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