A friend of mine, Tessa, spent her teenage years aboard a 71-foot sailing yacht with her family, a vessel that demanded real seamanship. Long before GPS, her father read the stars, charts, and maps with the precision of a seasoned navigator, steady with a sextant and calm in a storm.
Life aboard that yacht was demanding but wonderful. The family and small crew sailed from port to port, creating memories that lasted a lifetime. Her father handled the galley as confidently as the sails. Every meal bore his touch in equal parts skill, joy, and flair.
‘Stay. I’ll teach you.’ Those words are the melody of mercy and the quiet assurance that keep weary caregivers from giving up.
After many months, he decided to bring another hand on board to help with the sailing and cooking. While docked in the south of France, Tessa met a young man living alone on a boat in dry dock. He was surviving on oatmeal and sharing it with a cat. Something about him stirred her compassion, and when she learned he had sailing experience, she introduced him to her father.
Seeing potential, the captain asked a simple question.
“Can you cook?”
“Sure, I can cook,” the young man replied.
To find out, the captain assigned him a meal for the family: pork chops, potatoes, and vegetables. When the food was served, everyone quickly realized the truth. The meal was so bad that they threw it overboard.
The family and crew sat silently, watching to see what the captain would do. He had every right to send the young man away — throw him overboard like the meal. But he did not.
He smiled. “Stay,” he said. “I’ll teach you.”
And he did.
That moment changed the young man’s life. From then on, he learned from the master day after day in the ship’s galley. When his time with the family ended, he carried a letter of recommendation that earned him a position in a fine restaurant. Years later, he managed a marina, bought one, and built a good life — all because one man refused to throw him overboard.
I already knew Tessa’s father, so hearing that story from her carried special meaning. I could picture the scene, the tension in that little galley, the expectant faces, the quiet pause before the verdict. But what the captain did was more than kindness; it was redemption. He saw failure, yet chose to restore and teach.
What a great picture of the gospel.
Christ finds us floundering in our own sin. We may bluff our way on board, convinced we can handle life. But when the Master steps into view, our self-made confidence collapses.
And here is the wonder: the Redeemer does not leave us in shame. He saves us, then teaches us.
That order matters. Salvation first, sanctification after. We are not accepted because we can learn; we are taught because we’ve been accepted.
That is grace. And it’s also the heart of many caregivers’ journeys.
Most caregivers never planned this voyage. Some of us bluff our way on board, thinking we’ve got this figured out. Others climb aboard unaware of how poor our skills really are. But it doesn’t take long to find out — we come up short.
We think we can “cook” until the storm hits, a diagnosis, a disability, an accident, and we realize we’re in over our heads. The meals we serve, our best efforts, often come out burned and bitter.
But Christ, the steady Captain, doesn’t throw us overboard. He teaches us, patiently and personally, in the galley of daily struggle.
C.S. Lewis once observed that God is not content to leave us as we are; He is shaping us into something far better than we imagined. That shaping often happens in the quiet, ordinary places where so many caregivers live.
Some of His lessons come softly: how to sit in silence beside a hospital bed, how to pray when words run dry, how to rest even when sleep won’t come. Others are harder, such as learning to forgive those who don’t understand or to accept help when pride tells us to refuse.
Over time, we learn, not because we are gifted, but because He is faithful.
Every caregiver I know can point to moments when someone showed them that same mercy: a nurse who stayed late to explain a procedure, a pastor who listened instead of lectured, a spouse who forgave a sharp word. Each of them reflected the Redeemer’s voice: “Stay. I’ll teach you.”
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Tessa’s father not only knew his way around his ship’s galley; he knew his way around any kitchen. His name is Graham Kerr, and the world knew him as “The Galloping Gourmet.”
But this story isn’t about fame or food. It’s about redemption that becomes instruction — grace that saves, then sanctifies.
Christ does that with us. He is not merely a teacher or navigator; He is the One who walks on water and calms the seas. He doesn’t choose us for our skill; He redeems us for His glory. And He doesn’t give up when we burn the meal.
For family caregivers, that’s good news. We don’t have to be perfect; we only have to stay aboard.
“Stay. I’ll teach you.”
Those words are the melody of mercy and the quiet assurance that keep weary caregivers from giving up. Under the Master’s hand, even our failures serve His purpose.
