The Calm Amidst The Storm

    There is a young boy about 5-years-old crouching on the kitchen floor. He has an eager, mischievous look in his eyes as he stares intently up at the stove and the black pot sitting on one of the burners. Beside him is a four-legged creature with brown and white spots who has an equally intense gaze focused on the stove and the aforementioned pot. The creature is also crouched on all fours and tries his best to keep still. But while the young boy does a fairly good job keeping quiet and still (traits that will not be strengths as he gets older...trust me), the creature, a breed of Spaniel aptly named Pal, cannot help but bark, whine, and lovingly growl up at the pot on top of the stove and the woman standing next to it. 

    The woman smiles and tries not to laugh as she stares back down at these two mammals…so different in genetic makeup, yet so similar in knowing excitement and companionship, and yes...love. All of a sudden, the woman teasingly flinches as the boy and the dog hear the familiar sounds from inside the pot. The three pairs of legs below her flinch almost immediately after. Silence and stillness once more. Then...she takes the lid off of the pot and joyful chaos ensues. Popcorn everywhere! Knees, feet, hands, paws, a snout, and a furiously wagging tail sliding and flying from one end of that small kitchen to the other. "Now be careful! Don't hit your head. Good, heavens," she laughingly admonishes. All is well in Beals, Maine. 

    That is the very first memory I have of Blanche Gertrude DeLong...my "Nonnie". (In case you were curious, the family legend is, not being a bright child, I couldn't say the word "Nana". It came out "Nonnie". And it stuck! Go figure.) It was brought to my attention a while back after I had written a piece about Nonnie's husband, my grandfather, Rev. George DeLong, that it would be a dark spot upon my soul if I neglected to write something about my grandmother. The person in question, the wise and wonderful Mel Norton, is a dear family friend and knew my grandparents for 75-plus years. He gently chided me by reminding that it was Nonnie who was the anchor, the rock, and yes, the calm as it were, in the many homes she and my grandfather shared over the course of their ministry throughout Maine and eastern Canada. Rev. Mel was right. 

    Nonnie was born in 1910 to John and Annie Young in New Brunswick, Canada. She had two sisters, Bertie and Nellie, as well as a twin brother, Don. The family was comfortable as measured by standards in those days and in that area, and when Nonnie got older she felt the urge to become a nurse. Little did she know that she would be the medical matriarch for the generations that followed. They have had a lot to live up to. Not only did she lead the province of New Brunswick in her nursing board examination, she then proceeded to hold numerous supervisory positions at several New Brunswick and Maine hospitals. 

    At some point during all this nursing, she found the time to say "I do" to my grandfather. I have no doubt there were times when she uttered to herself, "What have I gotten myself into?" I know that her two kids (my mother and my Uncle Gary) uttered a version of those words to each other! I vaguely remember saying to Nonnie, "What were you thinking?" Ah, we kid because we love. I can also kid because they loved each other. I wish that kind of love for each of you. 

    My grandmother embraced the role of pastor's wife. Not only did she complement my grandfather as a host for parishioners in their home (my mother tells wonderful stories of how the house was always full of people after the Sunday morning service as well as the Sunday evening and Wednesday night services...and what a great hostess she was), but she was also a mentor and friend to several generations of pastor's wives in various churches, camp meeting revivals, and spiritual retreats. She also did a stint as a leader in the Canadian's Women's Temperance Union! You can imagine the irony when my parents and I raise a glass of wine to my grandmother! That would be the classic "rolling over in her grave" moment! She also began a maternity home in Jonesport, Maine in partnership with the Maine Seacoast Mission that to this day assists poor families all along the Maine coastline. After my Uncle Gary retired from the pulpit he became president of that organization all these years later and took it to new heights and outreach that my grandmother couldn't have imagined. Alas, the torch continued to be passed. 

    What I didn't know, and what is really cool about doing research when you want to write something like this, is that my grandmother was not only a sought after speaker for women's groups and other functions in Maine and Canada, but she, on more than a few occasions, subbed in for my grandfather behind the pulpit. That was news to me. My grandmother, like yours no doubt, was the shoulder to cry on, the words of wisdom, the buffer for when I ate Grampie's garden berries and he'd come out yelling, "Get out of there you dyin'-hound!" (Don't worry; to this day none of us understood what that meant, either.) But she couldn't be a preacher, too. Could she?! Well, in her own way, yes she could. Mom talks about how well-read and articulate she was when taking scripture and interpreting it for her audience, and then being able to use a personal and intuitive narrative in order to get her meaning across. I would have loved to have seen that! And I have no doubt the congregation sometimes gave a huge sigh of relief when Nonnie was speaking in her soft grandmotherly voice, as opposed to the hell-fire and brimstone of Brother D! 

    I suppose that was the reason for the title of this piece. I use the word 'storm' for my grandfather in a loving way. I mean, he could be volcanic at times but he just seemed in a constant state of flux. My grandmother, on the other hand, was the calm. She was the one who intervened when the kids were getting into something that Grampie wanted left alone. I think my grandmother's most often used phrase was, "Now George, those kids aren't hurting anything. Just leave them alone and hush." As I've written before on this site, I think Grampie, like many of his generation, had trouble adopting to the changing of the times, as it were. He was the towering column of fire that stood between the Egyptians and the Israelites as they came upon the Red Sea. My grandmother, on the other hand, was the calming voice; the gentle touch of one hand to another; the protective 'coat of many colors' that while not shielding or cocooning my grandfather...was the gentle voice of reason that reminded him that everything was going to be okay and allowed Grampie to do what he did best. She was the calm amidst the storm. 

    I want to share one last story; a daughter's story. When my mother was first learning to play the piano, Canada had these music festivals where piano teachers could enter a certain number of their students. After some time of lessons and practicing, my mother was chosen for one of these festivals. Now, these were big-time events with a lot of people and a lot of nice dresses and suits for the occasion. Well, my grandparents didn't have the money for the dress that mom wanted to wear. So Nonnie took her wedding dress, dyed it a slightly different color, measured it out and cut it up, hemmed it, put a beautiful bow on the back, and made sure my mother looked stunning. Recently, I had asked my mom to give me her favorite memory of her mother, and that was the story she told. And through misty eyes, finished by telling my stepfather and I who were sitting there listening, "That's love." 

    She lived to be 96 and was fortunate to be aware of everything around her until the very end. She's been gone 16 years now. Like her husband, I think of her often. I channel-surf and sometimes fall upon one of those dopey televangelists. But every once in a while, instead of the preacher, I will hear an old hymn and a grandmother's voice will sing to me:

"So I'll cherish the old rugged cross,

Till my trophies at last I lay down

I will cling to the old rugged cross

And exchange it some day for a crown."

I love you, Nonnie. Tonight I'll let a little popcorn hit the floor.