Vera Van Leuven

I gave the following talk at the funeral of my Grandmother Van Leuven, someone whose memory I often reflect upon...someone I miss.  I gave the following talk at the funeral of my Grandmother Van Leuven, someone whose memory I often reflect upon...someone I miss.


Many times, as a young boy, I remember looking out the back window of our Blue Galaxy 500 to watch Grandmother Van Leuven, with one hand shading her eyes and the other hand waving, grow smaller and smaller as our family headed down the street back home. Her standing there waving in the driveway always symbolized the beginning of a long drive home and the end of a fun trip to Vernal. It meant being trapped in the car with my sister who were always able to convince Dad that I was to blame for everything that went wrong in the back seat.


As we drove away, I would always feel a little sad as I watched things disappear, Grandmother’s little white house with the ditch in front and the green water tank in back where we played, and Aunt Evelyn’s house with all the polished rocks, dinosaur bones and arrowheads. Eventually, the town of Vernal disappeared as we moved into the dry, plateaued mountains. I can still smell rich casseroles, pies, and cakes from Grandmother’s kitchen, the scent of her Noxema face cream coming from her bathroom, and the Palmolive dish soap she always let us use for bubble baths just before going to bed. I can still hear the jingling of the bells that hung near the doorway of the living room, the chirp of her parakeet in the kitchen or quiet growl of her old dog, Chuleta, whenever I pretended to kick him.


It wasn’t until I grew older that I began to understand more about the person that stood in her driveway waving goodbye to me at the close of so many Vernal vacations. Although I could have never imagined her as a small girl when I was younger, I can see Grandmother now, seven years old, tearfully waving goodbye to her dear mother as her mother left for New York City in 1913 to join her father who was then presiding over the Swedish mission for the church. Joined by her sisters Theora and Evelyn, young Vera cried as they climbed up into Grandfather Timothy’s horse and buggy to travel the long distance to his home in Jensen. Grandmother recorded in her personal history, “(Grandfather) had a milk can in front and had bought hard candy which he put in the lid of the can so we could reach it. Mother had given us some clean rags to use as handkerchiefs because we cried. I remember stopping long enough to eat some candy however. I would eat, and then cry, then eat again, and so did the other girls…”


I really started to appreciate Grandmother much more as I served a church mission and began corresponding with her through letters. I still have twenty-four letters that I received from her while serving as an Elder in the Washington Spokane Mission. These letters helped me to become more acquainted with a young woman who said goodbye to her small-town roots in 1928 to serve a faithful mission in the Northwest, the same area I had been called to serve in. She told me how she nervously began her mission by being asked to travel alone from Portland to Seattle with her Book of Mormon in plain sight so the Elders in Seattle would recognize her. She also shared how she overcame discouragement on her mission when I needed some encouragement. She wrote, “It is always hard to know how much good you do when you are on a mission. You just have to do the best you know how, and trust that Heavenly Father will use you to accomplish what He wants done. If you do your part, those people you are teaching will listen, if it is the will of the Lord.”


She shared many stories with me that occurred near areas where I was serving. In one letter, she told me the following story that took place near Bremerton, WA: “One time (my companion and I) had to rush to catch the ferry, and out on the dock was a man with a pile of big red apples for sale. Being very hungry, we hurried and bought one to eat as we crossed the bay. We happened to look back at the man who was busily polishing apples on a dirty handkerchief as he spit on the apple. Needless to say we dumped our apples into the Bay.”


I quickly learned not to address my letters to “Grandma Van Leuven”. In one of her first letters to me she wrote, “Maybe you had better address my letters Mrs. Vera Van Leuven, instead of Grandma Van Leuven so the postman can’t call me Grandma, OK?”


Just prior to being released as a missionary, Grandmother received a letter from her Grandfather Timothy. On March 24, 1930, he wrote, “My Dear Grand Daughter Vera, You don’t know how glad I was to get a letter from you but I am a little ashamed to think I did not write before…I often wished I could of went on a mission when I was young. Getting the door slammed in my face would not hurt me a bit. Well Vera, I am glad you are enjoying your work, you said you was thankful for your good parents. So am I. I am thankful to the Lord that my parents joined the church in the old world and made it possible for me to be where I am…”



Once Grandmother was released from her mission and fell in love with and married my Grandfather, she said goodbye once again to all she had known to begin an adventure with her new husband in Washington DC. As I graduated from BYU and moved to the East Coast to begin a career and to help raise a family far from all I had been familiar with, I began to see Grandmother as someone like me. I think, back then, she must have shared the same sense of adventure and perhaps some of the same fears that I experienced. She and Grandfather made life-time friends in their small Greenbelt Branch and shared experiences that strengthened them, challenged them and brought them much happiness.

One of Grandmother’s saddest farewells occurred when Grandfather died on October 3, 1947. In her typically candid way, she stated in her personal history, “He was too young to die, 47 years old and he had three small childre n, and a wife that couldn’t live without him. What would I do? I couldn’t believe that Heavenly Father would do this to me. Nobody who hasn’t gone through the same thing, can ever know how I felt. I was only half there. I had depended on Ray for so many things, my very reason for living, and now I was alone.” Grandmother’s next few sentences, for me, define the Vera Van Leuven I have come to know. Referring to her son she says, “One day Dale came in, I had been crying. He looked at me and said, “I hate people that cry all the time.” He turned and went out, slamming the door behind him. It was just what I needed. All of the sudden it came to me what I was doing to them. I tried to change, and cry only after they had gone to bed.”

There have been times in my life when I have drawn on the strength of others to find my way through a challenge. Grandmother Van Leuven has been one of those sources. She has shown me how to carry on no matter how lonely or difficult the path. She has demonstrated, like President Hinkley, that an old person can still act young and still enjoy a rich life of service and discovery despite the effects of age. With her poor health during the se last several years, it became increasingly difficult for her to enjoy all the things that brought her so much happiness: attending the temple, traveling with her siblings, and participating in church and family functions. She still managed to tour in Russia with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, inspire and support more missionary grandchildren, give service to those around her, and adapt to new surroundings and limitations with her candid personality and sense of humor.

As a child, I felt great disappointment pulling away from Grandmother’s house at the end of a trip, but I knew I would return. Now, as a 37 year old father of four, I know Grandmother in ways that I couldn’t have possibly understood as a young boy. And I know that I will see her again.