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My beloved nephew, Kevin--now married and a father of four--was about four years old. We were swimming together at my parents' home nestled in the foothills of Burbank, California. Kevin has always cast himself headfirst into his athletic pursuits. On that day long ago, however, he thrashed about in the water and cast himself head first into the concrete wall of the pool.
I rushed through the water and scooped him into my arms, intent on quieting his cries. After a few moments, his father, my brother, knelt by the pool and whispered into my ear, "That's enough. Leave him be." He then turned to Kevin, and calmly directed, "That's enough Kevin. No more tears."
Heartless.
Or so I thought then, foolishly.
Since Kevin and his brother Daniel were children, their parents sought to instill within them resilience and courage. To teach them to grieve their losses for a time, then to summon their determination and press on. To instruct them to curb expectation of being rescued.
And I learned a lesson that summer afternoon, as well. To resist the compulsion to rescue. For some, the compulsion is born of love and of an opportunity to fill a need; for others--and I say this to my own embarrassment--the compulsion is born of a need to be loved and of a love to feel needed.
What does the word "rescue" suggest to you? When might it be appropriate? When might it be, well, not so much?
Would you agree or disagree that the desire to rescue another can become a compulsion? Why, or why not?
How might we stand alongside of another without attempting to rescue?
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