus’ words to the wind and the waves were the same words He speaks to our hearts: “Peace, be still.”

Stillness isn’t weakness. It’s the quiet strength that trusts God is already at work when we can’t see how. To sit still in the storm is not to give up, but to yield the oars and let Christ take hold of them. It’s the discipline of resting in His presence when everything in us wants to act.

In those moments, stillness becomes a kind of worship — an act of surrender that says, “You are Lord, even over this.”

When we choose to sit still, we begin to see more clearly who is truly steering the boat.

Fourteen Years Later — Still in the Same Boat

It’s been some time since my last post, in fact, more than a decade. When I first wrote here in 2011, life and ministry looked quite different. Since then, much has changed, yet the heart of Grace and Faith Counselling remains the same: helping people find hope and steadiness in the storms of life.

The last ten years have held many challenges, both personally and in the country. Perhaps the greatest for us was Covid — learning to adapt to online counselling and technology (I am finally comfortable with Zoom appointments!). Linda’s health declined and she had to retire, and I too stepped back from tutoring counselling courses at Epping Forest College to focus on Grace and Faith Counselling as a semi-retired counsellor.

Through it all, our relationship with God has remained our foundation keeping us sane in an often insane world. I’ve been honoured to walk with many clients through their own storms and to witness, time and again, how His grace meets people right where they are.

As I return to writing, I hope to share a few reflections drawn from Scripture, faith, and counselling experience. The first of these, “Jesus in the Boat,” explores one of my favourite metaphors for living through life’s storms with Christ at the centre.

I hope you will find these reflections helpful.

In many ways, that image of the storm-tossed boat has come to mean more to me with each passing year. Life brings tempests we never saw coming, yet the lesson remains the same: Jesus is still in the boat. The next reflection grew out of that truth — a meditation on what it means to stay calm, keep faith, and let His presence still the storm within.