“EEEEE! Be careful! You're going to get hurt!” My twelve-year-old niece froze.

A few minutes earlier, she’d climbed onto my power wheelchair, beaming as she carefully placed her hand on the joystick.

I’d set the speed to its lowest setting—about a quarter of a typical walking pace—and, using my forearm crutch as I often do throughout the day, I walked beside her as I taught her how to safely propel the chair.

It’s a rite of passage for older kids in our family to learn to drive my chair—not only exciting for the child, but a deliberate attempt by me to normalize disability and foster hearts of acceptance and inclusion.   

At one point, she turned the joystick a little too sharply, and the chair slowly rolled about half a foot onto the level grass beside the sidewalk. As she gently steered it back onto the path, a friend came up behind us and began to sharply call words of fear and caution.

My niece’s back stiffened, and her shoulders went up around her ears. She wavered a moment before continuing cautiously down the path. 

As my friend opened her mouth to yell some more, I gently placed my hand on her arm. “Let’s encourage her instead. Shouting fearful words is going to undermine her confidence.” It was something I spent years reconciling within myself.

My friend looked at me with surprise. “How else would you teach her to be safe? Being afraid will keep her safe.”

“If we teach her to use her wise mind to evaluate situations, then she can proceed to make safer choices,” I countered. “If fear becomes her first response to mistakes, then instead of learning to evaluate a situation wisely, she may become afraid to try.” My friend looked thoughtful. 

We continued down the path with no further incidents, and soon my niece stopped the chair and got off—her joy in riding the wheelchair gone. She had begun by smiling, experimenting, learning. However, sharp words of fear hadn’t made her wiser. They had simply scared her and taken away her desire to learn with joy.

I’ve been mulling the situation and the following conversation over for the past few weeks. 

Of course, teaching caution isn’t wrong. We save lives by teaching children to respect traffic, water, and fire. The goal isn't the absence of caution—it is teaching wisdom in a way that builds confidence rather than replacing it with fear.  

As I reflected on that afternoon, I realized it wasn't just about teaching my niece to drive a wheelchair. There is a bigger lesson for me to learn about the best way to help a person grow. 

I found myself thinking about the way Jesus so often walked alongside people who were learning, struggling, and vulnerable.

The New Testament is full of stories of Jesus coming alongside people—particularly the vulnerable. Although Jesus was not afraid to challenge people with sometimes difficult truths, he didn’t lead people with fear. He approached them with love, gentleness, and mercy.  

This aligns with the words of Jesus’ brother James, who taught that the wisdom God calls us to live with is peace loving, gentle at all times, willing to yield to others, and full of mercy (James 3:17, NLT).

And yet, I find myself reflecting how easy it is, in our desire to help a vulnerable person, to inadvertently speak fear into their life instead of hope and joy. My friend’s fear-based words came from a heart that cares deeply about my niece. She wanted to protect her.

Many of us do exactly this when a person we care about is facing a vulnerability. I’ve done that, too. As a mother who adopts older kids from foster care, many of whom are neurodivergent and have experienced significant trauma, my first tendency is to want to protect them with all I am. I’ve learned the hard way that overprotection doesn’t serve them.

The same mistake can happen when we volunteer in a church program for people with intellectual disabilities, work with newcomers to our community, or in other ways seek to help people.

It might not be that we consciously intend to make people afraid—but nonetheless, we can easily fall into a pattern of seeing that person in a box based on limits of their perceived vulnerabilities, instead of walking alongside them as they grow. 

We all, in our love of vulnerable people, must take a careful look at if our support is helping someone grow or limiting them.

Christ-like love doesn’t follow behind a person shouting fear, and it doesn’t stand in front, blocking their way or telling them they are not capable of succeeding. It walks with a person as they take appropriate risks, learn from mistakes, and grow, with wisdom, toward the full life Christ dreams of for them.