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Print Dear Gabby, Please help me! My 81 year-old mother came to live with me a few years ago. I had been on my own since I was 17 years old. I am now in my fifties so it’s been a challenge to have my mother back telling me what to do. She is a Christian but you would not know it by her constant complaining. All she does is moan, groan and complain. She complains to me about her aches and pains. She’ll let out a big groan and then, when I ask her what the problem is, she’ll tell me, “Oh, nothing.” I feel so bad, because I don't want to disrespect my mom and I want to honor her as my parent, but honestly she is driving me crazy! (By the way, she will not stay with any of my other brothers or sisters.) Help! Desperate in Delaware Dear Desperate in Delaware, Handsome old Jimmy Cooper and I have a Tuesday afternoon checkers date at the corner table in my neighborhood clubhouse. The light is especially good at that table and, at our age, we need all the light we can get. We’ve been playing for the past two and a half years and have kept a running score of wins and losses. As of last Tuesday, I was ahead of Jimmy by two games! Jimmy doesn’t live here. His apartment is in our town’s other retirement community and, just like high schools, I have to admit there’s a bit of rivalry between our two communities. Somehow, without either of us realizing it, our weekly checkers game has turned into The Game. My neighbors come out of their apartments and gather near our table, 30 minutes before Jimmy even arrives. And when he gets here, more often than not, he has a few friends with him. Everyone maneuvers for the best position to see the game and one time, in the middle of the game, Jimmy set his iced tea on the spectators’ side of the table and almost incited a riot. So what started out as a way for me to reconnect with a handsome old friend has turned into a nerve-wracking entertainment for a bunch of ancient geezers. One disadvantage of old geezers is that our hearing is not what it used to be, which means that when one of the spectators attempts to whisper something to the neighbor (usually about what move Jimmy or I should make next), the neighbor says, “Eh? What’s that? Speak up! Can’t hear mumbling.” Which then makes the armchair strategist shout, “Gabby should jump that king on the second row!” Jimmy’s hearing is just fine, and he plays Checkers with a constant twinkle in his beautiful blue eyes. The second Tuesday in August this past year, Mrs. Hamilton “attended” The Game. I was very surprised to see her since she didn’t usually participate in anything. No one wanted to sit near her, and I heard some mumbling about why she came to ruin the fun. Mrs. Hamilton only sees the bad side of things. On sunny days, she complains that it’s too bright. In the winter it’s too cold; the summer is too hot. Spring is too wet and fall is too windy. Christmas is too noisy and there’s too much food on Thanksgiving. (Whoever heard of too much food?) Her clothes are too tight or too loose or too blue or too red. The retirement community either doesn’t plan enough activities or the ones they plan don’t meet with her approval. It’s maddening, at times! Things went fine with cantankerous old Mrs. Hamilton during the first half of the game, even though Jimmy captured more of my pieces than I wanted him to. Then Mrs. Hamilton started her negative talk. “These chairs are dreadfully uncomfortable,” she said querulously. “Why doesn’t the community center spend some money on nice ones? We certainly pay through the nose to live here.” A collective groan went up from the crowd. The spectators from Jimmy’s retirement community (who didn’t know Mrs. Hamilton) looked at her curiously. “What are you gaping at?” she snapped, glaring at them. They immediately looked back toward the game, where I was trying to decide whether to jump Jimmy’s piece, thereby opening up a spot for him to advance, or to just advance my own piece. I couldn’t concentrate with Mrs. Hamilton’s voice in the background. I looked up at Jimmy. “She needs a hug,” he mouthed at me silently, his blue eyes smiling at me. “What?” I mouthed back. “A hug.” He whispered, and then he opened his arms, and partially closed them, reaching for his iced tea in the middle of the move so it wouldn’t be obvious what he was saying. “Oh!” I said, nodding my head and jumping his piece as I stood. Immediately I heard a chorus of voices, “What are you doing?” “Where are you going?” “Sit back down, there’s still a chance to beat him if you block his kings.” I ignored them all and walked right over to Mrs. Hamilton. “Stand up,” I said, in that voice I once used on misbehaving Sunday School students. “What?” she said, surprised. “Stand up, right now.” “Now listen here…” she sputtered, but found herself standing at the same time. “You need a hug,” I said, putting my arms around her and squeezing—but not too hard. “It just occurred to me that you complain all the time because you want attention so I’m giving you some. And furthermore,” I said loudly to the roomful of people, “every time Mrs. Hamilton starts to complain, I want every single one of you to go to her and hug her. Let’s see if it’ll make a difference for her.” “Now?”, someone asked. “Now!” I said, letting her go and turning her over to Jimmy, who’d been standing behind me. As he hugged her, he said over her head, “We’ll finish the game when everyone has hugged this sweet lady.” “Sweet?”, I mouthed at him, taken aback. He winked and I couldn’t help grinning back at him. So, one at a time, the crowd came over and hugged Mrs. Hamilton. The folks in wheelchairs even came by and reached out to her and she had to bend down to hug them. She was shockingly silent during the whole process, but I did detect a bit of moistness behind her glasses. What a difference the hugging has made—and not just during our Checkers games! The minute Mrs. Hamilton—or anyone else in our community—starts to say something negative, someone goes over to them and hugs them. And, typically, a bunch of people will follow that first person’s lead. And what’s really been interesting is that we’ve begun to hug in advance of the grumbling as a way to prevent it altogether. It’s been working for Mrs. Hamilton! Who knows if it’s because she really needs the hugs or if it embarrasses her that people are responding to her negativity by being loving toward her. Whatever the reason, our retirement community has been a much nicer place since the second Tuesday in August. So, my dear Desperate in Delaware, you might consider trying handsome old Jimmy Cooper’s simple little idea with your own mother. She’s probably feeling unloved and unnecessary at this point in her life and some extra tender loving care might go a long way toward making your home a more positive place. It also might not be a bad idea to pull out the old Checkers game and start a tradition. Sincerely Sincere, Gabby Dear Gabby, I was raised in a United Pentecostal Church and have been in and out of church over the years. I am gay. I am out to my family and was hurt really bad by my last pastor and church family. I have come to terms with the fact that I am the way that I am and have made a conscious choice to live for God and not focus all my attention and misunderstanding on being gay. My pastor knows about my life and he said he loves me anyway and I believe him. Here’s my question. My roommate has made several open sexual advances toward me. He is involved in our church, and I have grown to love him very much. He is a great guy and has a lot going for him. I have tried to keep my feelings on the up-and-up and not let them go in the wrong direction. We have talked about the advances and agreed not to let it happen again, but it has. I am not sure how to talk to him about it. Like I said before, I don't think he knows about my past and I am not sure if I should tell him. I am submitting this question for advice, not to get scripture on my life or the fact that I am gay. I can give you advice on that subject. All I really need to know is if I should tell my roommate about my past life. Wandering Blind in Wisconsin Dear Mr. Wisconsin, Our neighbors, the Brownleys, kept a mean old dog chained up behind their barn in the open area between our properties. I’m not sure why they kept him—except to scare away visitors, maybe. He growled, baring his teeth any time someone came near, including when the Brownleys brought him his food. And since they didn’t seem to him feed him enough, he seemed constantly hungry. Even though I hated that dog, and he scared me, I took to tossing him bones over the fence when we had them, hoping to ease his constant hunger and frightful barking. And maybe, I thought, if I fed him enough, he wouldn’t act like he was going to kill me every time I got near. One evening after dinner I took a large steak bone out back to the dog. Once again, he started barking and baring his teeth and lunging at me—at least as far as his chain would let him go. He scared me, as usual, and when I threw the bone, I didn’t throw it far enough. (Harry would say that I threw it “like a girl”!) Even when the dog stretched his chain out all the way, he couldn’t reach the bone. I stood there, undecided for a few moments, until I realized that the dog’s barking and lunging would worsen if the bone were just out of his reach. I unlatched the gate in the fence and, very carefully, eased my way over toward the bone. The dog’s barking and growling was terribly frightening, and every time he lunged against the chain, my heart stopped. I was three or four steps away from the bone when the chain broke. The next few seconds are indelibly etched in my memory as I whirled around and flew toward the gate, the dog’s snarling teeth at my heels. I did have enough presence of mind to reattach the gate’s latch before continuing my dash to my own back door, but that only slowed the dog down for a moment. He was so frenzied in his attack mode that somehow he got past the fence, racing after me. I made it into the house and slammed the door, my heart in my throat, out of breath. I ran straight to Harry and jumped into the safety of his arms, crushing the newspaper he was reading in the process. When my story tumbled out, Harry was angry. Angry at the Brownleys for keeping a dog like that. Angry with me for thinking I could befriend it. And angry at the dog for almost hurting me. The dog, by the way, kept running after he stopped trying to get into our house, and that was the last we ever saw of him. Harry spoke to Charles Brownley, and they never got another dog like that. And your story, Mr. Wisconsin, reminded me of my story. You see, I should have stayed far away from the mean old dog instead of trying to befriend it. It’s the same with you in your situation. You say you’ve chosen to focus on living for God instead of the gay lifestyle. So, why are you “feeding” the mean old spirit trying to keep you from doing just that? I have a very simple answer to your question. It’s “no.” No, you should not talk about your past. Not only shouldn’t you talk, you should turn around and run! Run from the living situation you’re in. Get yourself a place on your own or move back in with your family. And, when you get safely away, jump into the safe arms of Jesus and stay put until He makes everything okay. Mean old dogs probably aren’t going to change. The lifestyle you’re fighting is going to take some constant checking on your part to keep it chained and away from you. Don’t go near it. Don’t feed it. Don’t offer it even a bone. And one day, when you look that direction, you’ll realize that the mean old dog has run right out of your life. Sincerely Sincere, Gabby
ninetyandnine.com © 2005, ninetyandnine.com ---------- Gabrigail VanBurden has been offering advice for longer than most of you have been alive. Email your practical Apostolic life questions to Gabby@ninetyandnine.com and be prepared for some straight answers! |
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