One Candle

by Gale Sears

  Chapter Ten

  Genoa, Italy

  July 20, 1850

  To Franklin D. Richards

  My dear Franklin,

  Having safely reached the land of my mission, I take the earliest opportunity to inform you of my location and prospects. The ancient city of Genoa where I now reside contains about one hundred and forty thousand inhabitants, and though the lovely turquoise waters of the Mediterranean embrace its shore, and a perpetual blue sky reigns overhead, the minds of the people are shrouded with spiritual folly and superstition.

  The city is filled with armed men; so, in fact, is almost every seaport and city through which we have passed since leaving England. There has been revolution in Paris and Vienna, and rebellion in Venice. Indeed, in Italy, the call has come to leave the rule of the city-states and the oppression of intrusion from other countries and to become a united and independent country. The entire region seems to be in turmoil. Little money is circulating, and commerce languishes on every side. The country is not yet sufficiently settled to induce the enterprise of the capitalist. Since the revolution, the working classes have suffered severely from the depression of business. Wages are, of course, very low; upon an average, not more than twenty cents for a day’s work for a laborer, which is commonly made to consist of about sixteen hours.

  Many of the customs, laws, and institutions are very singular. Priests are seen in great numbers on every side. I meet them on every street. From the peculiarity of their dress, there is no mistaking their profession. Those of the superior order are clothed in black, and their heads display the accompaniment of a three-cornered hat. Those of another class present a shorn crown to the evening breeze and the noonday sun, and the meanness of their garments is intended to represent their vows of austere indigence. A coarse woolen dress is attached to the body by a rope loosely tied around the waist, from which hang their rosary beads and a small crucifix. Their feet are shod with a species of sandal. They are generally seen two together, and are very unlike the wealthy ecclesiastics, who mingle freely with the best society.

  The other day, as I was returning from a walk, I fell into the following reflections: I am alone and a stranger in this great city, eight thousand miles from my beloved family, surrounded by a people with whose manners and peculiarities I am unacquainted. I have come to enlighten their minds and instruct them in principles of righteousness, but I see no possible means of accomplishing this object. All is darkness in the prospect. Are they prepared to receive the voice from on high? “Behold, the Bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet Him!”

  The Lord knows that I bade a heart-trying farewell to the loved and tried partners of my bosom to obey His call. Does He not have some chosen ones among this people to whom I have been sent? My prayer is that He will lead me unto such and I shall give Him all the glory.

  After I wrote the foregoing, I received a letter from Elders Stenhouse and Toronto. On the first of July, I sent them off to the Alpine region of northern Italy, and since that time I have felt an intense desire to know the state of that province to which I had given them an appointment. I felt assured it would be the field of our mission. Now, with a heart full of gratitude, I find an opening is presented in the valleys of Piedmont, when all other parts of Italy are closed against our efforts. I believe that the Lord has there hidden up a people amid the Alpine mountains, and it is the voice of the Spirit that I shall commence something of importance in that part of the nation.

  Prudence and caution prompt me to request that you will not, at present, give publicity to my communications. I will leave off now so I may get this letter to the post. Barring any impediment, I plan to organize my affairs and depart for the Piedmont in two or three days.

  Your brother in the Gospel, affectionately,

  Lorenzo Snow

  Note

  With a few minor changes, this was a letter written by Lorenzo Snow to Franklin D. Richards, who presided over the European Mission.

  Chapter Eleven

  Torre Pellice

  July 25, 1850

  All he saw was ash—wood, wool, and flesh charred to disintegration. Hot ash, picked up by the wind and whirled into stinging red eyes, forced into nostrils and mouths, smudging the air gray. Andrew watched as Duke Charles Emmanuel picked up a charred branch and pressed the toe of his boot into the ash. “So, what am I stepping on?” he called out. “A Waldensian pig or a Waldensian woman? No difference. It serves the heretics right for going against God’s choice. For thinking themselves above the church—above me!” A shaft of morning sunlight breached the hill and the powerful Duke of Savoy squinted and cursed. “Vexing nonbelievers—can they not just recant their sins, and leave me to mate and eat my meals in peace?” He threw the blackened stick at a scavenging rat. “Any flesh you find today will be well-done, master rodent. I have seen to the cooking.”

  Andrew heard a woman’s mewling whimper behind him and turned to see a young female moving towards the duke with a blade in her hand.

  “Stop her!” the duke ordered.

  Andrew reached out and grabbed the woman’s burnt arm. The knife fell.

  “I know you!” the woman screamed, her eyes fixed on the duke’s face. “I have known you through all time. I was there on the mountainside when you nailed His feet to the cross; I was there five hundred years ago when the great reformer Peter Waldo brought the word of God forward.”

  Andrew watched in terror as the duke raised his sword, but he did not release his grip on the woman’s arm.

  “Do not speak the name of the blasphemer, witch, or my sword will find your throat,” the duke growled.

  “I have always known your face. I have always seen the blood upon your hands. You were there in the service of the power-hungry leaders of the holy church, who were more soldier than disciple.”

  Andrew dropped her arm and stepped back, waiting for the blow that would cut her throat.

  “You place your feet in the lake of damnation to speak against the power of the church,” the duke hissed.

  “I set my feet on the straight path when I stand against darkness. I have no quarrel with the humble priest or the simple monk who live their lives in the service Christ taught.” Andrew was held in place by her words. “I vilify those who think themselves above the laws of Christ, who refuse to let the words of the Bible go out to the people, who have changed the nature of God.”

  “These falsehoods will be your death!”

  “Truth! I speak the truth! That which was spoken from the mouth of Christ to His apostles, from the mouth of Paul to the seven churches. I speak the truth of the primitive church.”

  The duke grabbed her around the throat, and she looked straight into his eyes. “Remember, I know you. Through all time I have known you. All of you who have drowned, and gutted, and burned my people. I know you. And one day you will stand before the judgment bar of God and you will see my face.”

  Andrew could not breathe. There was a great weight on his chest. Her words burned into his ears.

  “I do not fear death, for I know the place I am going. I would have gladly died with my family, but I needed to look into the eyes of my murderer and tell him the fate that awaits him for his butchery—a place of wailing and gnashing of teeth. A place without light.”

  “Enough!” the duke screamed, shoving her away from him. He looked directly at Andrew. “You!” He threw his dagger at Andrew’s feet. “Cut out her tongue.” Andrew saw terror in the woman’s eyes. “Yes, witch. The world has heard the last of your evil rantings. Try quoting scripture or praising the great reformer now.” He pointed at Andrew. “Do it! You are my lead man. Cut out her tongue!”

  “No!” Andrew forced himself awake, forced himself to breathe. The weight was still heavy on his chest, and he struggled to sit. He pressed his bedding against his face, crying to relieve the pain. “Oh, Father. Oh, my Father. Please! Why do these images haunt
me? What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to learn? That we are men of dirt? Yes, yes. I know this. We are men of dirt.”

  The trill of a morning thrush came floating in through his opened window, and Andrew stopped his lament. He focused on the song, and worked to steady his breathing and stop the tears. After a time, he lay back against his pillow, looking up at his small patch of sky. “I am just an old man, Lord. What is it you want from me?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Torre Pellice

  July 26, 1850

  “Where are you from?”

  The young boy spoke French, but in a dialect that was nearly impossible for Lorenzo to understand. “Excuse me?”

  The boy folded his arms across his chest and gave the stranger a surly look. “Where are you from?”

  “Ah! Where did I come from? I came from Genoa.”

  “No, no, no!” The boy moved forward and cocked his leg back as if to kick.

  “Joseph! Stop!” Rene Guy had just come around the side of the inn in time to see the aggressive actions of his youngest child. He ran forward and took Joseph by the arm. “What are you doing?”

  “He’s trying to come into our yard,” Joseph said in a gruff voice.

  “Many people come into our yard. We run an inn, you little Bonaparte! Besides, he may be the man we have been waiting for.” Rene gave his son’s arm a little shake as his eyes moved from the boy to the stranger. “Perhaps you are the friend of Monsieurs Stenhouse and Toronto?”

  “I am that man,” Lorenzo said, smiling. He extended his hand and Rene took it.

  “Welcome! Welcome, Monsieur Snow. I apologize for my son, sir. He thinks he is the proprietor. Here, let me get your bags.” He picked them up.

  “Ah, that is not necessary.”

  Rene went on as if not hearing. “And Joseph can carry that little bag to make up for being rude to you. Joseph, say you are sorry, and pick up the bag.”

  Joseph gave Lorenzo an impish grin and picked up his bag. “I am very strong.”

  “I can see that,” Lorenzo said.

  “And the apology,” Rene insisted. “Do not try to get around it.”

  “I am sorry,” Joseph called back as he dragged Lorenzo’s bag across the rocky courtyard.

  Rene let out an exasperated bark and hurried after his son. “Ah, Joseph! Pick it up! Pick it up!”

  “Yes, Papa!” Joseph said, wobbling as he attempted to lift the satchel higher into his arms.

  Lorenzo smiled at the retreating pair, loving the little boy’s transformation. Joseph’s dirty face and disheveled hair were charming, and Lorenzo’s heart took a sudden lurch. He had been away from his family for nine months and he missed the chatter and joyous chaos. He also knew he had missed births and milestones of growing. What child was walking, and who was speaking in sentences? Did any of them call his name?

  Lorenzo squared his shoulders and followed Rene and his boy towards the picturesque stone inn—the Pension de l’Ours. Chestnut trees sheltered the southern wall from the sun and giant peony bushes covered in pale pink flowers softened the lower facade. As Lorenzo was admiring the outbuildings and the small vineyard, the door of the inn opened and Elders Stenhouse and Toronto came eagerly into the cobbled courtyard.

  “We thought you might arrive today!” Elder Toronto boomed, coming close and giving Lorenzo’s hand a firm shake. “My eyes are happy to see you, dear brother!”

  Elder Stenhouse thumped Lorenzo on the back. “A bit dusty from travel, but none the worse for wear. Welcome to a land just a slight bit east of paradise!”

  Lorenzo shook their hands heartily. He was glad to see them. Their shared faith was reassuring, and their optimism lifted his spirit. The inn sat on a rise and Lorenzo turned to take in the verdant landscape. “It is exquisite, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Elder Stenhouse said. “And wait until you taste Madame Guy’s cooking. That is exquisite as well. Today she is making lamb stew.”

  “Sounds wonderful, but I would like to walk the town before nightfall. We have much to discuss,” Lorenzo said.

  The two companions laughed, and Elder Stenhouse took Lorenzo’s arm, steering him towards the inn. “Yes, yes. We will have time for walking and talking, but first don’t you think it wise to take a wee bit of a rest and have a bite of food?”

  “And clean some of the dust from your hands and face?” Elder Toronto added with a chuckle. “We knew you would put us to work when you arrived, but not the very moment.”

  Lorenzo laughed at himself. “I guess the work is always before me.”

  “As it should be,” Elder Stenhouse said, opening the door of the inn. “But even the apostles of old took time to eat some bread and fish.”

  Elder Toronto followed the two into the cool interior of the inn. “Or, in our case, lamb stew.”

  “Lux Lucet in Tenebris,” Lorenzo said in a low voice. He stood in the center aisle of the Waldensian church, looking up to the front alcove with its frescoed wall and raised pulpit. He was studying the painted wooden plaque that fronted the podium. The patina of the wood and muted color of the paint indicated age, but Lorenzo was captivated by how the masterful carving still held the form of the symbolic images. On an ancient book of scripture sat a single candle on a candlestick. Rays of light emanated from the candle’s flame, and this was haloed by seven stars. Curving around the perimeter of the plaque were the Latin words Lux Lucet in Tenebris.

  “Is it Latin?” Elder Stenhouse asked, coming to Lorenzo’s side.

  “It is,” Lorenzo answered. “‘The light which shines in darkness.’”

  “Beautiful.”

  Lorenzo nodded, looking around at the church’s simple interior: a worn wooden floor supporting rows of simple wooden benches, a cast-iron stove for winter warmth, and pale yellow walls absent of ornate paintings or statuary. The only adornments were the wooden plaque and the fresco on the wall behind the pulpit. The painting, done in soft colors, was of an open Bible with words in French that Lorenzo easily translated as, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” Matthew 22—the words and sentiment simple to understand. Not like the capricious language of the valley people, which, his companions assured him, would both amuse and frustrate him. French was generally used, but many spoke it with a mixture of provincialism and Italian. Italian was understood by a considerable number, but wasn’t used extensively. Often it was like hearing three languages spoken simultaneously. In fact, their landlord, Monsieur Guy, had told them that there were at least five distinct dialects spoken by different classes in the small region of the Piedmont.

  “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself,” Lorenzo said quietly. He sighed with contentment as the glow of sunset poured in through the western windows, creating a soft cocoon of solitude. It had been a long time since he’d felt this kind of peace, and he offered a silent prayer of gratitude. He also felt assurance that here in the mountain valleys of the Piedmont was the place to preach the gospel—and he was eager to begin the work. Lorenzo thought about where they would preach, how they could contact those who were interested, and which pamphlets would need translating. His mind was busy with these strategies when a whispering came distinctly to his mind. Be still and wait.

  Wait? Patience was not a usual product of his personality. Wait? What would be the point of waiting? The prompting came again to move slowly, and Lorenzo grumbled to himself even as he submitted to the guidance of the Spirit.

  “Are you all right, Elder Snow?” Elder Toronto asked.

  Lorenzo opened his eyes and looked over at the man. “Did I grumble out loud?”

  Elder Toronto smiled. “You did.”

  Lorenzo smiled back. “I suppose I was grumbling at my own persistent imperfections.” He appraised his two companions. “Shall we walk out into the evening coolness? There are things we need to discuss concerning the mission.”

  Eld
ers Stenhouse and Toronto moved to the church doors and out into the night. They waited on the porch for their leader to join them, and then the three men walked together towards the town center of Torre Pellice. For a time they walked in silence, enjoying the cool breeze from the mountains, the smell of cooking fires, and the trill of birdsong. When Lorenzo spoke, his voice carried the calmness of the surroundings.

  “Brethren, I feel assured that we have come to the place where the Lord wishes us to serve.” The two men voiced agreement and waited for further counsel from their leader. “But the prompting has also come that we should wait for a time before we begin our labors.”

  “Wait?” Elder Stenhouse asked.

  Lorenzo smiled at him. “Yes. Wait. We are to lay a foundation for the work. We are to silently prepare the minds of the people for the reception of the gospel by cultivating friendly feelings in their hearts.”

  “I like that. It feels right to me,” Elder Stenhouse said.

  “For how long?” Elder Toronto asked.

  “Until we are prompted to do otherwise,” Lorenzo answered, stopping to look at a shop display featuring a variety of writing paper and ink pens. “And,” he said slowly, “I think I shall write a treatise on the Church to be translated into French.”

  “But we have already told the Guy family that we are preachers,” Elder Toronto interrupted. “I don’t think that will remain a secret.”

  “That doesn’t trouble me,” Lorenzo answered. “I think it appropriate to introduce ourselves as preachers, but we can also inform the people that we wish to better understand the language and the culture before we set up our church.”

  “This is a grand inspiration!” Elder Stenhouse exclaimed. “I have been wanting to get out among the people, to hike the narrow trails up into the mountains, and see life in the villages and hamlets. I think this will give us a better understanding of their faith.”

  “I agree,” Lorenzo said. “From what I’ve read there is much we share with the Waldensian faithful in their longing for the primitive gospel of Christ.”