WHERE HEROES COME FROM

   A Minister’s True Story
              of the
  Hopelessness & Despair
  Survival & Recovery from
      CODEPENDENCY
                   By
             Roger Lewis Young




Young, Roger Lewis, 1954
Where Heroes Come From
Copyright 1998 - First Edition, Audio Format
Revised Edition, 2002

Second Revised Edition - 2004


 CONTENTS


 Introduction
 Dedication
 Definition of Codependency

1.        Where Heroes Come From
2.        Hot Water, Broomsticks and Germs
3.        It All Started Way Back When
4.        The Preach and The Breach
5.        Servanthood, Slavery and Slop-Jars
6.        The Secretary In The Fishnet Stockings
7.        The Lone Ranger To The Rescue
8.        The First Church Of Codependency
9.        The Not So Selfish - Selfish Wife
10.      I Didn’t Fall - I Crashed!
11.      The Great Escape
12.      Thank You For Calling Me A Liar        


INTRODUCTION

 It has been discussed in many a forum whether heroes are born or made.  I’ll leave the
clinical approach to this question to the experts, but from my perspective, so-called
“heroes” are made.  By hero, I mean the person who makes a lifestyle out of trying to
rescue others who suffer from poverty, illness, loneliness, compulsions, obsessions, grief,
a dysfunctional family, drug abuse, sexual abuse, and so on.  
 I was such a hero.  I dreamed it, fantasized about it and lived it.  After all, doesn’t
scripture mandate that we help our fellow man?  When, how, and where does such a
mentality begin?  What causes a person to be driven to help others to the point where it
becomes an obsession that obscures objectivity and is powered by not merely a
sympathetic concern for others, but guilt, because he has things that the hurting person
does not have - a family, friends, good job, home.  What drives that minister, caregiver,
counselor or “rescuer” into a lifestyle of saving others that eventually leads to burnout and
possibly worse - losing his own identity and the things he values most; his family, friends
and maybe his own life?
 I hope this book will shed light on these questions as I share my story of how I became
codependent, suffered under its cruel domination and eventually was able to overcome it.  
It is my prayer that through my testimony, others will be able to gain the freedom I now
enjoy from a codependent mentality.
 I am deeply grateful to Pat Springle, author of “Codependency – A Christian Perspective,”
for his input and encouragement.  His book made a major contribution to my healing.
 Lastly, this book is a love story.  I do not believe I would have survived without the love
and commitment from my dear wife.  I am eternally in her debt


DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to:

My “True Love” and “Best Friend,” Sandy Diann (affectionately called Belle), whose beauty
transcends the physical and whose wisdom exceed the intellect.  She truly is my “Help-
meet;”

My Son, Matthew, who, by the stroke of a pen, can melt my heart and reveal wisdom
beyond his years;

My Daughter, Darla Joy, whose smile is a rainbow;

My Friend Bob Whitehead who speaks truth into my life.

My Home Church, the First Assembly of God of Kenosha, Wisconsin, and Neighborhood
Church of Modesto, California which have been like streams in my desert times;

My Brother, Gary, who loves me as a brother, respects me as an elder and makes me
laugh like a hyena;

My Father and Mother, who also determined to be Overcomers by the power and might of
the Holy Spirit in spite of human frailty;

My Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, Who is my Life, Purpose and Destiny...Who, in the
darkness, whispers my name.


Definition Of Codependency

 Codependency is a driving, obsessive compulsion to save and rescue others from their
problems.  This occurs as a result of a long-term relationship with a dysfunctional person
who was unwilling, or unable, to meet the needs of the other’s inner child.  Locked in a
struggle for love and acceptance, the codependent searches out those in need of a
rescuer and becomes such to them, always hoping he will gain their approval and
acceptance.  The unfortunate results, however, are tragic.  The dependent person is
enabled by the codependent to remain weak, while the codependent person is trapped by
the insatiable needs of the dependent.  It becomes a case of the sick helping the sicker,
both forever sealed in a tomb of misery and despair.


CHAPTER ONE

Where Heroes Come From

Memories

 I hid in the stairwell that led to the second floor from the tiny living room in the house that
used to be a barn.  I was angry. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks as I peeked from behind
the wall to watch my Grandmother force my younger brother, Gary, to chew his wet
underwear.
 He hadn’t meant to wet them!  He was only a scared little four-year-old who was afraid to
go outside to that cold, spooky outhouse some twenty yards or so from the back door.  I
was six years old, and wasn’t old enough or big enough to stop the horrible scene being
played out before my eyes.  As I watched my little brother being forced to bring those
soiled underwear to his lips and then chew them, a rage burned within me that chiseled a
vow on the walls of my mind - a vow in bold letters that said if and when I can ever stop
such a thing from happening when I grow up - I will stop it!

 The air was cool and the sky was clear in that late fall evening of November as Mama
drove home from the store.  I was sitting in the front passenger side seat of the early 50’s
sedan and recognized our house as we turned into our gravel driveway, the tires making
crunching sounds as we rolled to a stop.
 Before getting out of the car, Mama flipped up the visors that had been left down to
protect her eyes from the sun earlier in the day and said, “Look at all those stars, Roger!”   
 The stars glittered like sequins on a black satin dress as I gazed in amazement into the
heavens.
 Then Mama started to sing,

 “Twinkle, Twinkle little star.  
         How I wonder what you are.  
 Up above the world so high,
         Like a diamond in the sky,  
 Twinkle, Twinkle little star.”
         How I wonder what you are.”

 After she sang it a couple of times I joined in.  I liked the tune and the words were easy to
remember.  
 “What are stars?” I wondered in my three-year old mind, overwhelmed with the awesome
sight.  After I climbed out of the car, I paused to stretch my hand as high as I could reach
to see if I could touch them.  They looked so close…so beautiful.

 When I went outside to play, I would often lie down upon the soft grass, stare up into the
sky, and wonder if Heaven was on top of those big puffy clouds.  “Is Jesus up there
walking on top of those clouds?” I pondered.  The sky was always a mystery to me for it
seemed to be the place where dreams came from.  
 I frequently dreamt of flying. Floating weightless was an experience I loved to remember
upon awakening.  Soaring just above the treetops was exhilarating, yet peaceful.  When I
awakened and remembered what I had been dreaming, I would try to make myself go
back to sleep and dream it again.  I didn’t want it to end.
 I often pretended to be Superman.  He could fly! I would get a towel, pin two corners of it
around my neck to make a cape, stand up on a chair and pretend I was flying.  To land, all
I had to do was jump down to the floor.
 Sometimes, in the spring before it rained, it would get real windy.  I’d unzip my coat and
spread it apart to make wings.  Leaning into the wind, I wished a strong breeze would
come and lift me off the ground.  Realizing it wasn’t likely to happen, I’d daydream I was
flying high above the buildings...above the trees...among the clouds.
 To dream!  My dreams seemed more real than reality.  They certainly were more fun.  As
I grew older they would become an escape as I sought refuge from the harsh cruelty of
reality.

 I remember vividly the day my Dad came to the door of our little one-room shack, our
“garage house,” as I called it, and whispered something to my mother.  
 Mom then said to me, “Close your eyes, Roger.  Daddy has a surprise for you.”
 I closed my eyes as best I could while trying to catch a glimpse at what this surprise
was.  
 Dad knelt before me.  I can still see his brown hat, dark overcoat and smiling face as he
said, “Happy Birthday, Son, you are four years old!”  
 He placed an electric train before me on the floor, the track nailed securely onto the round-
shaped plywood; the little engine and four cars all properly placed.  We plugged it in and it
went forward and backward.  It tooted and blew smoke.  I loved it!  What made it special
was that I had connected with my Dad on that day in February.  
 I had watched him before - his comings and goings.  But I felt his love that day.  We
bonded - Father and Son.  That train was special to me.  
 How sad and shocked I was a few months later when Mama came to me as I played in
the front yard and said, “Hey Roger, guess what?  We got $3.50 for your train at the yard
sale!”  
 I didn’t know what a yard sale was, but I understood that my train was gone - gone
forever!  My train!  My special connection with Dad!  There was so little of Dad in my life
and when they sold my train I felt like a part of that Father/Son bond was broken.  That
might explain why to this day I have a special love for toy trains.  One of the first toys I
bought my own son was a big wind-up train by Fisher-Price.  It would roll around the floor
and play music.  But we never sold it  - we simply wore it out.

 Mom was ill from as far back as I can remember.  She often had headaches, backaches,
stomachaches, rashes, and about everything one could catch or be born with and she truly
suffered.  Mom suffered more from mental illness than anything else.  I’ll go into more
detail about the specifics of her mental illness later, however one particular instance stands
out in my memory from when I was very small.  
 I don’t know what set her off.  I recall my mother ripping off her clothes and a little while
later thrashing around in the bed as though she was having a seizure.  She was rolling her
tongue around in her mouth and making all sorts of horrific sounds!  Her eyes bulged and
her arms flailed in a most frightening manner.  I don’t know how long this went on.  The
next thing I knew, Grandpa was called to come from Colorado.  He showed up within a day
or so.  I don’t know what he did, but whatever it was, it worked!  
 I remember him saying firmly, “You stop that right now!”  And BANG!  She snapped right
out of it.  Within hours we were eating strawberries and milk as if nothing had ever
happened!  
 Whatever was wrong with Mom was something that wasn’t over.  Both Gary and I were
shuffled for days on end to different homes of friends, relatives and neighbors.  This would
continue for the next several years until we ended up permanently at “Granny and Pa’s.”  
Until we were placed there, however, we would often have to stay at places you wouldn’t
put a dog in.  Sometimes I found myself staying with neighbors whose kids peed the bed.  
And of course, I had to sleep with those kids in their beds!  I woke up almost swimming in
urine.  I’d be scratching for a dry spot from the middle of the night to early morning, when I
finally would get up and go into the living room where they would find me asleep on the
couch.  I never knew where Mom or Dad was or how long we’d have to stay with these
people, but I was sure glad when they finally came to pick us up.  Gary was in different
homes than I most of the time.

 I was placed in one particular neighbor’s home, where we seemed to spend a good
amount of time trying to catch mice, swat bees, or kill spiders that infested the place.  The
dear lady, Mrs. Crane, was nice to me, but her husband, old Mr. Crane, was terrifying.  
 He had only half a bottom lip because of cancer surgery and would often gruffly say,
“Come over here, boy!”  I would dutifully, but timidly, approach him when he called from his
breakfast table and stand before him like a criminal before a cruel judge.  
 “You be a good boy,” he warned, “or I will throw you into the cellar where the rats and
spiders will eat you up!”  
 I would quiver and shake.  
 Then calling the younger of his two boys, Harry, over to my side, he’d say,  “Show Roger
the cellar, Harry.”  
 Harry would then take my arm and escort me to the cellar entrance.  He’d open the
squeaky hinged door and snarl, “There are big rats and spiders in there...and they’ll eat’cha
if you’re put in there!”  
 I almost wet my pants as he lifted me up in the air and acted as though he was going to
throw me in that cold, dark cellar.  Needless to say, I was always good.

 Mom had a lot of problems and was often misunderstood by Dad’s family.  They would
call her names such as “Queenie” or “Princess” and some other less than nice names when
she was not in their presence.
 One day stands out in my mind as one the worst days of my life.  Mom was depressed
and now I understand that she was clinically depressed.  She often needed to be
hospitalized.  This was one such occasion.  Granny came to pick her up to take her to St.
Catherine’s hospital.  Gary and I were home with Mom and Dad was at work.  When
Granny arrived, my older cousin, Judy, was with her to help take care of us.  We all piled in
the car and were on our way.  I was about 6 years old and I remember the conversation
going something like this....
 “So, Queenie,” said Granny with much disdain, “You’re acting up again and showing your
a_ _, huh?  Why don’t you stay home and take care of your husband and these boys?  You
really don’t love them, do you?”
 Mom was sobbing.  No matter what problems Mom had or how many mistakes she
made, she was still our mother and we wanted to protect her.
 “You’re just acting up, Queenie!  You ought to get a good whipping!”  Granny kept
lecturing.
 Mom continued to cry as we drove down Sheridan Road.  I put my head down and felt
confusion, anger and sorrow.  Mom was sick, not mean.  She needed help, not to be called
names!
 My cousin, Judy, just patted my head and spoke softly, “It’s ok, Roger.  It’s ok.”
 “You always have been selfish and spoiled,” Granny preached at Mom, her voice filling
the car.
 Mom grew silent and limp by the time we got to the hospital.  A nurse came and helped
her into a wheelchair.  She was rolled into the hospital, out of sight.  A few days later she
was at the Winnebago State Mental Hospital receiving shock treatments.  Gary and I
ended up at Granny and Pa’s.  For most of the next 6 years I felt as though I was in a
prisoner of war camp.  
 Now, don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t bad all of the time.  There were some good times,
and I loved my Grandparents, but they weren’t able to care for us the way we needed and
some very wrong things took place.  It should be noted that very good people sometimes
do some very wrong things when they don’t know how to handle difficult situations.  I
should know, not simply because I suffered from such ignorance, but because I also am
guilty of trying to handle situations I wasn’t qualified to take care of, but more of that later.
 When I was six and Gary three, we became permanent residents at Granny and Pa’s for
the next several years.  They were both from the South and fully embraced the southern
culture, even though they moved to Wisconsin to be with their children, who moved there to
work at the automotive plant during the mid 50’s.  Within hours after going to live with
Granny and Pa we discovered the talk, food and lifestyle would be different from what we
had at home.  
 The first thing to change was the food, which wasn’t bad.  Cereal and French toast gave
way to eggs, bacon, biscuits, butter and molasses.  That was fine with me.  Food had
already become a means to console myself from the ache deep inside.  Gary, however,
was a different story.
 He gagged on every bite of eggs, no matter how they were cooked, and Pa was not
going to accept such stubbornness from him.  
 Pa would preach, “The Bible says to eat whatever is set before you!”  He forced Gary to
eat the eggs no matter how red in the face he got or how much he blubbered.
 I couldn’t do anything about the wet underwear, but I could do something about the eggs,
so I started asking if I could eat what Gary didn’t want.  It took a while, but when they
came to the conclusion Gary was not going to yield without a fight, they accepted my
suggestion.  I wolfed the eggs down, much to Gary’s relief.
 Granny and Pa also were not satisfied with our Yankee way of speaking.  So, we were
trained in the art of speaking with a southern accent.  Words like “house” became “ha-ous”
and dog became “dawg.”
 We were also called names. My name, “Roger” was exchanged for “Boozer,” a distant
cousin who was mentally retarded, and “Mag Smith,” some other southern relative.  And
then there was “Hezzie Ferris,” who could have been the village dogcatcher for all I knew.  
So, when anyone asked me what my name was, I introduced myself as “Boozer, Mag
Smith, Hezzie Ferris, Roger Young.”  Many a stranger went away mumbling to himself after
that introduction.
 Even though some of this sounds funny, it was really hard on us.  Gary ended up getting
into trouble at school for fighting almost every day and I was so anxious and nervous, I
started soiling my clothes.  Having a stern first-grade teacher didn’t help matters either.  I
was just too frightened and shy to ask to use the bathroom.  
  Gary and I were always begging Dad and Mom to take us home, even though Mom was
sick, and Dad was frustrated because taking care of Mom and two small children were too
much for him to handle.
 Mom and Dad eventually moved out of the one-room shack into a decent two-bedroom
home with a basement and a large yard.  Gary and I would have been just as happy to live
in the garage house - if we could have been together.  As dysfunctional as our family was,
Gary and I still would have preferred to be with Mom and Dad.
 At night, Gary would whimper to himself and kick the covers.  I would put my arm around
him to comfort him as he slept.  I would look down on his sleeping face and feel such
brotherly affection.  I wanted to protect and help him.  He was different when he was
awake because he loved to tease and torment me.
 Gary was always in trouble; getting into fights with older kids or being punished by
Granny and Pa.  Gary couldn’t sit still.  He needed to move around.  Furthermore, though I
would not learn of it for thirty years, a cousin had molested him repeatedly some months
earlier.  There is no telling what was playing in his mind as he slept!
 Gary would go into rages.  Most of the time, it was when he was getting a licking over
some small infraction.  He’d start yelling, then biting and kicking.  When he got wild, Granny
became scared and chased him into her upstairs bedroom, which had a door with a lock.  
Once she corralled him in, she would barricade the door with her body.  As soon as Gary
figured out he was locked in the dark, he would scream and kick the door as hard as any
martial arts professional.  That door would bounce, and Granny would bounce, until he
gave up and all would be quiet.  Then after a while, Granny would open the door.  Gary
would be so exhausted after the ordeal they’d just put him to bed.  This incident happened
repeatedly at Granny and Pa’s.

 It didn’t help our self-esteem when a relative, who I am sure meant well, came by with a
gift purchased from a local thrift shop.  It was a little ceramic dog with a mournful
expression with the words on its base that said, “Nobody loves me.”  Cousins, Aunts and
Granny would point at that little object and say, “You poor boys.  Nobody loves you.”
 Although they would laugh as they said it, we took it serious and felt it must be true.

 Granny and Pa, as well as my Dad, all believed in corporal punishment.  Not just in the
form of spankings.  A whipping might include kicks, slaps, whacks from belts, switches,
pulling our hair or whatever other means necessary to “discipline” us.  I remember Granny
telling us to hold still and “take it like an Indian,” which meant to stand still and not cry, no
matter how hard the blows.  With all of our evading, avoiding, squirming and screaming, we
were more like wild Indians dancing a war dance!  We learned the art of rolling on our
backs and sticking up our elbows and feet to intercept the incoming blows, which usually
resulted in our disciplinarian getting bruised hands, broken blood vessels and swollen
knuckles, though enough of the blows got through to raise welts and cause bruises and
bumps on our legs and backs.

 After giving us a good beating, Granny would ask us to come to her one at a time to be
“inspected” so she could check us for marks and cuts.  Granny would cry and say how bad
she felt for having to give us a whipping, which would make us feel doubly guilty - for
whatever wrong we had done and for making her cry.  Pa never apologized and Dad would
stew in anger for a while, but eventually soften and apologize, sometimes to the point of
tears.
 As we got older, our tears and cries became stifled by a boiling rage that would someday
spill over, scalding anyone close to us - our wives, children and even pets.  The fuse had
been lit and it was a matter of time before the bomb of hostility would explode.

 My grandparents constantly subjected me to unreasonable demands.  Granny would often
ask me to get something for her from a certain room in a particular place.  When I went to
retrieve the item, it would often be in a different location or a different form than expected,
so I had to use rationale to figure out what to do.  I did the best I could, but would often
come back to ask for more information or with the wrong item.  When I did, I was scolded
and questioned.
 “Why did you do that?” she would ask, making me feel stupid.  “That is not what I told you
to do!”
 I’d reply, “I though you meant...(such and such).”
 To which Granny would yell, “I didn’t tell you to think!  I said do (such and such)!!  Don’t
think.  Just do!”
 Hearing that over and over again lowered my self-esteem and taught me to obey
mechanically.  I got used to being in trouble no matter how hard I tried to please.  Coupled
with this was my mother’s irrational behavior, which further conditioned me to absorb
anger, rage and verbal abuse.  This caused me a lot of problems later when, as an adult, I
tried to help people who attempted to control me through flattery or rage and verbal abuse.

 Midway through our five and a half year stay at Granny and Pa’s, Mom thought she was
well enough to have Gary and I come home.  I was so excited about coming home!  I had
just completed second grade and was eager to start a new life, attend a new school, and
make new friends.  And to make sure that I’d never have to go back to Granny and Pa’s
again, I told Mom and Dad about how rotten it was to live there.  I told them every evil
word that was said about Mom and how they called her names behind her back.  This
enraged Granny and Pa and my Aunts who told me in no uncertain terms how bad I was
for doing that.  But they had their chance to get even when, after only two months, Mom
suffered a relapse and we had to go back to Granny and Pa’s.  I felt like I wanted to die
because, not only was I miserable living there but, when I was home with Mom and Dad, I
was able to go to our church where I had several friends.  There were adults who also
loved us and cared about us.  It was the one source of stability that helped me cope.  But,
back to Granny and Pa’s we went.

 After I was questioned at some length, things went back to as they had been at Granny
and Pa’s, but were much worse at school.  I had started to put on a lot of weight because I
ate everything in sight to please Granny and Pa, who felt eating was a kin to a religious
experience, and to fill the ache inside.  This was great ammunition for the school kids who
saw a fat kid with low self-esteem.  They picked at me constantly.  Both school and living
at Granny and Pa’s were private hells.  I withdrew into a fantasy world in which I was the
hero.  I would daydream of rescuing the oppressed and flying away on a white horse to my
palace, only to be jarred back to reality by the school bell or my brother wanting an escort
to the outhouse.

 It was shortly after going back to Granny and Pa’s the second time that Dad filed for
bankruptcy and sold every stick of furniture we had.  I remember the jealousy and
hopelessness I felt when I saw what used to be our TV and household items in the homes
of some of our relatives.  I am sure they bought the items to only help us out, but I felt we
were being used.  
 Dad was soon renting a one-room studio apartment on the bad side of town, Mom was in
Colorado to be by her folks, and we were at Granny and Pa’s.  Not a very cozy little family,
were we?
 So, Gary continued to fight and I continued to dream.  I was always the hero, rescuing,
saving and being somebody.  I think what I was afraid of most was being forgotten.  I
wanted to matter to someone.  I was often embarrassed because of the way Granny
treated me, the ram-shackled house we lived in, the crazy antics of my mother, my weight
and the inexpensive clothes I had to wear.  I never felt good enough or smart enough.  
Most of all I wanted a family...a true family.  So my fantasies almost always comprised of
my rescuing a beautiful maiden who I would take to my castle and love forever.

 The codependent is a daydreamer, fantasizing he is rescuing someone in distress.  He
visualizes himself as a hero, rushing to the aid of someone in a desperate struggle.  He
may also have grandiose fantasies where he is the object of adulation, envisioning
himself as a great athlete, lover or powerful figure.  He imagines himself in another
place, another time, far removed from his miserable existence.  His dreams and fantasies
become an escape from his day-to-day sufferings.

  There were many negative circumstances going on in my life as a child, but there was one
very positive influence for which I will be eternally grateful; the First Assembly of God
Church.  Those people never forgot me when I was at Granny and Pa’s, even though I
rarely attended the church because of having to go to my grandparent’s church.  Members
of the First Assembly of God would visit us two or three times a month.  It felt good to be
remembered!  Walter Block, Sr., Kenneth Lord, Ralph Markese, and others would visit.  
While one or two would be talking to Granny and Pa, the other(s) would be visiting with
Gary and me.  They always made us feel loved and special.  Even Granny and Pa were
grateful for the visits, though they would not go to the First Assembly of God.

 Granny and Pa, though imperfect, did have daily devotions.  I remember burying my face
in the cushions of the old couch as I knelt and, while staring at a piece of tinsel woven in
the fabric, letting my eyes blur as I tried to project my thoughts into the future.  I tried to
send a message to myself in the years ahead when things would be better and easier.  I
concentrated, and pushing a thought as hard as I could through the barriers of time and
pain, I’d think, “Please, remember me!”  Then I would dream of being a super hero,
rescuing and saving someone in need.


CHAPTER TWO

Hot Water, Broomsticks and Germs

    Being locked in a relationship with a dysfunctional person causes a skewed view of
reality.  Objectivity is lost as one seeks to survive the dysfunctional person’s compulsions,
obsessions or disorders.  The dysfunctional person expects the others around him to
accept and live by his own warped standards and the codependent obliges in order to
gain love, acceptance or peace.

  The day finally came when Mom thought she was well enough to bring us home from
Granny and Pa’s. It had been almost six years.  I was now twelve and Gary, nine.  I recall
Granny standing at the door with tears streaming down her cheeks, waving bye as we
drove off.  I felt sorry for her.  Though I appreciated her sentiment I did not shed any tears.
 Mom and Dad found an upstairs apartment located a couple of blocks from American
Motors where Dad worked.  It was a modest two-bedroom flat.  We were glad to be
together, however living at home had some unique challenges.  Mom’s illness was at its
zenith.  She was an obsessive/ compulsive schizophrenic and battled depression.  This
illness would play out in crying spells and psychosomatic illnesses, but the worst was her
cleaning and washing fits.  Mom would sweep a floor for hours.  She would also wash her
hands in steaming hot water and bleach until they were lobster red.  When Mom was in one
of those fits we would all have to sit silent as church mice in the front room for hour after
hour.  If we so much as whispered, Dad would cringe because he knew if Mom heard us
talking she’d scream and yell, figuring we were talking about her.

 These episodes were daily occurrences until she ended up in the hospital for a few
weeks.  Then, she’d be better for a while until she relapsed.  I wouldn’t know for years why
she thought she had to do these weird things.  I just thought she was nuts.  Come to find
out, she thought Satan was spraying some kind of evil substance on her for her sinful ways,
so she had to clean it up and get rid of it.  Germs and dirt were also from the devil.  Dad,
Gary and I looked like professional mime artists as we played along with her phobias -
washing, cleaning and sweeping to appease her.  Most of the time, Dad was frantic with
trying to keep everything peaceful.  He had a host of facial expressions which ranged from
a sorrowful “please, I beg you, don’t get your mother upset” look, to an eyes bulging, tight
lipped “I am going make you pay” look for getting Mom all worked up.  Getting Mom all
worked up and in a cleaning frenzy was triggered by anything or nothing.  We never
understood what set her off, so we didn’t know what to change or stop doing.  Mom was
just nuts, that’s all.  But we still had a nagging feeling it was something we did to cause it.  
Walking on eggshells doesn’t adequately describe what it was like.  It was more like
walking on glass!

 It wasn’t long after being at home that Mom went to the hospital and Dad took Gary and I
back to Granny and Pa’s.  The very notion of going back there was so upsetting to me that
I got very ill as I sobbed and pleaded with Dad not to take us back there.  It must have
worked, because after only a couple of hours he took us back home to the upstairs
apartment.  Dad was beside himself with worry about Mom, but couldn’t bear to be
separated from us.  It felt good to know that he cared enough about us not to make us go
back to Granny and Pa’s again.  I felt like I would truly die if I had to go back there.

 Mom continued having crying jags, cleaning fits, rages, periods of depression and
hospitalizations.  Dad continued to center his world on Mom.  Gary continued to fight and
get in trouble at school and the kids at school were continually picking on me.
 We tried to be a Christian family.  We attempted to have family devotions but they were
fraught with difficulty.  If Dad didn’t read just the right passage of Scripture that suited her,
Mom would launch into a tirade of complaining.  She would attack Dad with a verbal
vengeance that would strip whatever dignity he had right out of him.  I wondered why he
never stood up to Mom.  I didn’t want him to be cruel to her, but why didn’t he at least
stand up to her and claim the respect that was his due?

 Whenever Mom felt God was out to get her, she demanded all the family to stop
whatever we were doing and pray.  Oh, how I hated that!  It got to where prayer felt like
torture.  Later, as an adult, it would be many years before I would establish a regular
devotional life that didn’t feel like a millstone around my neck.

 My anger at constantly being picked on at school was increasing.  Over all, sixth grade
was a positive experience.  My teacher, Mr. Guttormsen, was a very compassionate and
sensitive man.  He made learning fun and kept firm control of the class so the kids didn’t
pick on me that much.  But I got in one fight that, although quickly broken up by our alert
teacher, gave me a taste of the self-respect one feels when he stands up for himself.  I
was soon helping Gary fight his battles, though I was still quite passive when it came to my
own.

     Adolescence is a difficult period for even the most well adjusted teenager.  It is
compounded may times over for the codependent youth.  He strives for acceptance from
his peers while trying to compensate for his lack of healthy parenting.  He may appear to
be very mature in some ways, such as being responsible and working hard to achieve.  
Yet, in other ways he seems unable to mature.  He struggles with self-esteem and
becomes performance oriented.  He is his own worst critic and rarely takes the time to
enjoy his accomplishments before rushing onto the next project.

    His view of the world is tainted by codependency and it may not be until he reaches
his 30’s, 40’s or even 50’s before he realizes that he has been under its domination.  
When he finally realizes how much time he has spent saving and rescuing others in order
to satisfy his own emotional needs, he is over-whelmed with guilt and regret, not only for
himself, but also for others who may have suffered because of his failings.

 About a year and a half later, my life took a sudden and dramatic turn for the better.  
Though it sounds funny, it began with me getting sick over the Christmas holidays when I
was in the eighth grade.  I caught the flu.  It was a terrible case of combination head cold
and stomach flu.  I was so sick I couldn’t eat.  I lost approximately thirty pounds and at the
same time was in a growth spurt.  Two weeks later, when I came back to school, kids
started telling me, “Hey, Roger!  You got skinny!”  
 That’s all it took for my poor, compliment-starved self to make the adjustments necessary
to continue to change my appearance to look cool.  I sucked up all the positive strokes I
could get.  I kept losing weight by dieting.  As my confidence began to soar I also began to
stand up for myself.  I put some rather notorious school bullies in their places.
 I also started playing tennis, took up violin, and sang in the youth choir at church.  It wasn’
t long before I had developed a serious love for singing.
 As my confidence grew, I also began to make friends.  I was very fortunate to have had a
good group of Christian friends who remained true through thick and thin; Terry Tuttle,
Scott George, Darryl Lueck, and Diane England, to name a few.  As I grew older, I gained
renewed self-esteem and respect, but as time would tell, my self-esteem was based on
performance and the acceptance of others.  
 My parents attended church fairly regularly during my junior high and high school years,
but were still having tremendous problems.  I spent as much time as I could away from
home, visiting my friends.  Gary was gone a lot, too, but he was hanging around some
pretty rough characters.  Little did I know at the time just how bad they were and how
much trouble he was in.
 Mom was constantly depressed during my junior high school years.  One particular day I
was home alone with her during one of her cleaning rampages.  I was close to fifteen at
the time and wasn’t as intimidated by her as I was when I was younger.  She was
groaning, scrubbing, crying, washing and walking around the house wanting to sterilize
everything in sight when I said, “Hold it!”
 I headed her off as she was going to the bathroom to wash for the umpteenth time and
said, “Mom, no more.  You are sick.”
 “But Roger, I have to!  Please, let me wash!  Please, Please!” she begged desperately.
 “Mom,” I responded, “you need help!”
 She sobbed and continued to ring her hands nervously.
 “O.K.,” she relented, “Call Dad.”
  I called Dad at work and explained the situation.  He came home and took Mom to the
psychiatric ward at the hospital.  I visited Mom a few days later and told her, “Mom, you
have got to understand God’s grace.  God loves you and doesn’t reject you just because
you make a mistake.”
 Mom listened and replied with a whisper, “Yes, I know, Roger.  Thank you.”
 Her face brightened a little.  “You are right!  God does love me, doesn’t He?” she said, as
her voice got a little stronger.
 I’d like to say Mom got better and everything was fine from then on, but it wasn’t.  Mom
would continue to have problems because she was clinically depressed.  To function close
to normal, Mom would always need medication.

 When a child sees his parent(s) unable to function effectively in their roles, he may
assume a parental role in order to bring order and structure into his dysfunctional home.  
This results in a role-reversal that pushes him out of the normal maturing process.  In so
doing, he denies his own needs.  This denial cannot last forever, however.  His needs re-
emerge when he has children of his own and the cycle continues as he makes
unreasonable demands for them to “parent” him.

 What began then was a role-reversal as Mom began to depend on me.  Over the years,
Mom would look to me more as a guardian than a son.  Unfortunately, she also placed me
on a pedestal that, in my adult years, would hinder us from having as close of a relationship
as I wanted.  She found it intimidating to be around me because I was a minister.  She felt
as though she had to be perfect and would place unrealistic expectations on herself.  As
she made mistakes or poor choices she would distance herself from me.  (Perhaps this
may have been because her father, also a minister, placed unreasonable demands upon
her.)  Yet, she looked to me for advice and I tried to help her the best I knew how.

  Never feeling like he is “quite good enough” for love and acceptance, the codependent
accepts blame for everything that goes wrong in his life.  He may begin to rack up a
number of achievements, but he never gains the confidence or objectivity to enjoy his life
without feelings of inadequacy.  He is a chronic people-pleaser. He becomes increasingly
more manipulative and controlling of those around him as he tries to boost his image in the
eyes of those he most wants to please.

  I also tried to help my peers when they were in trouble or in need of advice.  I would go
down town to the Christian Coffee House and witness.  I remember one particular
Wednesday night I packed thirteen kids into my ‘63 Chevy Impala and took them to our
church youth group meeting.  I believe my car may have been one of the first “low riders” in
Wisconsin as it crawled along the road to deliver its squirming cargo.  You should have
seen the Youth Pastor’s expression as we marched into the service.

 I began giving assistance to anyone I felt needed my help.  There was the time I helped a
young teenage girl tell her mother she was pregnant.  Another time, I heard of a middle-
aged man who was mentally ill and living in squalor.  I went over to his mobile home, finding
him caked with excrement and his house a shambles.  I helped him get cleaned up and
called the Adult Protective Services to give him professional help.
 I helped a distraught gay man who was suicidal.  I assisted a family who was looking for
their runaway teen-age daughter.  I even introduced a brother and a sister to each other
who were separated at birth by adoption.  
 I was only a teenager, but I discovered that helping others was emotionally fulfilling.  I felt
like I had a purpose - like I was needed.
 I began dating when I was sixteen.  I dated girls ages fourteen to twenty, but now as I
look back, there was a unique characteristic common to almost all of the girls.  They had
weak or dysfunctional relationships with their fathers.  I didn’t know it then, but my life as a
codependent was in full swing.  Fortunately, there were a few checks and balances in
place that kept me from going off of the deep end.  But my mind was set.  I believed I was
meant to help people.  That was my purpose and calling.  I gave little consideration to
setting healthy limits on my time and energy in such endeavors.


CHAPTER THREE

It All Started Way Back When

 The sins of the fathers are inherently passed on from generation to generation.  The
seeds sown in the lives of the children will bear fruit in their adult years, and thus, the
cycle continues.  (Ex. 20:5)  Not until someone understands the truth of what is happening
and decides to stop the domino effect of passing it on will the curse be broken.

  As I begin this chapter I want to point out that codependency can develop in one’s life at
any age as a result of being subjected to trauma or a prolonged dysfunctional relationship,
regardless of family history.  My codependency has roots that stretch generations back.
 My mother’s father was born in the late 1800’s and was from strong Scandinavian stock.  
His father was from Sweden and migrated to America after a lengthy sailing career.  
Although he died a Christian, I don’t know many facts about him or my great-grandmother,
except they were a strong, vigorous people who learned to cope in the face of adversity in
climate, economy, health and prejudice.
 Grandpa was an intriguing character.  He was a strong man with a stocky build and huge
hands.  Though he spent the latter half of his life as an ordained minister, his youth was far
less than saintly.  I remember hearing stories about how he punched a kid’s eye out for
intentionally stomping on his new boots, how he hid a pistol underneath a tree on the way
to school to keep threatening bullies at bay, and how he watered the horses for Buffalo Bill
Cody when the traveling western show came through northern Wisconsin.  
 Grandpa told us how he ran whiskey for Al Capone’s organization during the prohibition
out of Chicago.  He then switched to the right side of the law and served as a deputy
sheriff in Colorado.  At some point he became a Christian and dedicated his life to the
Lord.  He became a minister, earning a doctorate degree in theology.  He pastored several
churches, was a missionary to the Indians and an evangelist.  He was also an
accomplished singer.
 Grandpa liked horses, guns and silver mines.  Grandpa was fun!  To us, he was a hero.  
He did all the fun and interesting things I would do if I were grown up.
 Grandma was also of Scandinavian heritage, but was orphaned along with her brother at
a young age.  She was a beautiful woman with a slight build and soft brown hair.  Her
complexion was milky white and her voice was like music.  She got ill with a high fever
while still in her twenties and lost all of her hair.  I remember her wearing a napkin around
her head at all times unless she put on her wig to go to church.  Grandma recounted how
embarrassed she was when, while walking around the corner to the front of the church, a
limb from a tree dipped down from the wind and snagged the wig off her head, causing her
to shriek in humiliation.  
 Grandma was also known for her tender-heartedness toward the oppressed and hurting.  
She never turned anyone away who was hungry or in need.  During the depression,
Grandma was known as an easy mark for all the transients and bums who wanted
handouts.  I remember Grandma’s melodic voice as she often referred to someone in need
as “that poor man,” or “that poor dearie.”  I wonder if Grandma was codependent.
 I only saw Grandma and Grandpa every few years or so.  Had I lived with or by my
maternal grandparents, I might have had a somewhat different opinion of them than the
romantic notions I had as a kid.  I believe a large part of Mom’s illness was related to some
of the very disturbing things that took place in her life as a child.
 Grandpa was quite legalistic.  He would not hesitate telling someone about Hell if he felt
they needed some additional persuasion to repent.  Many of his sermons were about the
harsh judgments and wrath of God.  I remember hearing how his daughter-in-law gave him
a record of gospel music recorded by a modern entertainer.  He threw the record down
and said in disdain, “I don’t want that!  Those songs are being sung by a sinner!”
 This really upset my aunt, who kept her distance from then on.
 Grandma confused and frightened my mother when she was a child by telling her that
God wouldn’t love her if she sinned.  Grandma added insult to injury by also telling her,
“The devil is going to get you because you sinned!”
 This absolutely terrified Mom because she was always getting into trouble.
 Mom also recalls how when she was little and Grandpa was away doing revivals, she
would often sleep between her mother and one of her older sisters.  Grandma and my aunt
would scare her by making her think the devil was under the bed and could reach up
through the mattress to grab her.
   As Mom grew older, she also grew rebellious.  She ran away and Grandma threatened
to put her in an asylum if she didn’t change her behavior.  Her physical illness started when
she was around twelve years old, when she had to have surgery to remove an ovarian
tumor.  It was then that Grandma pampered her and said, “Oh, dearie, lay down and
rest.”  It seems to me that was when sickness became a means to get attention.
 It is interesting to note that all four of Grandpa and Grandma’s children would turn their
backs on God for a lengthy time before finally coming back to Him.
 My Dad’s father was the son of a southern farmer who was killed by a tornado when
“Pa,” as we called him, was still a teenager.  Pa was treated harshly by his father and had
low self-esteem.  He became a Christian when he was approximately nineteen years old
and was persecuted for his faith.  
 Shortly after his conversion, two men kidnapped Pa and threatened to throw him into a tar
pit, which would have meant certain death, unless he would deny his faith.  Just as they
were about to push him into the pit Pa asked, “Would you let me pray first?”
 They obliged and Pa knelt down in the dirt and started to pray.  As he prayed he started
to shake and speak in tongues.  This so terrified those fellows they fled.  Within three
months both of the men had died - one from swallowing his dental plate, the other from
being kicked in the head by a mule.  Pa later became a minister and traveled with revivalist
Homer Hall, a somewhat obscure evangelist.
 Pa met his bride-to-be during his late teens while at a tent revival.  During the meeting, a
frog crawled into the tent from under the canvas and started hopping toward Granny.  She
was scared to death of frogs and she started shrieking.  When Pa saw what was
happening, he leaped from the bench, caught the frog and took it outside.  When he
returned, he and Granny were smitten with love and were married after a brief courtship.
 Since Pa was underage, he lied to the county clerk in order to get the marriage license.  
Pa, who was blind in his left eye, always told us that God took away the eyesight because
of this lie.
 Granny was one-quarter Cherokee Indian and Irish.  Her mother died while she was still a
child, so she had to raise her twin brothers.  Great-Grandpa never remarried.  He was
credentialed as a Baptist minister, but never entered the ministry full time or pastored a
church.
   Granny and Pa married in the 1920’s.  Although they remained married till Granny’s
death in 1977, they had less than an ideal marriage.  During the Depression they were dirt
poor.  But what made things particularly difficult was Pa’s incestuous ways.  He either
molested or tried to molest one of his daughters.  He even molested my father when he
was ten years old.  Something also must have happened to Dad earlier, because he had
some sort of nervous breakdown when he was five.
 As time went on, the family came to tolerate Pa, but never really respected him.  I
wonder if Granny ever wished she had married that frog rather than Pa.
 Granny became the matriarch of the family and was always revered, though she could
show her temper if she got mad.  I remember Granny sticking her tongue between her
teeth and setting her jaw when she was cross.  She could be real tenderhearted, too, and
had a great sense of humor.  She loved to make loud, sudden noises to make us jump
when everyone was quiet or watching a suspense-filled movie.
  What made things so tough on Gary and me was that Granny was fairly old and
physically run down by the time we went to live with her.  She didn’t know how to handle
two young boys at that juncture in her life.  Yes, she clearly made some mistakes and we
were damaged, but she did love us.  And fortunately, though Pa had trouble earlier in his
life, he never attempted to molest us.  Pa was legalistic, however, and even a little spooky,
often talking about God’s wrath and judgment smiting people who refused to repent.
 Pa’s legalism prohibited him from giving Granny a wedding ring, since he believed jewelry
was sinful.  It wasn’t until just a short time before Granny died that he finally gave her a
ring.  The passage of time softened Pa and he knew it meant a lot to her.  
 As the years went by, Pa regretted his pernicious ways and apologized to Dad.  But, he
went a little bit too far in attempting to overcome his demons when he began to preach that
not only were playing cards, dice and watching television sinful, but so was sex - even for
married people!  This made things quite difficult for my parents who tried to abide by Pa’s
off beat teachings.  Their hormones got the best of them, however, resulting in Gary and
me.
 As Granny and Pa aged into their twilight years, they grew more affectionate.  And
although they never shared a bed the whole time I knew them, they often hugged and even
occasionally kissed.  Pa passed away at the age of ninety-three.        
  It is interesting to me how my aunts waited on him hand and foot, even though he was in
a nursing home!  They often complained about it, but never slowed down.  It was as if he
had a power over them.  I believe they were codependent to him.
 It is also interesting that, like my Mother and her siblings, Dad and his sisters all strayed
away from God before finally coming back to Him in the latter part of their middle age.  It is
a miracle that my Mom and Dad’s marriage would survive, considering all the baggage they
brought into it.
  As you can see, there is considerable case history on both sides of my family that has
been a catalyst to my codependency.


CHAPTER FOUR

The Preach and The Breach

 It is primarily during childhood, when we are most vulnerable, that the patterns of
behavior are set.  It is during childhood when we need the most guidance and nurture.  
The main reason our jails and mental hospitals are overflowing is because of inadequate
parenting.  Truly, the most powerful hand is the one that rocks the cradle.

  My brother, Gary, coined a phrase to describe our diverse natures.  He called us “The
Preach and The Breach.”  He laughed at how different we were.  It is true that our lives
have been dramatically different.  After all, I went on to become a minister and Gary went
down the dark path of drug abuse and eventually ended up in jail.  I dedicated my life to
God and Gary was the first to admit that he was an outright sinner.  But to be perfectly
candid, we both had a similar problem.  We were both codependents.  It was the same
coin, but opposite sides.  I had some advantages Gary didn’t.  I had a little more nurturing
and hadn’t suffered outright sexual abuse as he had.

 I had experienced God in some ways as a young child that Gary hadn’t.  Mom read
stories to me from our little Bible storybook on The Good Shepherd, The Lost Lamb, and
Samuel.  Gary was in different homes that didn’t give him such exposure to God’s Word.
  I remember one time, as a very young child, being in the hospital for pneumonia.  It was
night and I had been crying because I was lonely and frightened.  A nun walked down the
hallway outside my room and said, “Be quiet or I’ll shut your door.”  So, I lay there in the
bed and stared out into the lighted hallway, trying to stifle my sobs, when I heard my name
whispered loudly two times, “Roger, Roger.”
 The Voice was neither male nor female.  It had the strength of a male, but also the
gentleness of a female.  I crawled to the edge of my bed to get a better look down the
hallway to see who had called my name.  No one was there.  I looked around my room.  
No one was there either, but I felt a peace and within a few moments was asleep.  People
may think I only experienced a dream or a hallucination.  I believe I heard the voice of God.
  One day when I was four years old, Mom was washing clothes with the old style washing
machine with the rollers on top that squeezed out the water.  That washing machine was a
mystery to me.  It seemed to be alive as it danced across the floor while churning the
clothes.
 Mom had just completed rinsing the clothes and was feeding them through the ringer one
by one when the phone rang.  When she left to answer the phone, I decided to help her by
feeding a towel into the ringer.  However, my little fingers got caught between the rollers
and I couldn’t get my hand out.  I cried for Mom who came rushing to my aid.  By the time
she got to me I was already stuck up to my forearm.  She unlatched the rollers and freed
me.  My hand was white and flat as a pancake.  Mom rushed me out the door and got to
me the emergency room in record time.
  The doctor carefully poked and rubbed my numb hand.  “We may need to amputate,” he
said glumly. “We will need to check it again in a few days.  If it is worse, he’ll need surgery.”
 Mom herded me out the door and took me home.  That evening, several people came
over to pray for me, including the pastor of the Assembly of God Church, Pastor Booker.  
Mom really prayed hard and took authority over every demon within 100 miles as she
begged God for a miracle.  Three days later the doctor checked my hand and said in
amazement, “This boy’s hand is well!”  From then on, Mom would often place that hand on
her head and ask me to pray for her when she got migraine headaches.  Every time I
prayed she felt better.  Gary also had some religious experiences, but of a far different
nature.
 Granny and Pa would take us to their little church in Zion, Illinois.  A few folks rented the
Booker T. Washington Hall every Saturday night and Sunday.  I will never forget the
services, where it was Brother Miller, Brother Grubbs or Pa taking turns preaching.
  Brother Miller would start the service off by leading the singing.  Granny would play the
piano and we’d sing songs like,

 “Something’s down inside of me telling me to go ahead.
         Well, something’s down inside of me telling me to go ahead.
 Yes, something’s down inside of me telling me to go ahead...  
         Go ahead…Go ahead...Go ahead.”

 Go ahead and what, we didn’t know, but we sang it with zeal.  

 Or we’d sing,
 
 “Well, it’s all over me and it’s keeping me alive....
         Keeping me alive, keeping me alive.
 Yes, it’s all over me and it’s keeping me alive.
         Jesus is keeping me alive.”

  But, Gary and I would sing it,

 “Well it’s all over me and it’s eating me alive....”  
          
  We often changed the words to make things a bit more interesting.
  After singing we’d have testimony service.  This consisted of several of the fifteen to
thirty folks present standing and giving an account of how God blessed them.  
 As the people began to give their testimonies one by one, an excitement would build in the
service.  It wasn't long before dear old Sister Siene would start to bounce her heals on the
hard wood floor.  It started quietly at first, but would gain volume and momentum as the
testimony service progressed.
 About this time, I knew there was enough going on in the service for me to make my exit
to the bathroom for some fun.  I’d start to squirm like I had to go real bad and Granny
would finally agree to let me go to the bathroom.  On the way, I would detour to the kitchen
and grab some matches and then head on to the bathroom.  As soon as I got in there, I
would unwind a huge mound of toilet paper and pile it above the waterline of the toilet and
set it ablaze.  As the fire reached its apex, I would flush the toilet and watch the flaming
paper go down bubbling, gurgling and making a great cloud of smoke.  I waved my arms to
dissipate the smoke and knew I had to hurry to keep Granny from coming to check on me.  
So, I would do my business and then head on back to my seat as if nothing had happened.  
After a few moments, a smell of something burning would waft into the hall and someone
always asked what was burning.  Of course, all the evidence was gone and after a few
minutes, everything would get back in full swing as testimonies continued.

 As the testimony service went on, Brother Grubbs would get up and say, “I’ll tell you,
Honey, God is good!”  
 Then he’d pat his head and shout, “Glory!”
 He’d get real excited and his false teeth would start clacking.  He’d get so frustrated from
his teeth getting lose and hindering what he had to say that he’d spit them out into the palm
of his hand and deposit them into his coat pocket.  He’d just keep right on testifying with
even more enthusiasm.
 Then, he’d play his guitar.  He usually sat to the right of the lectern with the back legs of
his chair parked close to the edge the eighteen-inch high platform.  On one occasion, his
chair slipped clean off the platform and he went rolling on the floor.  He survived unhurt and
continued playing his guitar as though nothing happened.
 After all the testimonies and music, offering was taken and it would be time for the
preaching.  About this time, Gary and I would be getting sleepy and we would lie down on
the pallet Granny had prepared for us on the floor next to her feet.  To make sure we lay
still, Granny held a switch to whack us if we started horsing around.
 One particular night, Gary got whacked for playing around.  To my horror, I watched him
cup his little freckled hand and claw Granny’s leg like a cat!  She didn’t waste any time
hitting him again with the switch.  But, he was undeterred and clawed Granny again and
again until her leg started to bleed.  The more she switched, the more he clawed.  I don’t
know who gave up first, Granny or Gary, but he finally quit.  Granny looked like she had
tromped through field of briars after that episode.  I still can’t figure why he did that, but the
worst experience for Gary was something that happened during the testimony service on a
Sunday night.
  He was sitting calmly next to Granny when this dear black lady stood up to testify.  As
she proclaimed the praises of God she got excited, and it wasn't long before she was
jumping and then clapping.  After that, she started dancing, shaking, and all of a sudden -
BOOM!  She fell to the floor and started to crawl around with her eyes closed while crying
and shouting.  And wouldn’t you know it, she headed right for Gary!
 His already wide eyes became like saucers as he tried to hide behind Granny to evade
the coming steamroller, but that didn’t work because she went right around Granny toward
Gary.  She must have had radar, because even though her eyes were closed, she followed
Gary wherever he ran.  They went around the poles, around chairs, around people and
from one side of the hall to the other like a Tom and Jerry cartoon!  Finally, Gary ran onto
the platform and climbed up onto a chair in sheer terror.  The lady eventually settled down,
but Gary’s opinion of God, church, and testimony service was altered.  He became a
skeptic and would remain so for a long time.

  I, on the other hand, just overlooked all the fireworks and kept my faith, though getting
emotional at the altar was hard for me to do.  
 Pa would say,  “Roger, you need to get down to that altar and cry!  If you were saved,
you’d cry!”
 I’d hold my head and rub my eyes to make them water and think of every bad, horrible
thing I could to make myself cry.  Thinking of my dead cat usually did it.
 There were different guest preachers who filled the pulpit from time to time - Brother
Bobo, Brother Bohannan and Brother Bowman.  I always wondered how it was that so
many of them had names that began with “b-o.”
 I remember Brother Bobo was a real fun guy to watch.  He was a very thin man who
combed his hair straight back and only had a few teeth that would appear like lonely
snowmen on a dark night when he gave that big smile.  But the most striking thing about
him was how he’d hold the pulpit and jump, lifting his rear way over his head.  He’d let out a
loud “Whoop!” and smile, exposing a lot of gum.
  After church, we’d often go to McDonald’s and get a hamburger, especially if Pa got the
offering.  
 One time Gary even got the offering!  He stood up in testimony service and asked the
folks to pray for God to give him a little red wagon.  Folks were so touched they took up an
offering right on the spot.  He got over $20.00, which was just enough for his red wagon!
 After we left Granny and Pa’s and went back home, Mom and Dad often took us to the
First Assembly of God Church.  I liked going to that church and even quit playing with
matches, but Gary continued down his path of sin.  He started smoking tobacco, stealing,
and by the time he was in junior high, smoking marijuana and taking drugs.  He started
stealing cars and I remember one night when Gary overheard Dad talking on the phone to
the police.  They called to see if Gary was there.  They had information that Gary was
involved in a car theft.
 As soon as Gary determined what was going on, he jumped out of his bedroom window
and took off.  The police found him two days later in Illinois and extradited him back to
Wisconsin.  My heart broke when I saw him behind bars with hardened criminals.  He was
my brother, and I loved him.
 He soon got out and was placed on probation, but his days of crime were just beginning.  
Gary met a girl at school named Susan, who was two years his senior.  They soon fell in
love and were married when Gary was nineteen.  They would stay together, but they often
slept in cars, basements and one-room tenement apartments.  Gary worked scores of jobs
and I don’t know how many times he had to sell all of his belongings to pay off debts or to
buy some meager morsels of food.  His life was hard and his appearance showed it.  
Susan stuck by him, but at times appeared frail and frightened.

 Before I graduated from high school I felt I had received a call into the ministry, so I
applied to Zion Bible College of East Providence, Rhode Island.  I did not have a
predilection toward the type of religion I saw at Granny and Pa’s church, but I did want to
replicate in my own life the example I saw demonstrated by the ministers and laity at the
Assembly of God.  I had experienced a true demonstration of God’s love from them and I
wanted to show that same type of Christian love to others.
 As I left for college all hell was breaking loose at home.  Mom and Dad were going out on
each other, Gary ended up in a foster home after a big fight with Dad, and to make
matters worse, I was leaving a girl behind that held my heart in her hands.  Once at
college, I went for long evening walks and, while gazing up at the moon and stars,
wondered if she was thinking about me as much as I was about her.
 I met her during my senior year in high school.  She was attractive, smart and graceful.  I
enjoyed going over to her house because it was always peaceful there, and her mom
helped fill my need for a mother figure.  Even though we were too young to even be
thinking about marriage, I was looking for a sense of home and family and proposed to her
only two months after I had left for college.  I had felt deprived of a family all of my life.  
Now that I had found “the girl of my dreams,” I wasn’t about to let her go.  It was not my
intent to quit school and rush off to get married, but I wanted to see if she was at least
ready to make a commitment.  

 I enthusiastically asked her, “How would you like to be the wife of a minister?” I was
greeted with an icy response as she refused.  She wasn’t ready to discuss marriage, let
alone being a minister’s wife, and I wasn’t patient enough to allow her to get used to the
idea over time.  I boxed her in with the ultimatum and she had no other recourse but to step
out of the relationship.  Looking back on it now, I was caught up with the idea of love and
family, but had not developed a mature relationship with her.  Though it must have been
difficult, she actually displayed wisdom and maturity by not accepting my proposal, but I
was devastated.

 We broke up just before Christmas and I was an emotional mess.  I wanted to give up
and quit college.  Because of the support from the people of my home church and from a
few friends at college, I managed to go on.  It would be many years before I could think
about my first romance without reliving the pain of our break-up.
 I came home for Christmas vacation and was asked to sing at church in a Sunday night
service.  Because I was singing, Mom and Dad decided to go, too.  They hadn’t been to
church in several months and sat toward the back of the sanctuary.  
 As I began to sing there was a special anointing that settled upon the service.  I sang with
all my heart,

 “Flow through me, Flow through me.
         Let the world somehow Thy love, Thy mercy see.
 As we go from day to day, as we go along life’s way,
         Let Thy love so divine flow through me.”

 About three-fourths of the way through the song, Mom stood to her feet and stumbled to
the altar with tears streaming down her cheeks.  After a moment or two, Dad got up and
went to the prayer room followed by David Hackbarth, one of the men in the church.  
 Pastor Thompson kept saying, “Sing it again, Roger.  Sing it again.”
 I guess I sang that song for fifteen minutes as my folks rededicated their lives to God.  
They never turned their backs on God again.
 My second year of Bible College held a very special blessing for me.  I met my wife-to-be
just a few days after my arrival on campus.  Her name was Sandy Diann Stills, from
Tallahassee, Florida.
 It is fortunate that, while Sandy had a traumatic childhood, our relationship was not based
on my codependency, but on a healthy romantic foundation.  This girl impressed me!  Not
only was she absolutely beautiful with her gentle, blue-golden eyes, soft brown hair and
petite form, she was also intelligent, having been valedictorian of her graduating class in
high school, editor of her year book for two years, class officer, winner of the Daughters of
the American Revolution and Oratorical Contest Awards.  She had similar interests as I and
we both chose children’s ministry as our assigned ministry in college.  She also loved radio
broadcasting.  I had been involved with the radio club in high school.  When I got to college,
I offered to help produce the daily radio broadcast under the direction of Rev. Edward B.
Hill.  Sandy volunteered to do secretarial duties.  As a result, we were able to spend a lot
of time together getting to know one another.  We discovered we were made for each
other and on October 23rd, 1973, I told her I was falling in love with her.

 Our young relationship was soon severely tested when over the Christmas holiday
vacation Sandy came to Wisconsin for a visit.  Mom was having some difficulty with her
medication, which made her act just like she was drunk.  She got angry, started cursing,
tore up family pictures and rolled around on the floor, laughing hysterically.  Sandy was
terrified and I was humiliated.  She soon learned that getting to know my family was going
to be a challenge.
 Sandy’s family history was not untainted either.  She told me incident after incident of
tragedy that occurred in her family.  People have often told me that I’m approachable and
would tell me things they never told anyone else.  This was also the case with Sandy, who
said, “I don’t know why I am telling you this, Roger, but I feel like I can talk to you.”
 She then told me of the sexual abuse she experienced at age seven from her father, his
numerous scrapes with the law, including his killing a man.  She told me of the time her
father got into a shoot-out with some road workers shortly after her high school
graduation.  He was angry because they pushed dirt and sand onto the entrance of his
driveway, resulting in his pickup getting stuck.  They offered to help pull him out, and he
accepted their offer, but cautioned them not to damage his pickup.  As they proceeded to
pull his pickup out of the dirt, something went wrong and his bumper was pulled off.  He
became livid and retrieved a pistol out of the cab of his pickup. He shot the two road-
workers several times.  They also had firearms and shot him five times!  It was amazing no
one died!
 As time went on, I would learn a lot more about her father, including how his father had
abused him.  I also learned that Sandy’s grandfather was shot and killed by a son-in-law.  
Eventually, Sandy’s parents got divorced.
 You never would suspect Sandy had a family history like this.  Until she went public with
her testimony, people often thought she was from a stable home.  Sandy’s greatest
blessing was having a godly mother who gave her a lot of support and security.  In
addition, she received great encouragement and support from the people of her church.  In
spite of her father’s dysfunction, Sandy remained levelheaded and balanced.
 Sandy and I were married September 6, 1975 and have two wonderful children.  Matthew
was born November 2, 1978, and Darla Joy followed on May 22, 1982.  We intended to
raise both children to love the Lord and have had a stable home life - or at least that’s what
we planned.  My codependency would threaten to destroy the fabric of our family, as I
became a classic over-achiever, looking for that perfect place of ministry.  The years to
come would be filled with some very high “highs” and some very low “lows.”  The Preach
and the Breach were both on the path of what could be their own destruction, if not for
Divine intervention.


CHAPTER FIVE

Servanthood, Slavery and Slop-Jars

 I was grateful for Bible College, but it never really prepared me for the relational aspects
of serving as an associate to a senior pastor.  I was taught the art of creating and
delivering sermons, how to teach a Sunday School class and even how to lead hymns and
choruses, but the ins and outs of working with a senior pastor was not part of the
curriculum at that time.  Yet, it may very well be one of the most important things a young
pastor should know, since virtually all ministers begin their ministry in some form of
associate work, be it music, Christian education, youth pastoring, etc.  Generally, the
associate minister is considered an extension of the senior pastor’s ministry.  Therefore, he
seeks to blend his ministry with the pastor’s and remain a loyal subordinate at all times.
There are inherent dangers in this for an associate who has a tendency toward
codependency, in that he can be easily manipulated and taken advantage of by his pastor if
the pastor is a domineering, controlling person.

 That is what happened with me.  I left Bible College and immediately entered into full time
ministry as a youth pastor in a southern Indiana town.  I was thrilled just to have an
opportunity to minister in this church of approximately 225 people.  I felt any pastor who
would give me an opportunity to minister had to be a pretty good fellow, considering how
green I was.  My first position of ministry was very rough, though I did gain some valuable
experience.

 Pastor Elwood Dooley (not his real name) was a short, portly man with narrow eyes and
a booming voice.  His frail wife, Marie, was pale and in ill health, but an appropriate
balance for her opinionated and domineering husband.  Pastor Dooley’s philosophy of
ministry was “watch the congregation like a hawk, stay one step ahead and keep them
under your thumb.”  He talked often of church board meetings that took the skill of a
diplomat and the cunning of a lawyer.  His goal appeared to be do what was necessary to
get your agenda across and, whatever you do, don’t let them vote on you!  It seemed like
Pastor Dooley was mistrusting of most and sensitive to few.  I witnessed, more than once,
Pastor Dooley dealing harshly with parishioners who questioned his authority.  He even
called them names.
 It was obvious that he had little confidence in me at first.  Just before he went on a month
long trip, he cautioned me not to set my expectations too high because the congregation
was used to and preferred his preaching to anyone else's.  He was rather surprised to hear
that fifteen people were converted and the attendance remained strong during his absence.
 Pastor Dooley’s twelve-year old daughter, Karita, was very jealous of the time her father
spent with me and it was not uncommon for her to go to her bedroom when I came over,
slamming her door in the process.  Their younger daughter, however, took to me and
enjoyed my taking her to school, the store, or wherever else she wanted to go.
 It seemed like Pastor Dooley was always looking for action and was constantly involved in
some church conflict of one kind or another.  And, of course, when he wanted
reinforcement, I was always there with my tongue hanging out.  I wanted to please him and
have his approval, although he was often curt and his criticism cutting.  He told me he
thought I couldn’t preach, couldn’t lead a choir, was untruthful and should just stick to
teaching Sunday School.  I got so discouraged that I told Sandy there was no use to my
staying in the ministry, but she encouraged me to stick with it, regardless of what he said.  
I honestly don’t know if he criticized me so much because he believed I was really that
inept or felt threatened by me.

 Pastor Dooley liked action and he often got himself, and me, in situations that were best
left to the police.  An example of this was the time when Pastor Dooley was asked by a
young lady in the church to assist her in evicting her live-in lover.  She decided to dedicate
her life to God and wanted to live pure.  So, of course, Pastor Dooley and I went to the
rescue.
 As soon as we entered the lady’s house, the man began cursing and accusing us of
wanting to make out with his woman.  He stood to his feet, raised his fists and dared
Pastor Dooley to hit him.  Pastor Dooley quickly realized he was no match for the very
angry young man, so he turned on his heels and ran out the door, leaving me alone to deal
with the problem.
  The man got in my face, nose to nose, squinted his eyes and growled, “So, you want
her, you “m____ f____?”  Well, go ahead and take her, but let’s fight first!  Come on!  
Fight!  I’ll take you on right now!  I dare you!”
 His hands shook and he slobbered like a mad dog.  I never backed down, although I did
rest my hand on a wooden chair with the full intent of crashing it across the guy’s skull if he
attempted to attack me.  After a few moments he realized I wasn’t going to back down, so
he left the house and drove off.  Two weeks later, the woman had the man back in her
home, living with her.
 That is the way it was with Pastor Dooley.  One week we might be in the middle of a
domestic dispute, the next we might be following a fire truck to the scene of a burning
house where a parishioner, who was mad at his wife, decided to burn his house down.  
Now, I admit a pastor should help when called upon and it may place him in some unusual
circumstances, but it is unwise for that pastor to engineer plots and schemes to manipulate
his people or intentionally place him and others in physical danger when it is prudent to let
the police handle the situation.
  After two and a half years of serving as an associate pastor to Rev. Dooley, I received a
call from Pastor Jimmy Glen (not his real name) who was interested in having me join his
staff.  Pastor Glen was from another town located in the eastern part of Indiana.  It was a
small community, but the hearts of the people were big.  I instantly liked Pastor Glen.  He
was enthusiastic, but mild...and he loved to have fun.  He liked to bowl, sing Country
Gospel music and ride motorcycles.  Although he was heavy-set, he was quite athletic and
loved golfing and playing softball.  He took a church averaging about a hundred in
attendance and built it to over 350 in just a couple of years.  He needed an associate
pastor/minister of youth and felt I met the qualifications.  Sandy and I moved there in the
fall of 1977 while they were in the midst of a building program.  We had good times with
Pastor Glen, his wife Jane and their two boys.  We went places together, ate out together,
bowled, golfed and played softball together.  I even bought a motorcycle and went riding
with him.  We were a team!  It felt good to belong.  Pastor Glen made me feel like family
and I was often at his house watching late night TV with him after Sandy went to bed.

 After we had been there about a year, Pastor Glen resigned. He accepted another
pastoral position and asked us to go with him.  We relocated to a small town in the San
Joaquin Valley of Northern California, just south of Sacramento.  It was a nice, quiet
community in which to raise our newborn son, Matthew.
 The church grew, but it wasn’t long until Pastor Glen encountered some difficulty with a
few board members.  They were primarily concerned about the new people coming in and
taking over “their church.”  They also felt Pastor Glen was a little out of touch with the
church and didn’t visit the people enough.  In response to this complaint, Pastor Glen came
up with a notion that he and I would visit all 350 people within a month!  
 I told him that it wasn’t practical or feasible with all the other responsibilities we had, but
he insisted.  Sure enough, we couldn’t visit the entire congregation within such a short
time.  As a result, several families in the congregation felt slighted and the attitude of the
people toward Pastor Glen began to shift toward the negative.
 With my attention focused primarily on pleasing Pastor Glen and not taking care of my
young family, Sandy and I had a major argument.  We rarely fought, but Sandy had finally
reached her limit with my constant absences.  She felt like a church widow while I ran
around with Pastor Glen, leaving her home alone to care for our infant son all by herself.  
When she tried to discuss the problem with me I got defensive, and although she usually
was quiet, she became angry and told me I was not taking care of my family the way I
should...that I was neglecting them.

  As the argument continued I got louder and Sandy talked faster.  The faster she talked -
the louder I yelled, and it finally progressed to a point where I found myself with my hand
raised to strike her.  Fortunately, I realized what I was doing and quickly brought my hand
down.  I am not normally aggressive and it scared me, so I sought for another option to
quiet my very angry, chatty young wife.  I remembered a technique I saw both Pastors
Dooley and Glen use with their wives that always seemed to work.

 I hollered with as much authority as I could muster, “OK!  If you don’t like it, you can hit
the road!  There’s the door!”
 Sandy immediately quieted and sobbed, “I never thought you’d say that to me...to ask me
to leave!”
  I instantly regretted my actions and said, “But I don’t really mean it!  I was just trying to
get you to stop talking!”  
 I held her, apologized and we kissed.  I never used that tactic again, but I had a problem
and Sandy was trying to get me to see it.  I was codependent to Pastor Glen.  I couldn’t
say “no” to him.  I was his right hand man.  I was his servant and I enjoyed the accolades
he lavished on me for helping him.  Sandy however, saw it as a form of slavery and deeply
resented it.
 After about two years with Pastor Glen, I felt it was time to take the reigns as pastor of a
church.  We moved to a small town in Northern California, just above Redding.  We spent
five wonderful years there.  Our son, Matthew, enjoyed walking through the hills of
manzanita and rocks.  Sandy loved the down home feeling of country life and I enjoyed
pastoring a church of some of the most loving and caring people I would ever know.
Though I was only 26 years old, the people were very respectful and followed my
leadership with enthusiasm.  Sandy and I considered our tenure there as some of the
happiest years of our lives.  The church grew, an assistant pastor was added and the
church board was supportive and cooperative.  They encouraged me to rest when I needed
it, to take the time necessary to live a balanced life and nurture my young family.  We didn’t
have much money, but living in the heart of the Shasta Valley made us feel like we were on
a permanent vacation.

 About four years into our pastorate, Rev. Glen, with whom I had maintained contact, left
pastoring and became an evangelist.  He believed he had received a vision from God about
a coming revival that would sweep the earth.  I was glad for him because he had a lot of
problems with church boards.  It seemed as if he and boards just couldn’t get along.  After
leaving California, he also ran into church problems in Florida and Louisiana.  I am not
saying he was the cause of the problems.  It just seemed that wherever he went, serious
problems developed.

  I felt so bad for him.  I believed it wasn’t right for him to have been so mistreated by
three churches in a row.  So, we invited him to come to our church for a revival and we did
have a good meeting.  I felt he had heard from God and had found his niche.
 About six months after the revival, I called a church board meeting to discuss how we
could facilitate the needs of our growing congregation.  We were running out of room and
needed a building plan.  I was surprised when a board member looked at me and
questioned, “Pastor, do you mean you want to pastor a church running five hundred?”
 “Why not?” I shot back.  “We are packed out here and, whether we go to two services or
add a balcony, we have to do something.”
 The board member replied,  “Why?  We can let them go to another church.”
  He didn’t appear hardhearted in his response.  He had just reached the conclusion that
the church didn’t have, nor could gather, the resources necessary to advance beyond its
current limits.  I was dumbfounded.  I knew our church was poor, but I felt we could do
something to accommodate the growth, even if we went to two services on Sunday
mornings.  Unfortunately, the board member wasn’t open to this idea and the other board
members remained silent as I closed the meeting.  An hour later I was on the phone to
Rev. Glen who said I had outgrown the church and should consider going elsewhere.  I
offered to join him on the evangelistic field.  People had always responded well to my
singing and I could help with the administrative aspects of the ministry.

 Pastor Glen was open to the suggestion, but Sandy was worried as she cautiously
warned, “Roger, I am not sure about this.  You know how manipulative he is and your
inability to say “no” to him.”
 I reassured her all would be well and that I felt I just had to join him.  So, off we went
back to the San Joaquin Valley to Modesto, California.  We liked the Modesto area, though
we would greatly miss our beloved church and the beautiful Shasta Valley.
 For the third time I was working with Rev. Glen, twice before in churches and now on the
evangelistic field.  It was quite an experience traveling around the country from place to
place in the small Cherokee Piper Rev. Glen had purchased.  As previously stated, He
loved to have fun.  Flying was both a hobby as well as a practical means to travel around
the country.
 As anyone who has done any amount of flying can tell you, you don’t stop every time you
have to use the bathroom.  Though I managed to wait until refueling stops to relieve myself,
Pastor Glen could not.  And no wonder!  He drank cup after cup of coffee.  
 I’ll never forget Rev. Glen asking me, “Pass the jug, Roger.”
 So, I would hand him the clear, plastic Tupperware jug so he could do his business.  Over
and over again - on every flight he had to relieve himself, filling the jug nearly half full by the
time we set down for fuel.
 “Hey, Roger, empty this for me," he directed, as the plane rolled to a stop by the flight
base of operations.  When on the first time I humorously suggested he take it out and
empty it himself, he just repeated his directive and ignored me.  So, I dutifully picked up the
warm container and, trying to evade the eyes of anyone that could see what I was doing,
emptied it.  Oh how I hated doing that!  It smelled like the coffee he drank, but with high
doses of ammonia added to it.  After the last few drops dripped to the ground, I took it
inside to the men’s restroom, rinsed it out, and prepared for the next leg of the flight.  It
seemed like little had changed since I was a child emptying out the slop jar at Granny and
Pa’s.  I remember that when a Lady Preacher came to stay at Granny and Pa’s, I had to
empty her slop jar.  She never thanked me and I got the feeling she sort of looked down on
us because we were poor and had no warm water or an inside bathroom.

 Rev. Glen wasn’t unappreciative, but there was something about him that made me
resentful.  I felt like I was being used.  He knew I wouldn’t say no, but why would he even
ask me to do such a thing?  It was embarrassing and demeaning.  I could never ask
anyone to do that for me if I could do it myself.  However, Rev. Glen was always so nice
when he asked me to do things that I wouldn’t normally care to do.  He made me feel like
he was doing me a favor by asking me to do things for him...that I was special...that I was
gifted and the only one he could depend on.  Although I felt a little twinge that something
wasn't quite right, his acceptance and praise made it all worth the effort.

 After approximately a year of traveling and singing around the country, I felt it was time to
get back to pastoring.  Sandy was relieved to hear this, since my absences were taking a
toll on all of us.  We accepted the first church that was open and once again moved across
the country to Indiana.  This time we went to a small industrial city seventy miles southwest
of Indianapolis.  Though the church grew fast and more than doubled in six months, I was
dissatisfied there.  The church had several internal problems that had been left unresolved
by the previous pastor, which resulted in a fragmented congregation.  This group didn’t like
that group and threatened to leave if the other group got its way.  I was miserable being in
the middle of an irresolvable situation.  Furthermore, I had never seen so many people die
in such a brief time.  I performed thirteen funerals in thirteen months.  These were large
funerals with hundreds of people in attendance.  People were dying with cancer, heart
attacks, lung and kidney diseases and from car accidents.  On top of that, we had never
encountered such a large number of people who were so strong willed and opinionated.  
They based their expectations of their new pastor on what they had known for over ten
years with the previous pastor.  He had served them as chauffeur, babysitter and nurse,
tending their every need.  He had become their “Papa” and they referred to him as such.  
He also published the number of visits he made in one year in the annual church report,
which numbered close to eight hundred!  Not to be outdone, I made well over a thousand
visits in a year, but the people were still complaining about how little I visited them!  As I
look back, I have little doubt that the previous pastor was codependent to his congregation
and lived to meet their expectations.  I fell into the same trap of people pleasing.
 
    The church was packed every Sunday and we desperately needed to build a larger
facility.  Eleven-plus acres had been purchased with cash, we had $30,000 in the bank,
exceeded income over expenses every month by a good margin and had access to over
half a million dollars for our first building phase, yet I was miserable.  I was the monkey in
the middle and I just wasn’t going to continue to take it.
 Sandy and I began to pray and after several days I began to have a sense that something
new was about to take place in our lives.
 One particular day in June I went alone to the church to pray about the direction we
should go in our ministry.  I had been at the altar about half an hour, pacing back and forth,
asking God what He wanted me to do, when, as I came to the right side of the platform, I
felt a Divine Presence.  
 I sensed energy flow from the top of my head, through my body, down to my feet.  It was
a most powerful experience!  I had never sensed anything like it before in my life!
 Then I heard these words in my mind, “Everything you have ever done and everything you
have ever experienced is for the purpose now for which I have called you.  I’ve anointed
you to work with children.”
  Then, I started to weep.  “Yes, God,” I cried.  “I will go wherever you want me to go.  I
will work with children.”
 I had accepted the call.  Now I had to find out where He wanted me to put it.
 I went home shortly after this experience to find, to my surprise, that Sandy had been
reading an article in a church magazine written by an alumnus from the same Bible College
we had attended.  His name was Jim Wideman, a children’s pastor in Tennessee.  Sandy
was so impressed by the article she even called him on the phone.  I was amazed at the
timing of all of this.  Sandy and I hadn’t really discussed making a change in ministry,
though I alluded to my love for children’s ministries a couple times over the years.  I thought
if I ever was going to work with kids it would be in my retirement years after a full career of
serving as a senior pastor.

 We contacted General Headquarters in Springfield, Missouri.  They gave us the names of
the open churches.  We were put in contact with the Minister of Christian Education of
Bethel Church of San Jose, California, Pastor Stephen Pruett, where noted author and
conference speaker, Rev. Charles Crabtree was the pastor.  Pastor Pruett believed that
when the person who was God’s choice for Children’s Pastor called he would know it as
soon as he heard the candidate’s voice.  Pastor Pruett told me later that he knew I was the
one for the position as soon as he heard my voice.  Even before the formalities were done,
we also sensed it was God’s Will for us.
 Off we were again, moving across the country to a new ministry.  And what a ministry it
was, too!  We found ourselves swimming in babies, toddlers and elementary aged
children.  Sandy became the supervisor of the nursery and toddlers and I oversaw all the
other children up through age twelve.  We had a full agenda with overseeing all aspects of
children’s ministry to over four hundred and fifty children with over one hundred and fifty
volunteer children’s workers.  The church ran over two thousand and was in a growth spurt,
to boot. Within a year, the children’s ministry was topping over six hundred children with
well over two hundred volunteers.  The church was running close to seventeen hundred in
Sunday School and approximately 2,700 in the two combined worship services on Sunday
mornings.  We were busy, but loved our work!

  Being a children’s pastor at San Jose’s Bethel Church was fertile ground for my
development as a children’s pastor.  I was encouraged to attend conferences and
seminars, which would refine my skills and train me to be more effective.  In addition, since
I was at a church in which the children’s ministries was flourishing, I was considered an
expert and was invited to teach “Religious Education of Children” at Bethany College of
Santa Cruz.
 Sandy was also in full bloom as a nursery director and began to lecture and demonstrate
techniques on teaching small children at numerous conferences and seminars.  Needles to
say, we were saddened at the news that Pastor Crabtree was going to be leaving Bethel
Church to head up the Assembly of God’s Decade of Harvest, a national campaign to
encourage evangelism and doctrinal purity.  After our first year at Bethel, Pastor Crabtree
left and we soon had another pastor.
 I sensed the new pastor was not going to remain at Bethel very long, and perceived that
the church was on the verge of some difficult adjustments.  Consequently, we left after a
little more than a year after Pastor Crabtree resigned.  We headed back to Indiana, and
whom do you think was waiting for us with open arms?  Yes, you guessed it - Rev. Jimmy
Glen, of course!  After all, he was like an old shoe and I knew what to expect from him - a
lot of work, yes, but also acceptance.  
 As usual, Sandy had some concerns, but at least we were going back to familiar
surroundings in western Indiana to work with someone we knew.
 Pastor Glen had been there about two years by the time I came on staff and the church
had experienced some tremendous growth under his leadership.  The church was running
about one hundred and twenty when Pastor Glen first arrived and had reached about seven
hundred in attendance by the time we got there.  There was a lot of enthusiasm and the
people were excited.  Pastor Glen really knew how to motivate people and get them to do
about anything.  They built a new building, started a day care center, put on additional
office help and were in the process of starting a new Christian radio station.  I thought we
would be there forever, so we bought a house and began to settle in.
  Meanwhile, my counseling load began to grow.  Whenever I preached about hope for the
hopeless or shared about God’s love for the hurting, I would receive numerous phone calls
from people who had been hurt, abused or traumatized as children.  I soon recognized the
need for Christian support groups, but I needed guidance on how to get started.  I received
excellent information from Rapha Ministries, which has tremendous resources.  I also had
several conversations with Jan Frank, author of “The Door Of Hope.”  She gave us a lot of
information and guided us in the right direction.  “Search For Significance,” by Robert
McGee, was also a powerful tool in helping people overcome poor and damaged self-
esteem.  I also found Dr. James Dobson’s writings to be of great value.  As a result of
utilizing these resources and the implementation of support groups, many people were
added to the church.

 I had discovered a crying need in Middle America.  People - a lot of people - were
damaged as children.  These people were suffering from personality disorders, anxiety
attacks, sexual addiction, drug dependency, eating disorders and dysfunctional families.  
What I saw and heard as my phone rang off the hook moved me.  I cried with these
people.  I truly felt their pain!  My buttons were pushed.  I identified with what they had
been through.  When I sang, “People Need the Lord,” I had to choke back the tears.  
People were dying and I was ready to help!  Yes, I was going to make a difference!

 About two years into our tenure of ministry with Pastor Glen, something went wrong -
terribly wrong.  I was home on a Tuesday evening when I got a call from Jane, Pastor Glen’
s wife.  
 “Roger, something is wrong!  Jimmy called me from the church.  He’s in a board meeting.  
He said he couldn’t talk, but to pray because he was having some problems with the
board.  Can you go to the church, Roger,” She pleaded.  “Go and see what’s going on and
call me back, OK?”
 “Oh-oh,” I thought to myself.  “The bubble has burst and something has gone wrong.”
 When I got to the church I quickly headed toward the closed door of the boardroom
where the meeting was taking place.  I stood outside the door and listened.  I couldn’t
make out every word, but I could tell by the tone of the voices that more than one board
member was angry.  
 Pastor Glen sounded defensive as they discussed something about money.  After several
moments I heard footsteps coming toward the door from inside the boardroom.  I ducked
into another office as one of the board members left in frustration and the meeting
continued.  Soon, Pastor Glen came out of the meeting for a brief bathroom break.  I
asked him what was going on.  He just threw up his hands, shook his head and said, “You
don’t really want to know.”
 He went back into the meeting and I called Jane.  I told her I didn't know what was going
on, but it appeared serious.
 She responded in a panicked voice, “What are we going to do?”
 “I don’t know, but I will let you know if anything else happens,” I replied and hung up the
phone.  
 I paced the floor and felt heartsick at the notion of having to move again.  It seemed like
there was no place to call home on this planet.
 Several hours later, a pale faced, very weary Pastor Glen came out of the adjourned
meeting.  He said the board didn’t trust him.  They didn’t like the fact that Pastor Glen’s
wife was the church administrator; even though she, nor Pastor Glenn, was eligible to sign
checks and monthly financial reports were made available at every board meeting.  Pastor
Glen was distraught and asked me join him at his house after all of the board members
left.  I watched out of the office window as the dour faced board members got into their
cars and drove off.  I felt the world was crashing in!  We had no inkling there were these
kinds of problems.
  After a few weeks of contemplation, Pastor Glen decided he was going to have to
resign.  I begged him not to resign, but stay the course and ride it out.
 “The board member’s accusations are unfounded!” I said emphatically.  You even have
the District’s unwavering support!” I proclaimed.   But my words fell on deaf ears.
 The move would be very difficult because Pastor Glen decided to give the church ninety
days notice of his intent to resign.  He felt this was necessary for the sake of the staff,
which needed to find places to go, and for the church to find a new pastor.   He would be
gone most of the time until his resignation became effective and I would often have to fill
the pulpit.  This was like a slow death to me.  I also tendered my notice of resignation and
found it nearly impossible to stand idly by and watch this ripping apart of the pastoral staff
from a congregation.
 It was especially hard on Sandy and the kids.  We weren’t over the emotional impact of
our last move from San Jose and now we would have to move again.  Sandy was working
as a church secretary and found it particularly stressful since board members frequently
came in and out of the office to rifle through papers looking for problems.  I soon noticed a
trembling in Sandy’s hands. This concerned me.  Was this just nerves or something more
severe?  We would find out later that she had a thyroid condition that was brought on by all
the stress.
 We were hurting.  We were going to have to leave our new home with the freshly planted
trees on three-fourths an acre.  I had just built a storage building with the help of my dad.  
We hadn’t been there long, but memories were planted and we hadn’t had the time to
joyfully reap their benefits.
 “It’s not fair!” we all said with sad hearts.  But, alas, such was the life of a minister and
we resigned ourselves to our fate.
 Oh, there were a few people who encouraged me to stay, but how could we after having
been so closely identified with Pastor Glen?
 All of the pastoral staff got together one evening and tried to come up with a consensus
of what we should do.  We agreed.  We would all go together to the next place of ministry,
if the church would accept us.  
 One thing you have to say for Pastor Glen - he had a loyal staff.  The problem was “we
were loyal to a fault.”


CHAPTER SIX

The Secretary In The Fishnet Stockings

  When Pastor Glen’s wife, Jane, heard how bad the board meeting went she broke down
and wept convulsively.  She was afraid some of the board members were plotting to cause
them some serious trouble.  
 I remember seeing her literally collapse in Pastor Glen’s arms as she sobbed, “How can
they do this to us?  Why don’t they trust us?”
  It wasn’t long until Pastor Glen was in contact with another church in Michigan.  It was a
large church with two satellite campuses, a TV station and a school.  It seemed like things
began to click right away between Pastor Glen and the church board.  There were some
negotiations and then an invitation was issued for Pastor Glen to candidate.  This consisted
of preaching several services, having a congregational question and answer session and a
business meeting at which the congregation would vote “yea” or “nay” on having Pastor
Glen as their new pastor.  They carefully looked Pastor Glen over and even checked his
credit history.  These steps were necessary, since the church was a large one with
approximately two thousand people on all three combined campuses and had millions of
dollars in the bank.  This was a corporate minded church if you ever saw one.  Being in the
Detroit, Michigan, area with its powerful industrial base had truly left its mark on the church.

 The selection process seemed to take forever, but we finally received the news they
accepted all of us on staff.  The news didn’t come too soon since the ninety days notice of
our resignation was coming to a close.  I had toyed with the possibility of not going with the
team, but I couldn’t accept going to another place of ministry without them.  Besides, I
could just see all the hurting people and needy children in the rough areas of Detroit that
could be reached.
 We drove up to the Detroit area to find a house.  What we found available and within our
budget to rent, however, was quite depressing!  I will never forget my Sandy’s forlorn
expression as we sat on the edge of the bed in the motel room when all we could find was
a semi-broken down bungalow.  She fell back on the bed and cried.
 I called a family meeting and lectured, “We are in the ministry to give...to serve...to help
the hurting!  Let’s don’t forget our call and what we are here on this earth for!”
 I ignored Sandy’s culture shock and more or less inferred she should “suck it up!”  Sandy
quieted and resigned herself to the inevitable.
 But it was true.  It was like moving to a foreign land.  
 Shortly after moving into our humble abode we began to realize just how foreign it was
from our country home in Indiana.  Seven dogs in immediate proximity to our house barked
round the clock.  Our next-door neighbor’s car alarm sounded off, “Step back!  You are too
close to the car!” at jet engine decibels at all hours and every night a police helicopter flew
over our neighborhood and pointed its spotlight into all the backyards for a safety check.  
My fourteen-year old son, Matthew, was threatened by several older teens from a passing
van as he walked to the store and we never let eleven-year old Darla go anywhere
unescorted.  
  From the start we felt like fish out of water.  What made it particularly hard for Matthew
was he had to use the corner of the basement as his bedroom, since the upstairs was so
crowded.  He begged to be allowed upstairs, but we couldn’t manage it.  Though I never
saw a mouse, Matthew complained often of seeing one scampering across the top of the
plumbing.
 It was the first time I ever saw a McDonald’s Restaurant with a thick plastic barrier from
the counter to the ceiling, separating the public from the employees.  The same was true
for the bank.  It was like an armed camp.  And on top of all that, Detroit charges a
percentage of everyone’s income to live within the city limits, as if we were lucky to live in
such an environment!
 My respite was my family and my work.  But, it didn’t take long for my work to dominate
my time and energy.  At first, I was just working with the children.  Then, all of Christian
Education was assigned to me.  Soon I had a long list of people to counsel and started a
support group.  I was eventually placed on the TV committee and was appointed chairman
of the school board.  Pastor Glen was heaping it on me two shovels full at a time and I was
too complacent to refuse.  To make matters worse, the church board said that they had
overpaid all of the new pastors on staff and asked us to refund all of the overpayment back
to the church.  That would have financially devastated us because of the debt we had
acquired from all of the moves and attempts to resettle over the last six years.  We were
just too strapped to add any more debt.  Fortunately, the board changed their minds about
us having to pay back the money, but they did cut our salaries.  It was an immediate
hardship.  We had already built lifestyles based on the higher income.

 In the midst of all the responsibility I had to shoulder there was one blessing - my very
efficient secretary, Sally.  She threw herself into her work and was willing to work
overtime, which there was plenty of.  She was soft spoken with a breathy voice.  She
seemed shy and always wore a conservative white blouse with black skirt.  Our office ran
efficiently at first and we seemed to get along well.
 I hadn’t been in my new position long when one day I noticed Sally, at her desk, crying
with her head bowed as I entered the office.  I asked her if she was all right and she said it
was boyfriend troubles.  I offered my listening ear.  
 Sally had a lot of troubles.  She had trou