Brother D - Larger Than Life
[The following was originally published on December 4, 2018. Peter asked me if it was okay that we publish it again as it's the anniversary of his grandfather's birth. As his best friend, how can I say no to Brother D! And let's be honest, he was going to publish it no matter what I said, right?! Enjoy. - Chow Magee; Editor-at-large.]
A couple of weeks ago I was sitting down, finishing a bowl of cereal when my phone beeped, alerting me to a text. A dozen thoughts ran through my head, first and foremost being “Doesn’t anyone call anymore?” That said, it was my mother telling me that this particular day was the birthday of the Rev. George A. DeLong…or as I renamed him a long time ago for myself and my younger cousins…Grampie.
Needless to say, I’ve been trying to write something since that day. Writers block? Not really. Lack of talent? A little closer to the truth, but no. Please, Peter, enlighten us. I think it was intimidation. You see, George DeLong was a force of nature. And every time I sat down to type, I just felt, well, intimidated. I was afraid I wouldn’t get it right. Still don’t. But then I caught a break. It hit me while I was watching a National Theater stage production of King Lear starring Ian McKellan (more on this gift from the gods later). You see, while the life of my grandfather was not the tragedy that Lear’s was, I noticed a few parallels in the story. And strangely enough, it made me appreciate him even more.
George DeLong, like many young people in the early part of the 20th century grew up in a poverty that my mind can’t appreciate. Eastern Canada was not exactly a burgeoning hub of economic activity at the time. Farming and fishing were the mainstays, and unless you were lucky, you and your family worked your ass off just to eke out a living. Grampie worked his ass off. The family stories are numerous – some funny, some sad, and all of them end with you saying to yourself, “I wouldn’t have made it.” And while I can’t prove it, I have this image of a young, determined teenager making a pact with the God he so loved, and feared. I imagine him collapsing into a hard bed one evening, more than a little hungry, after a 16-hour day of labor that would beat the hell out of most of us and praying, “Dear Lord, here I am. I cannot imagine how great and powerful you are; creator of heaven and earth. But I know you are there and that you love me even though I am not worthy of such love. Forgive me my sins and hear my prayer. My life is in your hands, oh Lord. And if your plan for me is to stay here and work these fields for the rest of my life, I will do so and praise your name even if there are only the beasts of the fields and the birds in the air to hear me. But if you should lead me out of this place, Father, and allow me to see places I have not seen, and talk to people I would never know, I will praise your name from shore to shore, and town to town. Hear my prayer, oh Lord. Amen.”
Well, he made it. With a little help and more hard work than I can imagine, Grampie somehow made it to a small New England college outside of Boston where he began to keep his promise to his God. Working a million jobs and studying a helluva lot harder than your correspondent did, he became Rev. George DeLong. As the years went on, in places like Ft. Fairfield, Maine; Grand Manan Island, Canada; Beals Island, Maine and many other small towns – George DeLong kept his promise to his God. And along the way, he became Brother D.
And here’s where McKellan’s beautiful portrayal of Lear kicked in. Even though we begin with Lear in old age, dividing his kingdom among the daughters, we assume a glorious reign where he was loved and adored. While Grampie’s only king was the Lord God on high, it was, like Lear’s, a glorious reign. He built churches, preached the gospel, and led people to the altar to find their way to heaven. And when I say preached the gospel, dear reader, I mean PREACHED THE GOSPEL! Hellfire and brimstone, baby! There were times when Grampie could be rightly accused of, instead of leading his flock, to dragging them kicking and screaming, or scaring them to the altar. Believe me, it was a sight to behold. From exploding off the pulpit and running down the center aisle, Bible in hand; to using the frigid bay in Beals Island, Maine to baptize the flock (or, in the eyes of an impressionable 4-year-old, trying to drown them!) – Brother D was old school. But then again, those DownEast lobstermen and women were a little tougher than your average parishioner!
I’m sure that as a father and grandfather in the 1950s, 60s, 70s and 80s, George DeLong, like many of his generation and beliefs, felt a bit overwhelmed, angry or even out of place in the new cultural world order. Like Lear, he loved his family. But it was a tough love. There was a rigidness that, at times, was tough to receive and even tougher to watch from a distance. You knew in your head it was from that tough, unforgiving upbringing, and maybe even more so from that tough, focused, relationship with his God. But sometimes what your head understands is tough for a heart to accept. Like Cordelia’s love for Lear, Grampie’s children loved and adored him, even though at times they struggled to find that emotional common ground. That said, the bond of love and loyalty was as strong as could be...still is. For the grandchildren, especially the younger ones, there was the wonderful, innocent, unconditional bond that binds the generations. A riding on Grampie’s knee, a trip to the store for an ice cream cone, or a monster hug to let you know that everything was going to be okay.
There were bumps in the road, of course. Rev. DeLong was not interested in anything but hard work and the fruits that came from that. This led sometimes to simple misunderstandings – like the collecting of money for newspaper delivery which turned into the angry lecture revolving around “Janet, my grandson is out there begging for money!” Interpretive scripture reading was also not high on Brother D’s list of favorite things! The scoldings and barely hidden rage that my father and uncle got (both brilliant minds and ministers, in their own right) from Grampie for what he perceived as even the slightest deviation from traditional literal readings of The Word were cause for my mother to threaten to cancel every family get together until the Second Coming! But sometimes it was humorous, like the time we were all sitting around watching that classic movie, The Ten Commandments as Charlton Heston hurls the tablets at the Israelites. All of a sudden, there goes Grampie, stomping off into the other room muttering, “That’s not the way it happened.” Priceless!
For men like Brother D though, it was about his flock. Don’t get me wrong, as I’ve stated before he loved us and we loved and adored him. But as much as we drove him nuts, I think he figured we’d be alright because of whatever spiritual genes he had bestowed upon us. But he couldn’t count on that for his congregation. He had to work and work and cajole and pray, and do everything he could to get them to “see the light”. And he did. And they loved him for it. And if that meant his family had to share him or maybe lose some of him in some small way, so be it. He was God’s messenger for them, and he had a promise to keep. He was their friend/father/grandfather/shepherd all rolled into one. He sat with them during their times of crisis; he prayed for them in their time of need. He interceded with the Almighty on their behalf, and he joined them on the docks and on their lobster boats at every opportunity.
In the end, King Lear slowly slipped away with a few Lion in Winter growls to try and let people know he still mattered. He finally went mad when confronted with the death of his beloved daughter, Cordelia. Grampie was spared that tragedy. And while he let out a few growls in his last years, he was the first to go and slowly, sadly slid towards that ultimate and final change, which, of course, is death.
It’s tough to believe it’s been 27 years since that death. I still think of him often. I wonder what he would think of my spiritual journey, as far as it is from his. Actually, I don’t have to wonder. He’d growl and pray and cajole and worry; and growl and pray and cajole a little more. Because he loved me.
I’ve read this piece at least 10 times now through smiles and a few tears, and it’s still not enough. I got past being intimidated, I suppose; just inadequate. It’s not enough to say his was a life well-lived or that he mattered, because he was both…on a scale that is unimaginable for a man of his beginnings. He would tell you that like Abraham, he answered a call. I don’t know about that. A lot of preachers say they have answered a call from God. And between you and me, dear reader, if God really called half of these nitwits to be preachers of the gospel, then He’s a moron. In the end, I’d like to think that George DeLong made a promise one night a long time ago. And he kept it.
I hope I got it close to right, Grampie. I love you.
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