The sun is long in the sky as Defiance and Elida square off for another Friday football game under the lights. I am there to watch my fifteen-year-old granddaughter play the trumpet in the band. Her older siblings were home from college and in attendance too.
Polly opened the back door of our 2020 Ford Edge so she could retrieve my walker. I haven’t driven an automobile since 2020. I voluntarily gave up my keys, knowing that I was no longer competent to drive. No one needed to force me. I knew it was time. And now that I’m having serious memory problems, there’s no question that I have no business behind the wheel of a car.
With my walker safe and secure in front of me, I walked to the ticket booth to buy three adult ducats. Total cost, $24. I have no interest in the game. Defiance has won one once this year, Elida twice. On this night, the orange and black Elida Bulldogs soundly beat the blue and white Defiance Bulldogs. I paid $24 to hear the band, shoot the breeze with my son, and hug my grandchildren.
My grandchildren didn’t know what to make of my beardless face. You ever see a dog cock its head with an inquisitive look? That was my grandchildren. I told them not to worry, that by Christmas I will be my sexy bearded self again. They seemed to doubt the “sexy”part. I can’t imagine why . . . 😜
Tickets purchased, Polly and I, along with Bethany, stopped by the concession stand to buy junk food; a pop and a candy bar. By buying concessions now, we avoided having to bribe one of our grandkids to make a concession run. Aged twenty, eighteen, and fifteen, I can no longer buy their concession delivery service for a $1.
A polite young man with a nice, trimmed red beard waited on us, and patiently took care of our order, even when I had a senior moment, trying to order a Dr. Pepper when I “knew” they only sold Coke products.
People who know me know I like to talk. There are no strangers around me. Polly and I have known each other for fifty years. I still remember the day she walked through the dormitory door. She was and still is a beautiful woman. Then she had short dark hair. Today, her hair is now gray, but the wonderful eighteen-year-old I proposed to six months later, is still the love of my life today.
After the redheaded young man counted back my change, I told him I once had red hair and it turned white when I got old. And as only a talkative, friendly man can say, I told him, someday your hair will turn white too. I feel it is my old man duty to remind redheads that their beautiful hair will not last, and to enjoy it while they have it.
The young man looked me square in the eye and said: “That’s okay. That means you have lived a long life.”
Now that’s a bit of wisdom I didn’t expect. I thanked the young man for his words, and walked away with a tear in my eye.
I felt a deep sense of my own mortality, but as I pondered this young man’s words, I felt a twinge of hope.
You know it’s a bad day pain-wise when you find yourself doing a Google search on “Does removing legs make severe axonal neuropathic pain go away?”
Google reminded me that doing so will not necessarily stop the pain. I could end up with phantom pain worse than before.
I just want the pain to stop. Is that too much to ask?
Duh, of course it is.
We often think doctors are miracle workers, but when it comes to severe nerve pain, medical professionals have very few treatments in their bag of tricks: Gabapentin, pain meds, injections, ablations, hot/cold packs, and implanted nerve stimulator.
Rarely are these treatments permanent; and that is if you can get insurance to pay for it.
Unfortunately, as chronic nerve pain patients will tell you, this sort of pain rarely goes away, regardless of the treatment.
Personally, I’m grateful for whatever relief I can find, but some days I wonder . . . and when I “wonder” it can lead to interesting Google searches.
I still have both legs. All I want is for the pain to stop. Until that happens, I have no other option but to bite hard on the stick of modern medicine, hoping for a bit of relief.
I spent most of my youth living in the country. Unlike parents of today, my mom and dad rarely took me anywhere by car except to church. If I wanted to get somewhere, I either had to walk or ride my bike.
I never owned a new bike until I bought one as a sixteen-year-old — a ten-speed bike. Before that, I rode used bikes, often castaways that needed repairs. For whatever reason, my siblings fared better on the new bike front. I remember how envious I was when my younger brother got a brand-new Schwinn bike with a three-speed shifter, complete with a banana seat and sissy bar.
I rode my bike everywhere: school, work, ball practice, roller skating, fishing, to the park, to the swimming pool, and any place else I wanted to go. My parents rarely asked where I was headed, and I didn’t bother to tell them. On my bike I was free; free from my mom’s manic behavior and my dad’s indifference. By the time I was fourteen, I was on my own, just me and my bike. With a bike you can go anywhere, so I did.
I’ve often wondered if adults in the day felt sorry for that Gerencser boy who rides his bike everywhere, spring, summer, winter, and fall. I do remember being offered car rides by one of my coaches to away baseball games. I added little to the team, so I always appreciated the rides.
As a fourteen-year-old boy, I rode bikes with my friends all over town. One night, around 1:00 am, we rode our bikes downtown. The weather was hot and sticky, a typical summer night in northwest Ohio. We came upon a bar that had its door propped open. None of us had ever been to a bar, so we were curious. Boy, did we get more than we bargained for. Standing on table in the dimly lit bar was a scantily clad dancer, gyrating away for late night patrons. After a few minutes of gorging our eyes with wondrous sights, the bar owner ran us off.
Good times. . .
I have lots and lots of bike stories I could tell, but I want to hear yours. How instrumental was a bicycle to your upbringing? Please share your stories in the comment section.
Polly Shope and Bruce Gerencser, February 1977, Midwestern Baptist College Sweetheart Banquet
Several years ago, a man named Steven Tassell left the following comment:
I attended Midwestern from 1973-1979
I had my problems however I’m not trying to destroy anyone. If you had a problem with sex at school that was on you. I was a chaplin [sic] for USAF, taught school at Fort Knox and I’m a pastor with my Doctorate in counseling. So instead of telling the bad because any school has that tell the good.
Polly and I attended Midwestern Baptist College from 1976-1979. Polly’s father attended the college from 1972-1976, and her uncle James Dennis, attended Midwestern in the 1960s. None of us knows a Steven Tassell. Now, that doesn’t mean he didn’t attend Midwestern. There were a number of married students who attended the college that neither Polly or I personally knew. We were dorm students for two years, marrying during the summer between our sophomore and junior years.
I attempted a cursory search on Tassell’s name. That returned very little information other than Tassell is the pastor of New Hope Baptist Church in South Pekin, Illinois. I am uncertain as to why Tassell felt the need to recite his “important” work history, especially since it bears no relevance to the post he commented on. Tassell says he had a “Doctorate” in counseling — a D.Min, not a typical PhD. As readers know, most Independent Fundamentalist Baptist (IFB) preachers sporting doctorates either “earned” them at unaccredited schools or through online classes, or were given an honorary degree. (Please see IFB Doctorates: Doctor, Doctor, Doctor, Everyone’s a Doctor) Polly’s uncle had an honorary doctorate from Midwestern, a reward for supporting the college and Tom Malone. I have no idea if Tassell’s doctorate was earned at an accredited institution. My gut tells me no.
Now, to Tassell’s comment. In classic passive-aggressive fashion, Tassell stated, “I had my problems, however I’m not trying to destroy anyone.” He, too, had “problems” while attending Midwestern, but unlike Bruce, the atheist, he’s not trying to destroy anyone. I find it interesting that, according to Tassell, by telling my story and sharing my experiences as a student at Midwestern, I am trying to destroy people. Tassell suggests that I not speak of the bad things that happened at Midwestern and only speak of the good that I saw and experienced. That I refuse to only tell half the story makes me, in Tassell’s eyes, a bad person. How dare I speak poorly of the college, Dr. Tom Malone, my professors, or my fellow students. Just tell GOOD stories, Bruce! Sorry, but I can’t do that. I decided twenty years ago to be an honest, open, transparent storyteller. If that meant casting a bad light of myself and others, so be it. How can readers ever understand my experiences at Midwestern if I only tell them the good stuff? Honesty demands telling the truth, as best I remember it.
I have many fond memories of the three years I spent at Midwestern. Dorm life, even at an IFB college, was a blast! I will never forget the fun, crazy times I shared with my fellow dorm students. Three weeks after moving into the dorm, I asked a preacher’s daughter named Polly if she wanted to go out on a date with me. She said yes, and fifty years later, we are still going on dates, loving one another’s company, and roundly irritating the Hell out of each other. Ah, marital bliss.
I could spend hours sharing stories about the good times I experienced at Midwestern. Doing so, of course, would make Tassell happy. Just focus on the positive. Unfortunately, the bad experiences left an indelible impression on my life and that of my partner. For the first time, we saw the ugly, nasty, judgmental underbelly of the IFB church movement. Should I ignore the gay teacher who groomed younger male dorm students? Should I ignore the affair between the wife of the dean of men and a teacher? Should I ignore the rampant illicit sexual activity by dorm students; people who are now pompous, arrogant moralizers? Should I ignore the oppressive rules and repressive disciplinary system? Should I ignore the weak academics and unqualified teachers? Should I ignore the teacher who taught an IFB form of eugenics? Should I ignore the racism of one of the church’s pastors? (All dorm students had to attend nearby Emmanuel Baptist Church, pastored by Tom Malone.) Should I ignore the fact that Tom’s Malone’s wife and children violated the rules the rest of us were expected to obey, under threat of expulsion? Should I ignore being forced to quit a well-paying job, all because the business owner and Tom Malone had a falling out? Should I ignore . . . You see, it takes the good and the bad to tell a complete story. And as long as I continue to tell my story, I intend to look at the entire structure, and not just the facade that gives readers a false picture of my life, Midwestern Baptist College, and the IFB church movement. That’s the prerogative of the storyteller.
Bruce Gerencser, 69, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 48 years. He and his wife have six grown children and thirteen grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist.
Your comments are welcome and appreciated. All first-time comments are moderated. Please read the commenting rules before commenting.
Another day, another fight with pain and my very existence. There’s a new problem . . . Wild swings in blood sugar level. A 24-hour glucose monitor tells a story of a man with gastroparesis and exocrine pancreatitis insufficiency; a man whose pancreas is out of sync with his stomach and digestive track, leading to the abnormal highs and lows he is now facing.
It is what it is.
My partner has long since drifted off to sleep. Not me. Sleep eludes me as it has almost every night for 30 years.
1:00 AM . . . Cymbalta popped
2:00 AM . . . Cannabis gummy ingested
4:00 AM . . . Hydrocodone swallowed
Headphones on, as the sweet British voice of Jon Cohen prepares to sing me to sleep.
4:20 AM . . . I roll on my left side, pull my legs into a fetal position, and pull a large, firm pillow to my chest.
Soon after, I fall asleep,
Finally, sleep. If my blood glucose level drops below 55, an alarm will sound, hopefully waking me up.
8:10 AM . . . Partially awake, my first thought has earth shattering implications. What’s the correct word for backing up a recording; you know like backing up a car?
Dammit, why can’t I remember this word?
Too tired to care. I’ll message Carolyn later. She knows everything. Well, almost, anyway.
Back to sleep.
OCD-brain says, Wait a minute, there’s an unanswered question for you to answer!
Leave me alone.
Surely you jest. Answer the question!
Back up the recording?
Rewind the recording?
Reverse the recording?
No, dammit. What is it called when you back up-rewind-reverse, no, no, no! Dummy. It’s . . . uh . . .a time mark? Yes, that will work for me.
Finally, sleep arrives. All is right in the world, at least until I awake again a few hours later.
Some time ago, a man who says his name is Andrew Beltz left a troubling comment on the Why I Hate Jesus post. Beltz wrote:
So Bruce admits he is a hater. O.K. He has legitimized hate.
Now I can tell you Bruce that I hate you, you fat disgusting thing, because you were no good as a pastor and you hurt our family.
Yes, Bruce, I remember.
I immediately sent Beltz an email. Unfortunately, he used a fake email address, so my email to him bounced. Here’s what I wrote:
Andrew,
Before I post your comment, I would appreciate it if you would elaborate more on the claims made in your comment. I have no recollection of pastoring anyone with the last name Beltz. I see that you currently reside in the Goshen, Kentucky area. I have never lived in Kentucky. Perhaps you moved away from one of the areas I pastored. Which church were you a member of or at which church did you have a negative experience with me?
Thank you for taking the time to respond.
Bruce Gerencser
Comments such as this always trouble me, and here’s why: I readily admit that my preaching, beliefs, and ministerial practices were harmful. When I have been able to talk with offended/hurt congregants privately, I have apologized to them for the harm I have caused. While I could justify myself by saying that I too was abused, and that I was simply a product of the religious environment I grew up in, I choose, instead, to own my behavior. I now know I hurt people. I didn’t at the time, but years of reflection have led me to conclude that I hurt my wife and children, along with the hundreds of people who once called me pastor or preacher. While I was a loving, helpful, kind, and compassionate pastor, I know that what I preached and what I modeled to congregants was psychologically harmful. And in some instances, patriarchal beliefs about child-rearing and family structure caused physical harm. That is what Fundamentalism does. It hurts the hurting, harms the harmless, and causes untold damage to people who sincerely buy into the lies. A lifetime of days is not enough for me to say I am sorry. There’s nothing I can do about the past other than speaking about it openly and honestly. In Beltz’s case, I will gladly talk with him if he wants to talk. I WANT to know about how I hurt people. I can’t make things right if I don’t know for sure what I did or who I hurt.
Former congregants who have contacted me have been, so far, children who grew up in the churches I pastored. Now adults, they too are trying to come to terms with the past. In every instance, they accepted my apology and forgave me. They also told me that I was too hard on myself, that no one forced their parents to attend one of the churches I pastored. They willingly became members, believing as I did that God, the Holy Spirit, empowered my preaching. Many of them just wanted someone to tell them what to believe or how to live their lives, and, being a good Baptist pastor, I was quite willing to fill this need. After all, this is exactly what my pastors, churches, and college professors did for me, shaping me into a man who would then take their teachings and harm several more generations of people.
While I find Beltz’s words hurtful, I bear them because I know how harmful my preaching, way of ministry, and demands for conformity were to people such as him. I don’t run or try to hide from my past. Anyone who wants to contact me can send me an email via the contact form. I respond to every email, though I can be somewhat slow in doing so. Health problems often keep me from being as timely as I would like to be, but I do answer every email sent to me.
Now, Beltz may be just a troll. Several commenters over the years have said they knew me or were members of one of the churches I pastored, only to be exposed as liars. One man went so far as to say that my whole story was a lie, that he knew people who lived in several of the areas I pastored, and none of them knew who I was. In Beltz’s case, I am, until I know otherwise, giving him the benefit of the doubt. I hope he will contact me using a valid email address. I sincerely want to, as much as lies within me, right past wrongs. I hope Andrew will give me a chance to do so.
Bruce Gerencser, 69, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 48 years. He and his wife have six grown children and thirteen grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist.
Your comments are welcome and appreciated. All first-time comments are moderated. Please read the commenting rules before commenting.
Come on, what’s a little gallows humor in the midst of a dark, trying, and at times overwhelming, season of life. Sometimes, laughing in the face of suffering is all any of us can do. I know that’s the case for me, anyway. Not that I sit around laughing as I writhe in pain. No, in those moments I want to swallow a handful of pills and drift into sweet, peaceful nothingness. I want to think better days lie ahead for me, but my gut and seven decades of life suggest otherwise. I could be wrong, as I oft have been over these many years, but, at the very least, I’m on the short end of life. Instead of grand plans for the future, managing health struggles consume my daily life, often demanding I live by the hour instead the day.
I won’t give you a long recitation on the current status of my health. Doctors remain perplexed, and while scans and blood tests reveal oddities here and there, nothing that screams: Eureka! We found the problem. You are still going to die, but at least you will know what killed you.
I see a new endocrinologist next month. One doctor wonders if some of my symptoms might hormone related. More tests, looking for the proverbial needle in a pile of almost identical needles. I find myself thinking, “Can’t I be on the winning side of the odds just once before I die?” 🤣 A raspy, heavy voice from the dark laughed and said, “Surely, you jest. God is punishing you for saying God Dammit in 2005.” Well, God Dammit, Jesus, must you be so petty? It’s not like I ate a forbidden apple, picked up sticks on the Sabbath, or masturbated. Now, those are some “sins” that require severe punishment, right?
Long term readers know my medical history, so I won’t recite it here. Everything remains the same on that front, albeit somewhat worse depending on the day. What is of more immediate concern is my profuse sweating (especially at night), unregulated feeling of hot/cold, and precipitous drops in blood glucose levels for no apparent reason. As you might imagine, these problems are far from ideal, 🤣 so that’s why I’m seeing another endocrinologist.
Fatigue, chronic insomnia, and increasing immobility all make getting out of bed in the morning difficult, and some days impossible. Pleas from my life partner, “Bruce,You have got to get up,” followed by some sort of bribe hoped to draw me from my bed, no longer work. I know I’m at a bad place, but that’s where the car broke down with a blown motor, so here I remain. I try. What more can I do?
In February, I was diagnosed with melanoma skin cancer on my neck. The cancer appeared suddenly and quickly grew. It was successfully removed. I have a nasty scar to prove it.
Last month, I was diagnosed with basal cell cancer on my left hand and squamous cell cancer on the right side of my neck. I had both growths surgically removed. I also had a large cyst on my back removed at the same time.
Well, enough of this. I’m not whining or complaining. Just talking to my friends; letting them know that I’m down, but not out. I haven’t quit blogging, and I still hope to write again. Maybe even today or tomorrow. Until then, I appreciate your love, kindness, and support.
If you have written or texted me and I have not responded, please accept my apology for my negligence. I’ve had several people get irate with me because I haven’t responded to them. Sorry about that, but I’ve been forced to cut a lot of things out of my life, and that includes responding to emails, texts, social media messages, and voice mails. I hope to do better in the future, but I can’t make any promises. It’s interesting to note what’s not so important when death is stalking you. Life is quickly reduced to bare essentials; people and things that matter to you.I have thought about farming out contact form responses to someone who has read my writing for a long time and has an in depth knowledge of my political, social, and theological views. Someone answering for me would be speaking on my behalf, so it’s important they understand my beliefs. If this is something that might interest you, please let me know and I’ll put you in touch with Carolyn, my editor. As my longtime editor and friend, she knows what I needon this front.
I lived on U.S. 30 east of Lima, Ohio in the late 1960s. Dad had hornswoggled someone into renting him a home with an option to buy after twelve months. For one year, the Gerencsers lived in a new tri-level home, complete with a brand-new Pontiac Bonneville convertible in the garage. Almost sixty years later, the house is showing its age, and seems small compared to what I envisioned as a child.
Lots happened my fourth/fifth-grade year [we moved to Farmer halfway through my fifth grade year]:
My younger brother fell off his bike and knocked out his two front teeth.
My younger brother also closed his eyes when trying to catch a baseball, catching the ball with his nose. The fracture required surgery to repair.
My father embezzled $10,000 from the insurance company he worked for at the time.
Dad was investigated by the ATF for illegally selling firearms at gun shows.
Dad started having an affair with an unknown woman.
Mom tried to kill herself by driving the Bonneville into a truck.
Mom tried to kill herself by overdosing on prescription drugs.
Mom tried to kill herself by slitting her wrists. I came home from school and found her lying in a pool of blood.
I tripped over a kindergartner on the playground, driving a rock into my knee. This required five stitches to repair.
That’s enough living for a ten-year-old boy. Not that anyone asked. I don’t ever remember a time when my parents asked my opinion about anything. Dad would come home and saying we were moving — end of discussion. As most kids from dysfunctional homes do, I learned to adapt. Sadly, growing up this way has made it hard for me to feel like I belonged. Every year or two, we moved to a new community. I hoped we would finally find a place to call home. That never happened The longest we lived in one community was two and a half years.
Dad was rarely home, and Mom subscribed to “out of sight, out of mind” parenting. Out of sight meant “go outside and play. I’ll call you (holler) when it is time to eat.” I spent most daylight hours outside, as long as it was warm enough to do so. You know, more than 25 degrees. 🙂
I was a country kid. I enjoyed wandering nearby fields and stands of trees. I had a love for wildlife, including hunting and fishing. One day, as I walked into the garage, I caught sight of a mouse scurrying out of the corner of the garage. I decided to “catch” the mouse. I spent ten minutes or so chasing the mouse around the garage. Eventually, I cornered him and bent over to pick him up. Just as my fingers touched the soft fur of the young mouse, he lunged forward and bit me. I howled, and off he ran, safe from that redheaded boy. I wouldn’t have hurt the mouse, but he didn’t know that. The mouse did what animals do when threatened: he fought back.
This is a lesson I have never forgotten. I have passed it on to our six children and sixteen grandchildren. What was that lesson, you ask? “Don’t try to catch a mouse”? No, the important lesson to learn was this: When you corner an animal and give them no way out, they will defend themselves. Every year, scores of Americans die from being gored, trampled, or bitten by cornered animals. Is the animal to blame? Of course not. Animals do what animals do, and humans are no different.
Currently, President Donald Trump is trying to bully various nation-states into submission. He uses tariffs, the Justice Department, Homeland Security, and military intervention to back people and nations into a corner, thinking they will give him what he wants — money and power. What this stupid man refuses to understand is that actions have consequences. So Trump continues to push people and nations until they snap, biting him on the hand. What did he expect would happen? I fear that he will one day push and push and push, to the point where an alleged “enemy” fears the loss of power and control or the loss of economic well-being. And when this happens, Trump shouldn’t be surprised if the proverbial mouse bites him on the hand. All of us are dangerous when we lose all hope. Push Iran into a corner, what do you think they will do? Say uncle? I doubt it.
We live in dangerous times. It remains to be seen if we will survive the actions of the lunatic currently inhabiting the White House.
Bruce Gerencser, 69, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 48 years. He and his wife have six grown children and thirteen grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist.
Your comments are welcome and appreciated. All first-time comments are moderated. Please read the commenting rules before commenting.
I have battled Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder (OCPD) for most of my adult life. While OCPD and OCD have some similarities, there are differences, namely:
People with OCD have insight, meaning they are aware that their unwanted thoughts are unreasonable. People with OCPD think their way is the “right and best way” and usually feel comfortable with such self-imposed systems of rules.
The thoughts, behaviors and feared consequences common to OCD are typically not relevant to real-life concerns; people with OCPD are fixated with following procedures to manage daily tasks.
Often OCD interferes in several areas in the person’s life including work, social and/or family life. OCPD usually interferes with interpersonal relationships, but makes work functioning more efficient. It is not the job itself that is hurt by OCPD traits, but the relationships with co-workers, or even employers can be strained.
Typically, people with OCPD don’t believe they require treatment. They believe that if everyone else conformed to their strict rules, things would be fine! The threat of losing a job or a relationship due to interpersonal conflict may be the motivator for therapy. This is in contrast to people with OCD who feel tortured by their unwanted thoughts and rituals, and are more aware of the unreasonable demands that the symptoms place on others, often feeling guilty because of this.
Family members of people with OCPD often feel extremely criticized and controlled by people with OCPD. Similar to living with someone with OCD, being ruled under OCPD demands can be very frustrating and upsetting, often leading to conflict. (OCPD Fact Sheet)
I have been considered a perfectionist most of my life, a badge I wore with honor for many years, and one I still wear on occasion. As we age — I am almost sixty-nine — we tend to reflect on our lives and how we got where we are today. Self-reflection and assessment are good, allowing us the opportunity to be honest about the path we have taken and choices we have made in life. (My therapist told me that I am one of the most self aware people she knows. Good? Bad? I don’t know.)
When I first realized twenty-five or so years ago that I had a problem — a BIG problem that was harming my wife and children — the first thing I did was try to figure out how I ended up with OCPD. While my mother had perfectionist tendencies, she was quite comfortable living in the midst of clutter and disarray (but not uncleanliness). I concluded that it was my Fundamentalist Baptist upbringing with its literalistic interpretations of the Bible that planted in me the seeds of what would one day become OCPD. I spent most of my adult life diligently and relentlessly striving to follow after Jesus and keep ALL of his commandments. But try as I might, I still continued to come up short. This, of course, only made me pray more, study more, give more, driving me to allot more and more of my time to God/church/ministry. In doing so, the things that should have mattered the most to me — Polly, our children, my health, and enjoying life — received little attention. Polly was taught at Midwestern Baptist College — the IFB institution both of us attended in the 1970s — that she would have to sacrifice her relationship with me for the sake of the ministry. I was, after all, a divinely called man of God. Needless to say, for way too many years, our lives were consumed by Christianity and the work of the ministry, so much so that we lost all sense of who we really were.
Perhaps someday one or more of my six adult children will write about growing up in a home with a preacher father who had OCPD. The stories are humorous now, but not so much when they were lived out in real-time. My children are well versed in Dad’s rules of conduct. Granted, some of these rules such as “do it right the first time” have served them well in their chosen fields of employment, but their teacher was quite the taskmaster, and I am certain there were better ways for them to learn these rules.
My oldest sons “fondly” remember helping me center the church pulpit, right down to one-sixteenth of an inch. Did it matter if the pulpit was slightly off-center? For most people — of course not; but, for me it did. I felt the same way about how I prepared my sermons, folded the bulletins, cleaned the church, and did countless other day-to-day responsibilities. When I took on secular jobs, employers loved me because I was a no-nonsense, time-to-lean, time-to-clean manager. (Is it any surprise that most of my adult jobs were either pastoring churches or management jobs?)
People walking into my study were greeted by a perfectly cleaned and ordered office. The desktop was neat, and the drawers were organized, with everything having a place. My bookshelves were perfectly ordered from tallest to smallest book and then by subject. Dress-wise, I wore white one-hundred-percent pinpoint cotton shirts and black wingtip shoes. My suits were well-kept and matched whatever tie I was wearing. My appearance mattered to me (and still does). Congregants knew they would never find me shopping at the local Walmart wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants.
What I have mentioned above sounds fine, right? Surely, I should have a right to order my life any way I want to. And that would be true, except for the fact that I live in a world populated by other people; people who are not like me; people who are happy with clutter, disarray, and OMG even dirt! It is in their personal relationships that people with OCPD have problems, and, in some instances, they can drive away the very people who love them.
For the first twenty-five years of marriage, my relationship with Polly was defined by Fundamentalist Baptist/patriarchal thinking. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that such beliefs play well in the minds of people with OCPD. I had high expectations not only for myself, but for my partner and children too. We all, of course, miserably failed, but all that did was increase the pressures to conform to silly (and at times harmful) behavioral expectations. It didn’t help matters that I was an outgoing decision-maker married to a passive, always-conform-to-the-wishes-of-others, woman. While we put on quite a dog and pony show for most of our time in the ministry, behind the scenes things were not as they outwardly appeared to be.
In the early 2000s, I began to see how harmful my behavior was when it came to my familial relationships (and to a lesser degree my relationship with congregants). While it would be another decade before I would finally seek out professional secular counseling, I did begin to make changes in my life. These changes caused a new set of conflicts due to the fact that everyone was used to me being the boss, with everything being according to MY plan. While Polly and the kids loved their new-found freedom, there were times where they were quite content to let me be the stern patriarch. As with all lasting change, it takes time to undo deeply-seated behaviors.
I am not so naive as to believe that I am “cured” of OCPD. I am not. My counselor is adept at pointing out to me when certain behaviors of mine move toward what she calls my OCD tendencies. I have had to be repeatedly schooled in the difference between good/bad and different. For example, young people today generally discipline their children differently from their baby-boomer parents. Read enough memes on Facebook and you will conclude that young parents have lost their minds when it comes to raising their children. What that brat needs is an ass-whipping, boomer grandparents say. What I continue to learn is that people who act differently from me, look different from me, or have beliefs different from mine are not necessarily wrong/bad. Most often, what they really are is “different.” Learning to be at peace with differences has gone a long way in muting my OCPD thinking.
Both Polly and I agree that the last twenty or so years of married life have been great. One of the reasons for this has been my willingness to realize where my OCPD is causing harm and making the necessary changes to end the harm. The first thing I learned is that everyone is entitled to his or her own space. I have every right to order my office, drawers, and space as I want them to be. I no longer apologize for having OCPD. All that I ask of others is that when they invade my space, they respect my wishes. And that works for others too. I have to respect the personal boundaries of Polly, our six children, and our sixteen awesome grandchildren. This is why I do not meddle in their lives. I give advice when asked, but outside of that, they are free to live as they please. Do my children and adult grandchildren make decisions I disagree with, decisions that leave me mumbling and cussing? Yep, but it’s their lives, not mine, and I love them regardless of the choices they make.
The second thing I learned is that it is important for Polly and me to have times of distance from each other. It is okay for each of us to do things without the other. We don’t have to like all the same things. Understanding this has allowed Polly’s life to blossom in ways I could never have imagined. If you had known Polly in 1999 and then met the 2022 version, why you would wonder if she is possessed. From going back to college and graduating, to becoming an outspoken manager at work, Polly is an awesome example of what someone can become once the chains of Fundamentalism and patriarchal thinking have been broken.
The third thing I learned is that my OCPD can be productively channeled, with my personal relationships surviving afterward. Polly loves it when she comes home and finds that I have emptied the cupboards, cleaned them, and replaced everything neatly and in order. The joke in the family is that people want me to come clean their house for them, but they can’t stand being around me when I do. 🤣 In the communal spaces where our lives collide, Polly and I have had to learn to give and take. I have learned that it is okay to leave the newspaper on the floor until tomorrow, and Polly has learned, come holidays, that I am going to clean every inch of the house, including under the refrigerator — with her help, of course. She will never understand why my underwear drawer needs to be straightened up for company, and she will likely never understand the need to clean under the stove/refrigerator four times a year. But, because she loves me, she smiles and says, what do you need me to do next?
My chronic health problems and unrelenting pain have forced me to let go of some of my obsessions. I can’t, so I don’t. I don’t find this giving in/giving up easy to deal with, but I have come to see that life is too short for me to not enjoy the moment even if everything is not in perfect order. That said, I still have OCPD moments, and I suspect I always will. Several years ago, I had a dentist appointment. The dental assistant had me take a seat in the exam room. When she returned, she found me tapping the valance on the blind with my cane. I told her, I have been sitting here for years with that crooked valance driving me crazy. There, it’s fixed! She laughed. Later, she returned and told me that all the valances in the other rooms were off-center too. She said, I never noticed that until you pointed it out to me. I likely will always have an eye for when something is crooked, especially wall hangings and sign lettering. Why can’t the doctor’s office get notices straight when they tape them on the wall, right? Dammit, how hard is it to do the job right the first time! Sigh. You see, OCPD never completely goes away, but it can be managed and controlled, allowing me, for the most part, to have satisfying and happy relationships with the people I love.
Do you have OCPD or OCD tendencies? Please share your experiences in the comment section. I am especially interested in hearing about how Fundamentalist Christianity affected your behavior.
Bruce Gerencser, 69, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 48 years. He and his wife have six grown children and thirteen grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist.
Your comments are welcome and appreciated. All first-time comments are moderated. Please read the commenting rules before commenting.
I’m pretty good at laying flooring. Especially in bedrooms.
💗 KNOWS HOW TO DONDRY WALL – only 1 piece to do I think?
This sounds like a kinky sex position — the DONDRY WALL, I’m game.
….
That’s the biggest things I need from a handyman, but I would like somebody that knows what they’re doing (with experience!) to come in & check out my place! I have cash in hand for the jobs done.
I am experienced and know what I am doing. She wants me to come check out her “place.” And she’s going to pay me!
🫶🏼 PLEASE BE SOMEBODY THAT HAS TIME ON THEIR HANDS RIGHT NOW! I’m trying to get this done in a certain amount of time, so if you work a full time job this isn’t the job for you!! Time is the most crucial here for me 🫶🏼
This is the job for me. I have lots of time on my hands, and I have been known to get jobs done in five minutes or less.
Polly and I laugh together.
I know, I know, we are beyond redemption. Polly has corrupted me. 🙂
Bruce Gerencser, 69, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 48 years. He and his wife have six grown children and thirteen grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist.
Your comments are welcome and appreciated. All first-time comments are moderated. Please read the commenting rules before commenting.
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