Eva J

Judy. In October, when we were in Lithuania, I got an email from my dear friend and teaching partner, Eva, telling me that doctors had diagnosed a mass near her spleen as malignant cancer, but not to worry, cancer is no longer a death sentence. A week later, she passed away. 

Eva and I taught together for ten years—she, chorus, and I, drama. Every year we collaborated on the musical; working with her was a dream. 

Tommy, her husband, also a dear friend, asked if I would deliver one of the two eulogies at her memorial service held last week, the other being from a fellow music teacher. These are the words I used to try and capture a soul bigger than life, with a flame that inspired all who knew her. 

Eva was one of a kind. Well, we’re all one of a kind, and she’d be the first one to tell you that, but she was REALLY one of a kind. I don’t know how she managed to be tough and kind all at the same time, but she did. Maybe it was the way she said, “Baby,” before she came down on you. All who knew her loved her for it. 

When I came to our local high school to start the drama program, Eva had the choral program well in hand. And she kept me in hand. I think Eva taught me how to be a high school teacher. To be fair, the last time I had taught was in a university setting, so I was a bit out of my depth. One day, I said, “Eva, these freshmen are driving me crazy!” To which she responded, “I know, Baby. They’re acting just like 14-year-olds.” “YEAH…, oh, Eva!” 

Eva and her students adored each other. She got them, and they got her. 

She had the courage to recruit all manner of boys into her Men’s Chorus class at 7:30 AM. When the gastric problem some of them faced kept interrupting the class, she decreed one corner of the room the “Special Effects Corner,” so boys could step away, break wind, and still continue singing without disturbing the class. Who else does that? They loved her. And their mamas loved hearing them sing “for the first time since they were in the children’s choir at church.” I don’t think they knew about the “Special Effects Corner.” 

Many of those boys loved her class so much that they made it into Mixed Chorus. Being in Mixed Chorus was great, but for the girls, to be in Women’s Chorus meant you’d arrived. So many of those girls went on to be music teachers. 

My favorite line of hers was “Raise your hand if you’re stupid!” when one of the kids made a mistake. It worked. The student raised her hand, the correction was made, everyone smiled, and class went on. An assistant principal, observing her, later said, “Eva! You can’t say that!” to which Eva responded, “Why not?” What that AP missed was that when Eva made a mistake, one or more of them would say, “Raise your hand if you’re stupid, Ms. J!” And she would. Yep, they GOT each other. 

But Eva could cut to the chase, even while empathizing. In the 90’s, when the kids were using the term “gay” as a slur to each other, she stopped class one day and told them, “Ms. Judy and I don’t appreciate that. Both of us know people who are gay, and, frankly, right now, we know people who have died from AIDS. So stop that.” They did. At least around us. 

One horrible day, one of our kids accidentally killed his best friend, and was a devastated, shaking mess at home. Our principal asked us to go to his house to comfort him and his family. Honestly, I had no idea what to say to him. But when we walked in the door and saw that young man in absolute spasms of misery, fear, and pain, Eva walked right up, took his hand, and said, “Tell me what happened, Baby.” And he did. 

I could go on for days. When we drove to Alabama in the middle of the night to find my mother had already passed away, we called Eva to please go over and tell our kids. She did. 

And she stayed at the house the rest of the day, in case they didn’t want to go to school. It was the only day she missed that year, and she lost out on the bonus others who had perfect attendance received. 

She never taught our son, but, in 2000 she spoke at his Boy Scout Eagle ceremony. 

Both she and Tommy taught our daughter, and flew with us to hear her first concert at her university. We attended plays together. Their home was always open to us. Usually, we came home with food—homemade cake, bread, dinner, homemade jams, pickled and canned tomatoes.  And, good news or bad, Eva was the first person I’d tell. She could put things in perspective. 

The woman fiercely adored her family. She didn’t talk about it much, but she wore it, like her faith, as an aura that radiated to anyone who met her. 

One of the most valuable lessons she taught me was what to do when a former student came up whose name I didn’t remember. “Well, hey, Darlin!” This was a sign for husband Tommy to say, “I’m Mr. J, What was your name?” 

We are beyond blessed to have known Eva. Every one of us. I will truly never forget her. She impacted everyone she met with her joy, good humor, strength, and love. That light in her shines still. Thank God for Eva J.