Saint Velma

Dear The Pope or Current Resident,

Concerning the Canonization of Velma Evans,

I wasn’t the only one to call Velma Evans “grandma”. Though she was, in fact, my actual grandma—on my mom’s side.On Sunday mornings after church, when we were old enough, and while my parents loitered around to socialize with the other adults, we would walk down to her house. And when I say “we” I mean a variety of we’s. 

At first, “we” meant me and my older cousin Jamie. Then, “we” added my brother Kyle. Then “we” became our friends Andrew and Michael. Then it became all my brothers, and our friends. At various times, “we” included exchange students, orphan neighbor kids, and an occasional stranger. This continued through college and on into adulthood. But on any given Sunday—rain, snow, or shine—a veritable parade of juveniles could be seen jamming down to grandma’s house immediately after the last “amen.”

Grandma lived a few blocks away, in a single-story brick duplex with my grandpa Hayes. They lived in both sides so they opened up the wall to join the two halves. This put a long, dark corridor down the center of their house which effectively gave the house two different personas. 

Grandpa’s side smelled of warm tobacco and flannel. A wood stove glowed on one side of the room next to grandpa’s recliner. Grandpa didn’t approve of the sportscasters point of view, so he would listen to games announced over a battery-powered radio resting on his “TV tray” next to his cup of whole fat milk. On the other side of the room sat a large tube television, with the volume turned down, playing whatever game he was listening to. And in-between, on both sides of the room, were long, well-worn couches, perfect for sprawling. These things defined the “grandpa” side of the house. The Den.

On Grandma’s side, the prominent features were some lazy boys, a couch, an upright piano, a dining table, and an extremely functional kitchen. You couldn’t take two steps inside the door without receiving a hug and kiss from grandma, in fact that was mandatory before you could even sit down. And “sitting down” was what you wanted to do. 

The four chairs around the table were filled in shifts. While we eagerly waited the more elaborate foods to come off the range. She would quickly lay out salted apple slices, saltines with peanut butter, and Eggo’s or raisin bread toast. Then, perfect scrambled eggs and homemade biscuits and jam would appear. For the more adventurous, she’d fry up an egg in the hole. Or, if you didn’t like what was on the menu, you could ask for something else, and chances were she had it. And, for anyone who could wait around a little longer, there were often chocolate chip cookies and ice cold milk following hot on the heels of breakfast.

Nothing could rattle her, either. Her patience was infinite. If you spilled milk all over your plate she’d just say “Oopsie-boop”, and sop it up with one hand while replacing your soggy toast with the other. This word lives on in my family.

While the first shift stuffed their faces at the table, my Grandma would engage the unoccupied mouths with questions. She was a former school teacher, so she had a quick wit and a great sense of humor. She ended a long running argument with my youngest brother over the proper pronunciation of "ketchup". Grandma said, "catsup" and it drove my brother crazy. He would point at the bottle as living proof that she was wrong. Until one day she plopped a bottle of Catsup on the table, next to the Ketchup bottle. Back then people didn't drop mics, but that was a mic drop if ever there was one. 

She loved every kid that walked through that door. She loved their families, She wanted to know their stories. And, she would a find way to identify and celebrate any little success to make every kid feel special. So special, they didn’t wait to be invited by us. Many is the time we arrived to see our friends had beaten us to her house, or they’d ask on the following Sunday, “hey, why didn’t you go to Grandma’s last week?”. They came for the food AND for the love.

And that was just a typical Sunday afternoon. She turned things up to eleven for birthdays and holidays. On Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas our extended family packed into that house, from the kitchen, through the long hall, to Grandpa’s den. Those were good times. But, you didn’t have to be anywhere near her house to feel the love. 

She volunteered at the church all the time. She brought meals to the sick and the bereaved. She never forgot anyone’s birthday. She cradled babies like a pro. She called people on the phone. Visited them in their homes, or at the hospital, or nursing homes. She was a prolific letter writer. She would send 5-10 handwritten letters to friends EVERY day. No exaggeration. She loved people, inside and out. 

Several years ago, we were celebrating a birthday or something at my parents house. I was down by the road waiting for my grandma to arrive, to help her up the steep driveway to the house. Our neighbors were also having a big gathering at their house. This was pretty unusual. Very rarely did we see people at their house. But their driveway was full of cars. 

When my grandma arrived, someone arriving across the street recognized “Mrs. Evans”. They ran in and told everyone in their house, and literally three generations of my our neighbor’s relatives poured out of the house to meet the esteemed Mrs. Evans or to introduce their children to their teacher at Highlands Elementary School, as if to show her that they had done her proud. It had been 50+years since some of them had been in her class. Yet, she remembered their names. She gave them all hugs. And, from that day forward, our neighbors, who used to keep to themselves, began a pretty great friendship with my folks. 

When you live life like that, for that long (she lived a few weeks shy of a century), your bound to produce some fruit. Our house was a hospitable haven for me and my brothers’ friends. My mom welcoming all kids in to our home, filling their tummies with home-cooked meals, and giving them hugs as they walked out the door. 

And, in turn, I hope my home is the kind of home that my kids, and their friends and families, come to look on as fondly as I do my grandma’s house. Actually, that’s not quite right. It wasn’t the building, was it? It was the person. It was my grandma. It was her loving kindness that made that little brick duplex such a delightful place to be. 

Saint Velma has a kind ring to it. It sounds warm. Saint Velma. Patron Saint of Eggs in the Hole, of Oopsie Boops, of Catsup. Patron Saint of Highlands Elementary Alumni, of Patron Saint of Children (red, yellow, black, and white — these were all precious in her sight), of Orphans, Widows, and Foreigners… Maybe she was the Patron Saint of Maslow’s Hierarchy…

She provided shelter, rest, food. Physical Needs. Check.

She provided belonging, love, esteem. Psychological Needs. Check. 

And, you couldn’t help but hold your head a little higher after every encounter with Grandma Evans, coming out of her house, you knew you were worth something to at least one person! SHE loved you and was proud of you. and believed you could do anything. Self-Actualization. Check.

And so, in closing your excellency, to become canonized as a saint, one is supposed to have performed at least 2 miracles, postmortem. The fact that the world didn’t stop when she died (it probably should have) means she told Gabriel or Michael or whoever was responsible for spinning the world to "keep it up, you're doing great" so those she loves, the ones that depend on a spinning planet, could carry on… And, as a prayer warrior, I’m sure she’ll be having prayers answered well into the next several decades. So, maybe those could count as her miracles… ?

The other criteria for sainthood is to provide evidence of having led an exemplary life of goodness and virtue worthy of imitation. 

Grandma loved Jesus. She imitated him by loving others, and I think that’s my main point: 

Our grandma, Saint Velma, lived a life Worthy of Imitiation.

Signed, 

Most of King County