Interference or Intervention — Learning to Be Still in the Boat

 

“The Lord will fight for you, and you shall hold your peace.”
— Exodus 14:14 (NKJV)

A word that stopped me in my tracks

I remember hearing these words within my spirit as clearly as if they were spoken aloud:

David, consider the difference between interference and intervention. The term ‘interference’ generally refers to an action or process that hinders or obstructs another action or process. Without My guidance, you will interfere, whereas I will intervene. Although I may intervene unilaterally, I do intervene as a result of a petition or prayer. I usually let things play out according to the choices and will of individuals and I intervene when asked to. How I intervene involves many factors and will not usually be the way you would expect because you have a narrow view of the situation. Think about how you wish Me to intervene and then watch to see how I do what you ask. Be careful not to assume I will answer in a way or at a time you demand because it will stop you from seeing what I do.”

Those words have stayed with me. They marked a turning point in how I respond to the storms that rise in my marriage — and perhaps, more broadly, in how I see my role as a husband.

The boat and the storm

When I picture the boat these days, I don’t see “life” in general.

I see Linda and me.

When I see the storm, I don’t imagine external troubles — not grief, not finances, not even the many losses we’ve carried together.

I see Linda upset or angry at me.

And perhaps, for many husbands, that’s the real storm.
It’s not what’s happening around us, but what’s happening between us.
It’s the tension that rises when love meets misunderstanding, when fear meets fear, when one heart feels unseen and the other feels unheard.
Over the years, I’ve realised something humbling:
When I react to the storm, I interfere.
When I wait on God in the storm, I give Him room to intervene.

The danger of interference

When I interfere, I act from anxiety — I try to fix, justify, or defend.
It feels active and loving in the moment, but it almost always gets in God’s way.
My words come out too quickly. My tone carries too much heat.
And somewhere in that reaction, I stop listening to Linda and start listening to my own fears.
That’s what the Lord was teaching me — that my efforts to “calm the storm” can actually stir the water further.

Interference is the reflex of fear dressed up as control.
Intervention, by contrast, is the fruit of faith working through peace.

Learning to hold peace

It takes courage to be still when the emotional wind rises.
Stillness isn’t inaction — it’s trust in motion.
It means breathing before speaking.
It means choosing to pray before reacting.
It means believing that Christ is already awake in the boat, even when He seems to be sleeping.
That’s where the phrase “The Lord will fight for you, and you shall hold your peace” became real to me.
It doesn’t mean I abandon my role as a husband.
It means I learn the rhythm of grace — when to act, when to wait, and when to simply listen to Jesus’ breath before doing anything at all.

The calm before the calm

There’s always a moment before peace — a moment where I have to surrender my need to be right, or understood, or justified.
That’s where interference ends and intervention begins.
God never rushes to prove me right. He intervenes to make us both whole.
I used to think headship meant taking charge in the storm.
Now I think it means trusting first, listening first, and staying still long enough to let God steer.

“Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you.”
— John 14:27 (NKJV)

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)