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August 26, 2002 Dear Gabby…One night last month I was witness to something at church that upset me greatly. While in the restroom, a young mother rushed in, furiously dragging her three-year-old by the hand while yelling at her. The mother said to me, “You are about to hear some screaming.” Then she proceeded to take her little one into a stall and beat her...I am not talking a mild spanking, or even a “whipping” - this was a beating. I didn’t know what to do, so I left. I was so upset about what I witnessed. That little girl did not deserve to be abused. I'm concerned that she will be really mixed up when she is older and tries to reconcile this hurt with her “Christian” parents' talk of Jesus' love. My question is: What should I have done? Is there anything I can do now? I think the woman's dad probably used this type of discipline on her, so this is what she knows. Why do so-called Christians feel it is okay to use violence on their children? So many studies show that these children misbehave more and are more violent than those whose parents use other, more appropriate forms of discipline. I don't think Jesus would be pleased with this type of discipline, do you? Thanks, Gabby Concerned about a Child in California
Dear Concerned,Handsome Old Jimmy Cooper’s father was our town’s drunk. He wasn’t a friendly one, either. When he drank (which was basically every day), he got mean. Everyone knew that he beat up on his family (both his sons and his wife). Now, spankings on the “seat of responsibility” were commonplace in those days. My own Papa and Mama gave me quite a few swats there when I was naughty, and I believe they helped me to grow up to be the responsible citizen I’ve been for the better part of a century. But Bud Cooper didn’t spank his kids. He beat on them. It wasn’t shocking to see him cuff one of the boys across the head when they were in the General Store, the bank or walking down the street. Most people turned away and got really busy when Bud Cooper would start hollering. You knew that whichever member of his family was closest would be cringing away from his flying fists before long. He only did it in front of my wise Papa one time, however. Papa had promised my little brother Stanley and me that, if we behaved well while he took care of his business at the bank, he’d take us to the General Store afterwards to buy us a piece of penny candy. (Our sister Susannah was home in bed with a bad case of the sniffles that day and we were to pick out a piece for her, too.) We were trying to decide which candy to choose when we heard the beginning of a disturbance over by the pickle barrel. Bud Cooper was in the General Store with his wife Jane (sporting a black eye), smart-aleck Buddy and the younger brother, Jimmy. We noticed that Jane was trying to convince Bud to buy some of the rare white sugar that had been delivered to the store that week. My little brother Stanley and I heard her say how she could bake some sugar cookies for Buddy and Jimmy. Bud didn’t want to “waste” the money on white sugar. “We have brown!” he said, loudly. Jane murmured something quietly to him. “Brown is enough!” he hollered, and immediately Jane’s head lowered as she shrank back from him. Buddy smirked and stuck out his tongue behind his dad’s back. Jimmy looked at his brother with horror and Bud saw Jimmy’s face. “What’s the problem, boy?” he said to Jimmy. Jimmy didn’t respond, just looking at Buddy. Buddy crossed his eyes and made a face behind his dad’s back, which was immediately replaced with his dad’s fist. The sound of Buddy’s breaking nose was dreadful. “Look at all that blood,” “What’s the matter, boy? You have a problem with something?” Jimmy was silent. Bud got louder. “Speak up, boy, or you’ll feel my fist, too, and don’t think you won’t,” he said, lifting his hand into a fist. Still no comment from the silent boy. Everyone in the store cringed, waiting for the sound of the smack we were sure was forthcoming. Then we heard a voice. It wasn’t Jimmy’s. It wasn’t Bud’s. It was my Papa’s. “Howdy do, Bud!” He said loudly, stepping quickly past the bleeding, sniffling Buddy and the cowering Jane, with his hand outstretched, effectively blocking Jimmy from his father’s view. “I heard tell it was going to rain this afternoon. That’ll sure be a blessing for our wilting corn, now, don’t you think?” Bud blinked. He looked at my Papa, a bit confused, as his hand lowered and opened from the fist it had been to shake my Papa’s hand, almost without realizing what it was doing. “Um, pardon me?” he said to my Papa. Everyone in the store let out the collective breath they’d been holding. “I was commenting on the weather forecast,” my Papa repeated, moving a bit further in front of Jimmy and patting Bud on the shoulder. “That’s sure a fine crop of corn you’ve got this year,” he continued. “I’m certain the rain will make it even finer. Why, look,” he said, gently steering Bud toward the glass window at the front of the store, “I do believe the clouds are beginning to come in already.” Those of us in the store could see the heat from Bud’s temper lowering a bit at a time. He still looked rather confused by the suddenness of Papa’s conversation. It was almost as if he forgot that he’d been in the middle of abusing his family and was trying to catch up on the simple and friendly chat Papa was in the middle of with him. Before the conversation had
ended, my wise Papa had invited the Cooper family over for dinner─with the
excuse that Bud could look over Papa’s own (perfectly fine) crop of corn and
give him advice on how to improve it. He’d
asked Bud’s permission for his sons to be allowed to help The next morning, over our
oatmeal, toast and bacon, I related the story to Susannah (who was feeling
better). “Stanley!” Mama gasped. “Why didn’t you?” I asked Papa. “I know you don’t believe in being violent, but surely it would’ve been fine in that case, since you were saving his family from his meanness to them.” “Children,” my wise Papa said to us in that voice we recognized as the one he used when he wanted to teach us something important, “The Bible tells us that a soft answer turns away wrath. If I’d spoken to Bud in anger, it would’ve just made his anger worse. Instead, I chose to speak with friendliness. That helped to distract him from the anger he was feeling right then.” “And it worked, too, Susannah,” I said. “Maybe Bud will never abuse his kids again.” “Unfortunately, Gabrigail,” my Papa said, sighing, “he’ll probably continue to abuse them. I was only able to stop him that one time. But I knew I couldn’t stand by and watch an innocent woman and children be abused in front of me.” And so, Ms. Concerned, you may not be able to make a permanent difference for that little one, but if abuse is happening right in front of you, you can follow the example of my wise Papa and, by speaking softly and with friendliness, you might be able to distract the adult enough to save the child – at least that one time. Sincerely Sincere, Gabby
Dear Gabby,I have been having sexual dreams that I know I shouldn't be having. Is it the devil trying to tempt me? There have been times when I have been weak in that area and had to repent, but I have become stronger through God. Are these dreams my fault? Do we control our dreams? Should I repent for them? Wishing to be Dreamless in Delaware
Dear Mr. Delaware,Gentlemen were always falling all over themselves to win the attentions and the affections of my little sister, Susannah. It really wasn’t her fault that she was absolutely gorgeous. Goodness gracious, from birth she’d been blessed by God with shiny, blond hair, a tall, willowy figure and a face artists wanted to paint. She certainly didn’t do much to encourage these young men, since she was too busy making her personal dreams come true. She wanted to be the best horsewoman in our state that year. She had a dream of learning to fly airplanes. The constant attempts at courting got in the way of Susannah’s dreams, though, frequently making her annoyed. Usually, when young folks were visiting our house, she was able to distract each gentleman’s attention toward a lonely young woman nearby, allowing Susannah to escape back out to the stables sooner. Stewart P. Willis, however,
could not be dissuaded. He was
entirely lovesick and, actually, rather pitiful in his attempts to win
Susannah’s attention. He tried all
kinds of things, from the usual flowers, poetry and candy, to all kinds of
unusual, and rather pathetic things including serenading her under her bedroom
window at The most dim-witted thing Mr. Willis ever did, though, was to deposit $100 in Susannah’s bank account down at Pendergras Bank. That was a lot of money in those days and he was sure that, if he couldn’t get her attention through the usual ways, he’d get it with a gift of money. Surely she’d give him her attention then. It was a good thing that he was fairly wealthy and this was expendable income, because, when he proudly told Susannah what he’d done, she thanked him politely (in exactly the same way she had when he’d given her candy) and promptly strode back out toward the stables. (I overheard their conversation while I was weeding my strawberries.) “But, but, but, Miss Susannah…” he sputtered, trying to keep up with her, “I gave you money!” “And I said thank you,” Susannah replied, without slowing her stride. “Aren’t you going to go out walking with me? Aren’t you going to go to Dolly’s Diner with me? Aren’t you going to…” “No,” she said, shortly, as she arrived at the stable door. “I’m not.” “Well, then,” he said huffily, standing up to his full five and a half feet, “I want my money back.” “Sorry.” “But it’s my money!” “I don’t think Mr. Pendergras down at the bank will be convinced.” Susannah said, coolly. “I don’t believe you have any control over the money in my personal bank account.” “But it was me who put it there!” “That’s very sad for you, isn’t it?” she said, turning away from him in dismissal, disappearing into the stables. I’ve never seen a more dejected gentleman than the foolish Mr. Willis standing outside the stables that afternoon. He learned a lesson that might help you in your difficulty with dreams. I believe that the enemy is able to deposit thoughts (and dreams) into our subconscious. However, like Susannah’s bank account, once they’re there, the thoughts and dreams are ours to control. If we focus on the evil thought or dream, it can become sin. We get to choose, not the enemy. I suggest that, as soon as you’re aware that the enemy has deposited dreams and thoughts into the “bank” of your subconscious, immediately toss them out and replace them with good. My sister Susannah immediately spent Mr. Willis’ $100 on pilot’s lessons. Sincerely Sincere, Gabby
ninetyandnine.com © 2002, 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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