Grandma Gloria

Gloria Evans stands like an oak in the heart of Marshall, Missouri, a quiet figure of strength in a town where time moves slow and folks rely on one another more than anything else. At 82, she’s known most simply as “Grandma,” a name that carries with it a sense of warmth and reliability. It’s a name earned through years of service, of showing up when others might not, of giving when it seems there’s little left to give.

Gloria has been part of the Foster Grandparents program for 17 years now, making her the longest-serving volunteer in the area. She found the program after her husband passed 22 years ago, at a time when grief had left a hollow space in her days and nights. “I was just lonely and needed something to do,” she says, though there’s a softness in her voice that tells a different story—one of a woman searching not for activity, but for meaning, for a way to matter again in a world that had taken so much from her.

She found that meaning in the children that became her charges in the Foster Grandparents program, and most recently at Spainhower Primary School, where she spends most of her time. The program, a part of a national initiative, pairs seniors with children who need extra guidance, patience, and a gentle hand. It’s a job that requires the kind of endurance only someone who has lived through decades of life’s highs and lows can provide. Gloria has always loved children, and in this role, she has found a way to give them something they may not find elsewhere—a quiet constancy, a person who shows up day after day, ready to help them grow.

I watched her work one day in the kindergarten class, where she sat beside a small child, flashcards in hand, gently helping the little one identify upper and lower case letters. Her patience was remarkable—the kind of patience that doesn’t fray when the child stumbles over the same card three or four times. She leaned in close, her face softened with a smile that seemed to erase the years, and coaxed the child forward. There was no rush, no push for perfection—just the quiet encouragement that allowed the child to believe they could succeed.

At one point, a child began to draw, and Gloria, curious, asked, “Oh, what’s that?” The child, without hesitation, responded, “It’s a gun, and it’s going to shoot...” Without breaking her calm, Gloria redirected the moment. “Oh my, no,” she said, her voice firm but kind, “we don’t want to draw any guns now.” The child erased the picture without protest; Gloria shot me a look, half wide-eyed, half grimaced, but with a twinkle of humor. In that moment, it was clear that her magic lies not in what she says, but in the deep well of love and patience from which she draws.

All the children call her “Grandma,” as do the teachers and staff. She fits the role so perfectly, you’d think she had been cast in it by some unseen director of life’s drama. With her grey hair and gentle demeanor, she’s the image of what you think a grandmother should be—full of warmth and soft words, always with time to listen, always with a hand to help. If her hair turned white, you could imagine her stepping in as a stand-in for Mrs. Claus without anyone batting an eye.

Gloria’s work doesn’t end in the classroom. As she moves about town—at the grocery store, on the sidewalk—children from current crop and years past will spot her, and in a heartbeat, they’re running toward her with arms wide open, ready for a hug. “We’re huggers around here,” she says with a smile. But there are rules in the classroom, and while the hugs are frequent outside school walls, inside the classroom, she respects the boundaries.

The Foster Grandparents program is built on the idea that seniors, with their vast life experience, have something invaluable to offer children. It’s not just about teaching letters or helping with math—it’s about offering a steady presence in a world that, for many children, is anything but stable. For some of these kids, “Grandma” Gloria is the one constant in their lives. She’s the one they know they can count on, the one who shows up without fail. There’s a reverence in that, a reverence that seeps into the community as a whole.

Martin Tichenor, the project director in the area, tells a story that speaks to this reverence. When the Foster Grandparents visit the local correctional facility, something remarkable happens. “The whole institution takes on a different tenor,” he says, it’s a whole different vibe. The officers, the inmates, everyone seems to soften in the presence of the “grandmas.” Many of the inmates were raised by their grandmothers, and the respect they hold for these women is palpable. “You don’t disrespect grandma,” Tichenor adds. It’s as if these women carry with them the authority of love, the kind of love that can quiet even the hardest of hearts.

At 82, there are days when the work leaves Gloria tired and drained, but she’s always back at it the next day, bright-eyed and smiling, ready to give more of herself. It’s a giving that doesn’t come from obligation, but from something deeper, something that can’t be easily explained. Her mother and her grandmother had it, Gloria says. With two stalwart, giving role models front and center in her life, there’s little wonder that Gloria is now passing along lessons honed through decades of observation and practice. 

It’s the kind of giving that sustains the soul, both hers and those she serves. Gloria doesn’t seek recognition—her joy is in the work itself, in the smiles of the children, in the hugs from the kids she helped years ago.

There’s a saying that the greatest among us are those who serve, and by that measure, Gloria Evans stands among the greatest. She may not think of herself in those terms—she’s far too humble for that—but the community knows. They know the power of her presence, the way her kindness has touched so many lives. She’s more than just a volunteer; she’s a pillar, a rock that stands firm in the shifting tides of life in a small town.

In the end, it’s not the big gestures that matter most—it’s the quiet, steady acts of love and service. And in those acts, Gloria has found her place, her purpose. She’s not just “Grandma” to the kids at Spainhower Primary; she’s Grandma to a whole town, and Marshall, Missouri, is richer for it.