by Gale Sears
“He went into town this morning.”
“He did? He did not tell me.”
Elder Stenhouse covered a grin. “Well, I think he left before you were awake.”
“Oh,” Joseph answered, kicking at the dirt.
“Don’t worry. He should be home soon.”
“And you did not go to town?”
I see why his father nicknamed him Little Bonaparte, Elder Stenhouse thought. He laid his hand on Joseph’s head to stop his kicking. “If you must know, I have been chopping wood.”
Joseph scowled at him. “Oh, no.”
“What do you mean, oh, no? The inn will need lots of wood for the winter.”
“Yes, but then I have to work.”
Elder Stenhouse shook his head. This little boy is more like a forty-year-old than just being shy of four, he mused. He addressed Joseph with mock solemnity. “Yes, that’s right, Joseph. Your job is to stack the wood, and I am sorry, but we all must do our work.” He expected some sort of reply, but when he looked down, he found the boy staring down the track.
“Is that the man? He’s closer now. Can you see him?”
Elder Stenhouse squinted at the approaching figure. “Yes, Joseph. I believe that is the man. I believe that Brother Jabez Woodard has come from far-off England to do the work of the Lord.” He turned abruptly and strode quickly in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going?” Joseph called after him.
“To get my suit coat. I do not want to meet such a great man in my shirtsleeves.”
Joseph stood staring for a moment, then turned and ran towards the inn. He ran past Elder Snow, who had just come into the courtyard.
“Joseph? Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“To get my Sunday coat. The great man is coming!”
“The great man?” Lorenzo turned and looked down the road. He took a deep breath when he recognized the traveler. “So, you have answered the call.” His heart felt light as he moved off down the path to meet the new missionary.
The next morning, Jabez Woodard sat at the inn’s dining table, eating scones and currant jelly and conversing with the Guy family as though he were a native son of the Piedmont valleys. The twenty-nine-year-old teacher was appealing in manner and appearance, and held his audience captive with his engaging wit and easygoing character. It was not the custom for the inn’s proprietor or his family to intrude on their guests’ meals, but one by one, beginning with Joseph, they had lingered by the table, intrigued by Elder Woodard’s interesting tales of his journey from England. The missionaries had insisted that the family sit and join them, which made for a merry morning.
Eventually Albertina gathered the courage to speak. “You speak French very well, Monsieur Woodard. Did you learn in school?”
“Mostly from my own studying.”
“The man speaks six or seven languages, if I remember correctly,” Elder Stenhouse remarked.
“That is impressive,” Rene said.
Elder Woodard smiled. “For my part, it’s more of a fascination. I find languages captivating—especially French. It is a beautiful language.”
“And I can understand everything you say,” Joseph chimed in. “Not like them.” He pointed his finger at Elder Snow and Elder Stenhouse, who burst out laughing at the indictment.
“Joseph Guy!” his mother exclaimed in dismay. “That is not a nice thing to say.”
“Why not? Do you understand everything they say?”
Francesca sat with her mouth open, but no words were forthcoming. When everyone laughed at her silent admission, her face softened and she laughed with them. She gently pulled one of Joseph’s earlobes. “Oh! What am I going to do with you, little man?”
“Keep me,” Joseph said, playfully batting her hand away and rubbing his ear.
“Yes, we will keep you,” Francesca said tenderly. “Because of these men, we will surely keep you.”
“And let me go with them on their hike!” Joseph ventured. “I can be their guide!”
“I am sure they know where they are going without your help,” Rene said. “They do not need you tagging along asking a million questions.”
“Besides,” Francesca added, “you’re just trying to get out of your chores.” She stood, and the men stood with her. “Come along, family. We have kept these gentlemen from their activities long enough.” She turned to Lorenzo. “Elder Snow, did you get the food from the kitchen? The food for your hike?”
“I did, Madame Guy. Albertina made sure we had it. Very kind, thank you.”
Francesca looked at her children. “Joseph, off to your dusting, and Albertina, we will be canning plums today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The family departed for their activities and Lorenzo looked after them with an expression of fondness. “They are good people.”
“Indeed,” Elder Stenhouse confirmed.
Lorenzo picked up his knapsack, checking inside for his scriptures, paper, pen, ink, food, and canteen. “Today, brethren, we will not just be going for a hike into the mountains, but we will dedicate this land for the preaching of the gospel.” The announcement stunned his two companions into silence. Lorenzo smiled at them. “I know you have just arrived, Elder Woodard, but the urgency of the work is upon me.”
“That I understand completely, Elder Snow, and I am awake to the resolve, and fit for the walking, but . . .” he looked sheepishly between his two companions. “It is just that I have overindulged myself with scones and currant jelly, which puts me in a questionable spiritual frame of mind.”
Lorenzo laughed. “We have eaten as well, Brother Woodard, but it is a long hike to the top of Mount Castelluzzo, and trust me, breakfast will have worn thin.”
“Ah, good! Then let’s be on our way!” Brother Woodard answered, picking up his backpack, and heading for the front door. His voice came back to his companions as he went. “‘How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings of good, that publisheth salvation; that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth!’”
“A linguist and a man of the scriptures,” Elder Stenhouse said in an uplifted voice. “I think this mission will make good use of your talents, Brother Woodard.”
Elder Snow heartily agreed.
Although it was nearing the first day of autumn, the temperature on the face of the mountain spoke more of summer, affecting the climbers with shortness of breath and frequent stops for water. When they finally reached the rocky pinnacle near Mount Castelluzzo’s summit, the three missionaries sought what limited shade was available, and freed themselves from their knapsacks.
“Whew!” Elder Stenhouse breathed out after pouring a bit of water on his head. “I thought since I had done this once or twice before, this time would be easier.” He looked over at Elder Woodward sitting in the shade of a nearby tree, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “Are you well, Brother Woodard? Do you require assistance? I mean, you are a bit older, so . . .”
Elder Woodard gave him a half grin. “Only a few years older than you, Brother Stenhouse.” He took a deep breath, and shook his head. “It’s not the age, it’s the altitude. Like you, I’m a lad from sea level.”
Elder Stenhouse motioned with his head. “Aye, but look there. There’s the oldest of us all, standing on the precipice and looking out over the valley as though he’d just taken a stroll through a meadow.”
Elder Woodard sobered. “I think his mission carries him.”
“To be sure,” Elder Stenhouse agreed. “When he was writing out the tract about the Church, he’d go for days on just a few hours of sleep.”
“A new tract about the Church? I’d like to read it,” Elder Woodard said.
“The Voice of Joseph,” Elder Stenhouse said, standing and stretching his back. “Elder Snow has the origi
nal. He sent a copy to Orson Hyde in England for translation.”
“Elder Hyde is doing the translation?” Elder Woodard questioned.
“Elder Hyde? Oh, no. He’s not doing it. He has an acquaintance, a professor from the University of Paris, who agreed to do the work.”
Elder Woodard sat up. “That’s impressive. Academics tend to take a deleterious view of religion.”
“Too smart to contemplate salvation,” Elder Stenhouse scoffed.
Elder Woodard smiled. “Exactly.”
At that moment, Elder Snow approached. “Are we sufficiently rested, brethren, that we can begin?”
Elder Woodard stood. “Yes, Elder Snow.”
Elder Stenhouse nodded.
“I’ve found a flat area where we can kneel. And a comfortable place for you to sit, Elder Woodard, if I can impose upon you to be our scribe?”
“Of course.”
“First, let us sing a few of the hymns. I think it will bring the Spirit of the Lord into our efforts; after which I will proclaim the dedication for this remarkable land.”
A cooling breeze whispered through the branches of the pine trees as the missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints sang praises to the God of Heaven and readied themselves for the prayer of dedication. Elder Snow made sure his scribe was ready, bowed his head, and waited for the words of inspiration. In a slow and deliberate voice, he began.
We, Thy servants, Holy Father, come before Thee upon this mountain, and ask Thee to look upon us in an especial manner, and regard our petitions as one friend regards the peculiar requests of another. Forgive all our sins and transgressions, and let them no more be remembered.
Look, O Lord, upon our many sacrifices in leaving our wives, our children, and country, to obey Thy voice in offering salvation to this people. Receive our gratitude in having preserved us from destruction amid the cold wintry blasts, and from the hostile savages of the deserts of America—in having led us by the Holy Ghost to these valleys of Piedmont. Thou hast hid up a portion of the house of Israel.
In Thy name, we this day lift into view before this people and this nation the ensign of Thy martyred Prophet and Patriarch, Joseph and Hyrum Smith, the ensign of the fulness of the gospel—the ensign of Thy kingdom once more to be established among men. O Lord, God of our fathers, protect Thou this banner. Lend us Thine almighty aid in maintaining it before the view of these dark and benighted nations. May it wave triumphantly from this time forth, till all Israel shall have heard and received the fulness of Thy gospel, and have been delivered from their bondage. May their bands be broken and the scales of darkness fall from their eyes.
From the lifting up of this ensign may a voice go forth among the people of these mountains and valleys, and throughout the length and breadth of this land, and may it go forth and be unto thine elect as the voice of the Lord, that the Holy Spirit may fall upon them, imparting knowledge in dreams and visions concerning this hour of their redemption. As the report of us, Thy servants, shall spread abroad, may it awaken feelings of anxiety with the honest to learn of Thy doings, and to seek speedily the path of knowledge.
Whosoever among this people shall employ his influence, riches, or learning to promote the establishment of Thy gospel in these nations, may he be crowned with honors in this world and in the world to come crowned with eternal life. Whosoever shall use his influence or power to hinder the establishment of Thy gospel in this country, may he become, in a surprising manner, before the eyes of all these nations, a monument of weakness, folly, shame, and disgrace.
Suffer us not to be overcome by our enemies in the accomplishment of this mission upon which we have been sent. Let messengers be prepared and sent forth from heaven to help us in our weakness, and to take the oversight of this work, and lead it to a glorious consummation.
Remember our families. Preserve our lives and hearts from all evil, that when we shall have finished our missions we may return safely to the bosom of our families. Bless Elder Toronto in Sicily, and give him influence and power to lead to salvation many of his father’s house and kindred. Bless President Young and his council, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and Thy Saints universally; and to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, shall be the praise, honor, and glory, now and forever, amen.
After a long while of stillness, Lorenzo opened his eyes and lifted his head. He found Elder Stenhouse with his head still bowed and Elder Woodard writing out the final words of the prayer. Lorenzo rose to his feet and went to sit by his scribe. “Were you able to apprehend most of it?”
“I was, Elder Snow. We may have to go over a few things.”
“Of course.”
Elder Woodard swiped his coat sleeve across his eyes to dry the tears. “That was powerful, Elder Snow. A powerful manifestation of the Spirit.”
“God loves His children, Brother Woodard.”
Jabez Woodard nodded. “This I know truly, Elder Snow.”
“And those of us called to this work have sacrificed our wills for His. I have said before and I say again, I do not know of any sacrifice I would not make to have this work move forward in this remarkable country.”
“Amen.”
Lorenzo laid his hand on Brother Woodard’s shoulder. “I believe the Lord takes note of our offerings, Elder. It has been noted in heaven that you have left your wife and two small children in London, your home, your teaching position—”
“You have left much also, Elder Snow,” Elder Woodard interrupted.
Lorenzo took a breath to stanch the emotion, as images of Charlotte, Sarah Ann, and the children came unbidden into his mind. He thought of Charlotte’s positive character and her sweet, endearing smile. He took another breath and gently pushed the image to the side. “Yes, I . . . I have left behind those dearest to my heart, we have all done that, because we know that God’s children must be offered the light of the gospel. And because we willingly sacrifice, He trusts us with His most sacred errands.”
“Even though one is hardly proficient to take on the task?” Elder Woodard questioned, wiping the ink from the metal tip of his pen, and putting the cork in the ink bottle.
“I hardly think you lack proficiency, Jabez. You speak the languages of the area fluently, you are a natural teacher, and you have a deep love for the Lord and His gospel.”
“Yes, a gospel with which I’ve been acquainted for just over a year—not much time to get a deep understanding of the doctrine.”
“You do not need a deep understanding of the doctrine to share the gospel with others, Elder. You only need a testimony that Christ is our Redeemer, that Joseph Smith was His prophet and received the keys of the priesthood, and that the truths of the gospel have the power to exalt us.”
Elder Woodard guffawed. “Oh, just that? Well, that shouldn’t test my spiritual ability in the least now, should it?”
Elder Stenhouse came to stand beside them. “What are you two laughing about?”
Elder Woodard moderated his conduct. “Oh! I am sorry, Brother Stenhouse. Our light manner has intruded upon your prayer.”
“Not at all, brother. I was finished. Besides, my knees were getting tired.”
Elder Snow thumped Elder Woodard on the back. “You see? The Lord will work with us, weak knees and all!” He stood and Brother Woodard stood with him. “Now, we have some business to transact as far as organizing the Church here in Italy, after which I would like to hear prophecy from each of you concerning the work.”
The color drained from Elder Woodard’s face. “Prophecy?”
“A testimony guided fully by the Spirit,” Elder Snow reassured. He shaded his eyes and looked up to the summit of Mount Castelluzzo. “But first, I feel prompted that we should rename this mountain, and also this prominence of rock on which we stand.”
“Can we do that?” Elder Stenhouse questioned.
Elder
Snow smiled over at him. “The designations will not change on the maps, but among the people of God they will be known by different names. Mount Castelluzzo will be called Mount Brigham, and this area where we stand will be known as the Rock of Prophecy.”
“The Rock of Prophecy. May the new name give me inspiration,” Elder Woodard mumbled, and his two companions laughed.
Elder Snow clapped his hands together. “So, organization, prophecy, a hymn or two, and then food. What do you say to that, brethren?”
“Amen and amen!” Elder Stenhouse responded, while Elder Woodard nodded silently in agreement.
Note
With minor changes, this is the dedicatory prayer for Italy, given by Elder Lorenzo Snow on the 19th of September, 1850, and later transcribed into his journal.
Chapter Sixteen
Salt Lake City
September 25, 1850
Eliza R. Snow, widow of the martyred prophet Joseph Smith, wife of President Brigham Young, poetess of the Church, secretary of the Nauvoo Relief Society, and in years not a young woman, was running—running down one of the main streets of Salt Lake City without bonnet or shawl. The few people she passed on the street were so surprised by this odd sight that they gave her no greeting or comment. They barely heard the frantic words she mumbled as she raced by. “Not possible. Not possible. It is not possible.”
A chill entered Eliza’s body that had nothing to do with the late September breeze that descended from the mountain heights, and she clenched and unclenched her hands in an attempt to get blood to her fingertips. She turned up the road leading to her brother’s cabin, and saw warm light coming through the windows. See, everything is fine, she told herself. Charlotte is in the kitchen making supper. She is in the kitchen laughing with the other wives and taking care of little Roxcy. Eliza forced herself to slow her pace and still her tumbling thoughts and ragged breathing. She wanted to bring serenity to whatever lay on the other side of the door.