Steady Presence Beats Strong Opinion Every Time

An older man and a young boy sitting on a dock, gazing at a sunset over a calm lake.

We live in an age drunk on opinion. Everyone has one. Most have ten. And thanks to the miracle of Wi-Fi, we can broadcast them before we’ve even had our second cup of tea. Strong opinions are applauded. Quick takes are rewarded. Volume often masquerades as wisdom. But in leadership—and in parenting—steady presence beats strong opinion every time. Let me explain.

In leadership circles, the loudest voice in the room is often mistaken for the strongest. It’s not. It’s simply the loudest. A strong opinion may win an argument. It rarely wins a heart. Children do not flourish under the weight of your certainty; they flourish under the shelter of your steadiness. The same is true of teams. When a leader reacts quickly, declares boldly, and pivots sharply with every new headline, people feel the tremor beneath their feet. But when a leader is steady—calm, measured, not easily rattled—others exhale. And when people exhale, they think better. They risk more. They grow. Think of Winston Churchill during the Blitz. He had opinions—strong ones. But what the British people drew strength from wasn’t merely his rhetoric. It was that he stood in the rubble with them. He did not disappear. Presence anchored his words. In crisis, people do not need your sharpest insight first. They need to know you’re not going anywhere.

To Parents and Grandparents

Parenting is a long game. As parents, and grandparents, we are tempted to correct everything in real time. Every mistake. Every attitude. Every misstep. You can spend your life chasing behaviour with opinions. Or you can build a climate with presence. Presence says, “I’m here. I’m not panicked. You’re not too much for me.” Strong opinion says, “Here’s what’s wrong. Here’s how you fix it. Here’s why you’re mistaken.” There is a place for guidance, absolutely. Scripture is not shy about correction. But notice how often Christ simply stayed with people. Consider Jesus with Peter after failure. He did not unload a lecture on loyalty metrics. He made breakfast. Then he restored him. Presence first. Instruction second. That order matters more than we think.

If you are constantly asserting your opinion, it is often because you are afraid of losing authority. Ironically, the more you insist, the more you diminish. Authority grows quietly when people experience you as consistent. You do not overreact. You do not shift with every emotional gust. You do not disappear when things get awkward. In boardrooms and living rooms alike, steadiness is magnetic. A steady leader does not rush to fill every silence. A steady parent does not escalate every conflict. A steady grandfather does not need to win every debate at the table. He just needs to be there: anchored, attentive, unflustered. That kind of presence becomes a reference point in other people’s storms.

Five years from now, most of your opinions about cultural flare-ups will be irrelevant. But your children will remember whether you were emotionally safe. Your team will remember whether you were consistent. Your spouse will remember whether you were available. Strong opinions often serve our ego. Steady presence serves others. And if we are honest, ego is loud. Love is steady.

What does steady look like?

Steadiness is not passivity. It is disciplined restraint. It is strength under control. It is choosing timing over impulse. It is asking a question before issuing a verdict. It is listening long enough that your eventual words carry weight. The leaders I trust most are not those who always know what to say. They are those who know when not to speak. There is a difference.

So..

Before you offer your next strong opinion, pause. Ask yourself if this is the right moment. Ask whether your motive is clarity or control. Ask whether your presence alone might accomplish more. You may find that simply staying calm, staying curious, and staying near does more good than your carefully constructed argument. And if you must choose between being right and being relational, choose relational. Right answers without relationship harden hearts. Steady presence softens them. In leadership and in parenting, you are not building a case. You are building people. And people grow best in the company of someone who isn’t going anywhere.

What the Dog Knows

Murphy doesn’t understand my world. He just trusts me.

(There is a sermon in that.)

Every night, without fail, our wee Murphy, half Maltese and half Yorkshire Terrier, entirely convinced he owns the place, pads across the bedroom floor, climbs up onto the bed, and curls himself into the crook of my legs. He lets out a small sigh, tucks his nose under his tail, and that’s that. He’s home.

Last night I was thinking about what he doesn’t know when he does that.

He doesn’t know what I’m carrying. He has no idea whether the day was good or brutal, whether the conversation I’m replaying went well or sideways, whether the decision I’m sitting with is straightforward or costly. He doesn’t know my theology, my calendar, my concerns. He’s a small dog with a smart mind and an unshakeable confidence that the person he’s curling up with is safe.

That’s not ignorance. That’s trust.

It’s the kind of trust that doesn’t require complete information before it leans in. Murphy has enough. He knows who I am to him — and that’s sufficient. He doesn’t wait until he understands everything about my world before he closes the distance.

I wonder how different that is from the way many of us approach God.

We want resolution before we’ll fully lean in. We want the diagnosis explained, the relationship repaired, the finances stabilised, the path clarified — and then we’ll settle into trust. We treat understanding as the precondition for proximity. But Murphy doesn’t operate that way. He doesn’t need to understand me. He just needs to be near me.

Which brings me to the second thing Murphy teaches me, almost without trying.

He’s not there to ask for anything. He’s not negotiating a treat or positioning for a walk. He’s not presenting a list of needs. He just — comes. The closeness is the whole point. There’s no agenda tucked under those folded paws. Just presence, freely given and fully enjoyed.

I find this quietly convicting. If I’m honest, much of my prayer life is transactional. I come to God with a fairly well-organised list. Which is not wrong — he invites it. But somewhere in the busyness of bringing requests, I can miss the simpler thing: just drawing close.

Murphy never seems to feel he has to earn his place beside me. He doesn’t arrive tentatively, hoping he’ll be tolerated. He comes with a kind of quiet “I belong here” confidence, and settles in. That confidence isn’t arrogance. It’s just the fruit of a relationship that has been consistent.

That’s what I want my approach to God to look like. Not striving to get his attention. Not performing well enough to deserve the access. Just coming. Trusting that he’s good, that I’m known, that the closeness itself is something he welcomes.

There’s a reason the ancient writers kept returning to the image of shelter — of being held, covered, close. It’s not weakness. It’s wisdom. The creature finding its right place beside the one it belongs to.

So here’s my question for you: When did you last come to God with no list? When did you last just draw close? Not to get something resolved. Not to present your case. Just to be near.

Murphy figured this out without any theology at all. Maybe that’s the point.

“Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you.” — James 4:8

When Leaders Lose Heart: Walking with Others Through Disappointment

I’ve sat across from countless leaders over the years—some at the pinnacle of their careers, radiating confidence and success, and others in those quiet, dimly lit corners of defeat. While we love to celebrate the victories (and rightfully so!), the unspoken reality of leadership is that disappointment isn’t just possible; it’s inevitable.

When a leader sits before me, shoulders slumped under the weight of a vision that didn’t come to pass or a betrayal they never saw coming, my heart breaks a little. I know that weight intimately. I’ve carried it myself. But I also know that this moment, heavy as it is, holds a profound invitation for growth that success simply cannot offer.

In mentoring, our role isn’t just to cheerlead the wins. It’s to sit in the ashes with someone and help them find the embers that are still glowing—and trust me, they’re always there.

The Silent Weight of Leadership Disappointment

Disappointment in leadership is a unique kind of pain. It’s rarely just about a failed project or a missed quarter. For most leaders I know, our work is deeply woven into our sense of calling and identity. When things go sideways, it doesn’t just feel like a professional setback; it feels deeply personal. It can feel like a complete disorientation of the soul.

When I mentor leaders walking through this valley, I understand the temptation to hide it. We feel we need to keep that “brave face” on for our teams, our boards, and even our families. But here’s the thing—hiding disappointment only allows it to fester into bitterness or cynicism.

The Ministry of Validation

One of the most powerful things we can do as mentors is simply to validate the pain. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Yet, leaders are so often told to “shake it off” or “pivot” that they rarely get permission to just say, “This hurts like hell.”

When a leader tells me about a key staff member leaving or a strategy that flopped spectacularly, I don’t rush to fix it. I don’t immediately quote Romans 8:28, even though I believe it with every fibre of my being. First, I say, “That must be incredibly hard. I’m so sorry.”

Validation is the first step toward healing. It acknowledges that the loss is real and raw. It tells the leader that their feelings aren’t a sign of weakness, but a beautifully human response to a broken situation. By validating their pain, we create a safe harbour where they can drop anchor, stop drifting, and just breathe.

Moving from Lament to Learning

However, we can’t stay in the harbour forever. There comes a time when we must help the leader lift their eyes from what was to what could be. This is the delicate pivot from lament to learning—and it requires both wisdom and impeccable timing.

Disappointment has a way of revealing our foundations. It strips away the superfluous and forces us to ask those hard questions:

Was my identity tied too tightly to this outcome?
What can I learn about my own leadership style through this mess?
Is there a character issue God is trying to refine in me?

I often tell the leaders I mentor that God is the great Recycler. He wastes absolutely nothing. The pain you’re feeling today? That’s the raw material for the wisdom you’ll share tomorrow.

This isn’t about toxic positivity or pretending the failure was “good.” It’s about stewardship. How will you steward this disappointment? Will you let it harden you, or will you let it soften you, making you more empathetic and resilient?

Reframing the Narrative

One of the most critical skills we can teach is reframing. When we’re in the thick of it, our perspective shrinks dramatically. We see only the immediate loss. As mentors, we have the privilege—and responsibility—of holding the long view.

I think of those great cathedral builders of centuries past. Many of them laid foundations for structures they knew they would never see completed. They lived for a vision bigger than their own lifespan. Now that’s what I call faith in action.

When I help a leader reframe their disappointment, we look for the long arc of God’s faithfulness. Maybe this “no” is protection from a danger we can’t see. Maybe this closed door is steering us toward a path where we’ll be far more effective for the Kingdom.

Reframing doesn’t change the past, but it drastically changes how we walk into the future. It shifts us from victims of circumstance to active participants in a larger, more beautiful story.

A Call to Honest Resilience

If you’re mentoring someone right now who’s ready to throw in the towel, or if you are that leader feeling the sting of a dream deferred, I want to offer you this hope: You are not finished. Not even close.

Your calling as a leader isn’t to be flawless; it’s to be faithful.

Resilience isn’t about never getting knocked down. It’s about how we get back up—with a limp, perhaps, but also with a new depth of character that only the struggle could produce. The most impactful mentors I know aren’t the ones with perfect track records. They’re the ones who can look you in the eye and say, “I’ve been where you are, and I know the way through.”

Let’s be leaders who don’t just survive disappointment but who allow it to transform us into people of greater depth, compassion, and wisdom. The world desperately needs that kind of leader.

Let’s Go Deeper

This topic is so close to my heart that Chuck, Ingrid, and I dedicated an entire conversation to it. In Episode 43 of the Mentored Podcast, titled “Dealing with Disappointment,” we open up about our own struggles and share practical ways to navigate these choppy waters.

We discuss:

How to manage the complex emotions of setbacks without suppressing them.
Practical steps for reframing your narrative.
How to apply faith when your reality doesn’t match your vision.

I invite you to listen. Whether you need encouragement for your own heart or wisdom to help someone else, I believe this episode will be a balm for your soul.

[Listen to Episode 43 on Apple Podcasts here]

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this vital topic.

Four Years – Not Like Three

I was in Northern Ireland with my close friend and ministry colleague Martin Sanders on the fourth anniversary of Brenda’s death.

Martin’s wife Dianna died five years ago also in the month of August and we have been walking with each other through the grief the journey of grief and it has been so good to share life together.

The fourth anniversary of Brenda’s passing did not feel like the third. Being in Ireland this year was the first time away from my family on the anniversary. The family are doing well. This summer we had been together talking at Barnabas about how we were doing so I am comfortable with that – I just miss them when I’m away.

On the morning of the twelfth, Martin and I were invited for “a cuppa” by Dr. Arthur Peebles. (That is Northern Irish for coming by for a “wee cup of tea.” ) There we were, three doctors together in a quiet well lit Irish sitting room sharing together about the loss of our soul mates. Arthur lost his Ann four years ago and he and I have spoken of this on previous visits. Martin’s Dianna died five years ago August 22nd, and of course I also experienced the second loss of my fiancé Ruth.

We are all reasonably intelligent men and understand that the experiencing of grief is normal, but that doesn’t mean it’s simple. As we shared we discovered it hasn’t been easy for any of us. Often the most common shared experience was the longing for the companionship we once shared with our wives.

Science has demonstrated another dimension of why we crave companionship so strongly. When your loved one is alive, the comfort of their very presence sets off neural reward activity in your brain. After they pass away, adapting to the loss is compounded by the disappearance of this stimulus/reward activity. Over time, we learn to cope with the death and don’t expect this same reward. But if you struggle with complicated grief, your brain continues to crave it.

Dictionary.com defines craving as something you long for, want greatly, desire eagerly, and beg for.

We have come to take the perspective that God made us to crave so we’d always desire more of Him.