Let Him Into the Boat

Ted Yule 

February 6, 2026

When I was young, my aunt and uncle had a cottage on Goulais Bay, a wide, beautiful bay on Lake Superior. The bay is massive—close to ten miles across—and when the weather was calm, it felt like the safest place on earth. Summers were marked by weekends there, and some of my best childhood memories were made on that water.

One of the highlights was always the boat rides. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a homebuilt 13-foot boat with what felt, at the time, like a monster motor. I think it was 12 or 15 horsepower, but when you’re young, that kind of power feels unlimited. As I got older, my uncle trusted me with more responsibility. First, I got to steer while he sat beside me. Eventually, he let me take the boat out on my own.

That freedom was intoxicating.

As confidence often does, it slowly turned into adventure. One day, I decided to take the boat farther from the cabin than I ever had before. I kept going, pushing toward the mouth of the bay. I didn’t have charts, GPS, or any real understanding of what the open lake could do. I just knew I wanted to see what was out there.

And then, almost without warning, I was in water I had never navigated.

The waves grew quickly—six feet or more. My little 13-foot boat was suddenly very small. I could manage the waves head-on, riding up and down as they came toward me. But what terrified me wasn’t the waves in front of me—it was the thought of turning. If I turned broadside to those waves, I wasn’t at all confident I’d survive it.

Fear has a way of sharpening your focus.

I don’t remember praying eloquently in that moment. I remember gripping the wheel, watching the timing, choosing the moment, and turning. Somehow, I made it. I got back to safety, never told anyone about it, and quietly decided that part of the bay was no longer for me.

Years later, that memory came rushing back as I was reading Gospel of John 6:15–21.

It’s the account of the disciples crossing the lake at night while a strong wind was blowing. The storm was raging, and they were struggling at the oars. Then they saw Jesus walking toward them on the water.

John’s version of the story is interesting because it leaves out some details we get in the other Gospels. There’s no Peter stepping out of the boat. No dialogue beyond Jesus identifying Himself. Just fear, confusion, and waves.

“They were frightened,” John tells us.

That always made sense to me. A storm at night is bad enough. A person walking toward you on the water in the middle of it? That’s not comforting.

But there was one phrase I’d never really noticed before. Verse 21 says, “Then they were willing to take him into the boat…” (NIV).

Willing.

That word stopped me.

The disciples were already in trouble. They were already afraid. They already saw Jesus. He had already told them who He was: “It is I; don’t be afraid.” Or more literally, “I AM.”

They knew who He was.

And yet, they still had to be willing to take Him into the boat.

That detail feels uncomfortably familiar.

How often are we in the middle of a storm—emotional, financial, relational, spiritual—and we know Jesus is there? We know the right answers. We know the verses. We can say, “God is sovereign,” or “Jesus is the answer,” or “The Lord is with me.”

But knowing He’s there isn’t the same as letting Him into the boat.

The disciples could have kept rowing. They could have kept managing the storm themselves. They could have said, “We see you, Jesus. We believe in you. But we’ve got this… for now.”

Instead, they were willing to take Him in.

And John adds one more line that’s easy to rush past: “…and immediately the boat reached the shore where they were heading.” (John 6:21, NIV)

Immediately.

No more struggling. No more rowing against the wind. No extended recovery period. Once Jesus was in the boat, the journey was effectively over.

That doesn’t mean the storm never existed. It means the storm no longer determined the outcome.

I think this is where many of us get stuck. We’re sincere believers. We trust Jesus for eternity. We believe He is “I AM.” But when it comes to our present storm, we keep Him standing just outside the boat.

We pray about the problem, but we don’t invite Him into it.

We keep rowing. We keep striving. We keep managing. Somewhere deep down, we think perseverance means doing it ourselves just a little longer—when what Jesus is actually doing is showing up and saying, “Let Me in.”

There’s a subtle humility required here. Letting Jesus into the boat means admitting that our strength, our strategy, and our stamina aren’t enough. It means releasing control—not spiritually, in theory, but practically, in real decisions and real trust.

Sometimes we’d rather stay exhausted in the storm than surrender the oars.

Looking back at that day on Lake Superior, I realize something. What scared me most wasn’t just the waves—it was the loss of control. Turning the boat meant committing to something I couldn’t fully manage anymore. Staying head-on felt safer, even though it prolonged the danger.

We do the same thing with God.

We face our storms head-on, keep grinding, keep rowing, keep telling ourselves we’re handling it—when Jesus is right there, ready to step in and bring us where we were meant to go all along.

The disciples didn’t need better rowing technique. They needed His presence in the boat.

So here’s the question I’ve been sitting with: What storm am I willing to acknowledge Jesus in—but not yet willing to let Him into?

Because the moment He’s invited in, the destination is no longer in doubt.

Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is stop rowing, open the side of the boat, and say, “Lord, come in.”

And then let Him get on with it.