by Gale Sears
Father Pious stood straighter, gave Lorenzo one last scornful look, and moved off quickly to the monastery.
“I am sorry to have caused trouble,” Lorenzo said as he watched Father Pious retreat into the building.
“Do not be silly, Elder Snow. I am sorry to have lost my temper, but I find it difficult when Father Pious does not live up to his name.” He smiled over at Lorenzo. “Now, you said there were several things for which you needed to speak to me. What are the others?”
“Just one more thing,” Lorenzo said, standing, “and then I will leave you in peace.”
“Do not worry, my friend. We have a few minutes before Father Nathanael arrives.”
“I have a book that I would like translated into Italian. Do you know of anyone competent for the task?”
Father Andrew gave him an amused look. “A book? An entire book? Well, I am immensely competent, but at my age I am afraid I could only help you translate a letter.”
Lorenzo was mortified. “Oh no, Father Andrew! I did not mean for you to undertake the work. I just thought you might know of someone.”
“Yes, yes. I know a few men, but I am afraid you will need to take the book to one of the major cities: Paris, Rome, or perhaps London.”
“I thought that might be the case.”
“I know several men in London. With a letter of introduction from me, I think they might be persuaded to help you.”
“That is very gracious of you,” Lorenzo said. “More than I could have asked.”
Andrew suddenly raised his hand into the air and waved. “Ah, see there? My keeper is coming to fetch me.” There was an unmistakable note of mischief in his voice as he spoke the word fetch.
Lorenzo turned to watch as another young priest came striding from the monastery. “Then I will be on my way, Father Andrew. Thank you for the wonderful conversation, and thank you for reading the booklet.”
“Yes. I will be interested to see what it says,” Andrew answered. He fixed Lorenzo with an evaluating stare. “May I give you a bit of advice, Elder Snow?”
“Of course.”
“You have a family in America?”
“Yes.”
“A family you have left to come here to preach?”
“Yes.”
“And I can see the hardship of that sacrifice in your face.”
“It is the Lord’s work.”
“And the Lord’s guidance?” Andrew asked. Lorenzo nodded. “And he has put your feet on a path into these obscure Alpine valleys?”
Lorenzo cleared his throat. “Yes. I believe we are to bring the message of the restored gospel to the Waldenese.”
“Then that is what you must do, Elder Snow. You must preach to the Waldenese. They are a remarkable people and these valleys have always been a special place where faith is obvious. It is as if faith is engraved into the very soil.” Lorenzo thought this a singular thing for a Catholic priest to say, but from the tales told by the Guy family about their uncle, Father Andrew was a singular priest. His next words proved the assumption. “And I would like you and your companions to come and have supper with me sometime soon—would you do that?”
“Of course.”
“You can tell me all about your American church.” Father Nathanael arrived at Andrew’s side. “And here is Father Nathanael come to fetch me. Father Nathanael, this is Elder Lorenzo Snow from America. Elder Snow, this is my helper, Father Nathanael.”
“Yes, we’ve met,” both men said together, and Andrew laughed.
“Have you?”
“Yes,” Nathanael confirmed. “When Joseph was sick. Good afternoon, Monsieur Snow.”
“Good afternoon, Father Nathanael.”
“Wonderful!” Andrew said, as he stood with Father Nathanael’s help. “And we will plan for you to come for supper.”
“Supper?” Father Nathanael questioned, offering Andrew his arm.
“Yes, I have invited Elder Snow and his friends to supper sometime. Is there a problem with my invitation?”
“No, of course not,” Father Nathanael replied. “I just thought we may want to find out what they like to eat.”
Father Andrew laughed loudly. “Ah! Ah!” he spluttered. “You see, you see here? Here is one who knows the Savior’s name.”
Father Nathanael gave Andrew a puzzled look as he patted him on the back. “Calm down, old one, or I shall be taking you to the infirmary instead of to prayers.”
Andrew took several deep breaths, and wiped his eyes. “Oh, this has been a good day.” He stood a little straighter. “Thank you, Elder Snow, for your visit. Come on Friday for dinner. Friday is good. We will have fresh trout.” He patted Father Nathanael’s hand. “Father Nathanael will go to the Pellice River and catch it for us.”
Father Nathanael encouraged his charge towards the monastery. “You are full of ideas today, aren’t you?” As they moved off, Father Nathanael turned back. “Yes, come on Friday, Elder Snow. How many will there be?”
“Three. Just three of us,” Lorenzo said, hoping their presence would not be a burden on the monastery.
As he watched the two holy men move slowly off towards their prayers, a scripture came to his remembrance, and he spoke the words aloud. “‘Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid.’” He turned back towards the inn. “‘Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’” Lorenzo shook his head as he thought of Father Andrew’s remarkable life—certainly not a life hidden under a bushel basket.
Notes
The French Revolution, from 1789 to the late 1790s, was a period of radical social and political upheaval in France that profoundly affected not only France but much of modern history and government, marking the decline of powerful monarchies and churches and the rise of democratic republics.
In his journal, Lorenzo Snow writes about meeting a Catholic priest and being invited to dine with him.
Chapter Nineteen
Rorà
October 26, 1850
“Brethren! Brethren! Please do not stop on my account,” Colonel Beckwith called out as he approached the three men pausing on the steep trail. One was slumped against a tree, the second was tapping a rock out of his boot, and the third was bent over, hands on his knees, attempting to catch his breath.
Elder Woodard gave the colonel a half smile as he stood. “I think we are pausing for our benefit, Colonel. You, indeed, are doing splendidly for a man thirty years my senior.”
“Posh,” the colonel said as he came to stand beside the men. “I just have these mountain heights in my blood, that’s all, and my wooden leg has been navigating these trails for over twenty years.” He thumped Elder Woodard on the shoulder. “You youngsters just need a tad more practice.”
Lorenzo laughed inwardly as he watched Elder Woodard wincing from the blow. He put on his boot and tested its condition.
Colonel Beckwith walked over to Elder Stenhouse, who was laboring to catch his breath. “What say you, Stenhouse? You are the youngest among us. Shall we onward to conquer this mountain?”
“Yes sir, Colonel!” Elder Stenhouse replied, attempting to stand straight and to speak without gasping.
“That’s the spirit!” Colonel Beckwith said. “Good man you’ve got there, Brother Snow. In truth, you are all good men.”
“High praise coming from you,” Lorenzo said. He watched as the colonel unstopped his canteen and took a drink. What a blessing to have met the man, Lorenzo thought. And now to be counted among his associates was an honor. Lorenzo knew American patriots who had fought fierce battles in the Revolutionary War, hearing from them acts of courage and brave deeds in battle, but Colonel Beckwith had fought
in the battle of Waterloo, having had four horses shot out from under him before taking a bullet that would cost him his leg. The three missionaries had met the colonel the night they went to the monastery to dine with Father Andrew. Lorenzo remembered the night with fondness: a delicious dinner of trout, leeks and potatoes, bread, cheese, and melon; interesting conversation; a viewing of the library and the chapel; and a chance to preach the gospel. Father Andrew and Colonel Beckwith had listened with great attention and posed many interesting questions. It was evident to Lorenzo that Father Andrew had a deep respect for the soldier turned philanthropist and missionary. Beckwith had given up a life of privilege and honor in London to build schools in the Piedmont and bolster the worldly circumstances and spiritual strength of the Waldenese. It had been a grand evening, at the end of which Father Andrew had presented him a book of Italian grammar in which he’d inscribed his name.
“Nellie!” Colonel Beckwith called, bringing Lorenzo’s attention back to the group. “Come on, boy, high to!” The colonel’s scruffy gray Cairn terrier came leaping over undergrowth and rocks to his master’s side.
Elder Stenhouse laughed. “I find it odd that you named your male dog Nellie.”
The colonel gave a one-note whistle, and the dog jumped into his arms. “Actually, I named him after a man I greatly admired—Lord Nelson.”
“I see,” Elder Stenhouse replied. “’Tis a very noble name, then.”
“Indeed, but I could not very well go around all day calling the lowly cur Lord Nelson. He would have acquired a much too grand opinion of himself.”
The company laughed and Nellie barked as though he knew they were talking about him. Beckwith set the dog on the ground.
“Get on with you then, you mangy mongrel.” Nellie took off up the path as though given the command to be the guide. “Should we follow on then? Less than an hour more to Rorà,” Beckwith encouraged. The men started, all except Elder Stenhouse, who was taking one last drink from his canteen. “High on, Stenhouse!” the colonel called back. “You wouldn’t want a wee dog to show you up now, would you?”
Elder Stenhouse gulped down his mouthful of water and hurried to catch up with his companions.
The cluster of thirty stone houses that made up the village of Rorà clung to the mountainside, mimicking the rock outcroppings surrounding it. The four men trudged along the switchback trail, pushing ever forward to the heart of the town. Their destination was the recently built Waldensian church where they had been invited to preach. As they managed another switchback and headed in the direction of the village, Lorenzo could clearly see the temple with its bell tower and pale yellow walls. The light facade of the building stood in stark contrast to the rustic stone houses and barns.
Lorenzo took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air and noted the quietude and beauty of the surrounding countryside. Where grassland escaped the dominion of trees, terraces were etched into the hillside, creating flat areas for grapevines and vegetables. The trees were near the end of their vibrant fall colors, and the last of the dead leaves on the grapevines twitched in the cold autumn breeze.
In the distance, Lorenzo could hear Nellie’s bark. He smiled. It seemed the dog was announcing the imminent arrival of the colonel and his companions to the villagers. Shortly thereafter the bell in the church tower began ringing, and people could be seen emerging from their dwellings into the lanes and streets. As he and his companions navigated the final switchback and drew nearer the village, Lorenzo was intrigued by the vision of the villagers dressed in their Sabbath costumes: the men in rough woven suits with vests and white shirts, the women in dark dresses with plum, green, or brown aprons, white shawls, and white bonnets.
The foursome walked up the main dirt road and the people came running, surrounding the colonel with warm and robust greetings. Nellie cavorted and barked as though he was the center of attention, and, in actuality, received his share of accolades. Lorenzo and his companions were approached with a respectful but measured greeting. The villagers did not know these foreign preachers, but afforded them hospitality because of the great love they carried for Colonel Beckwith.
“My friends! My friends!” Colonel Beckwith called. “How happy I am to be with you! It has been much too long.”
An older gentleman stepped closer. “See, we have been taking good care of the church you built for us.”
“Ah, I was just a part . . . just a part of the work,” the colonel deflected. “Do not forget the many English Protestants who sent funds to raise your temples and your schools.”
“No, no! We do not forget. We will never forget them. They are always in our prayers of thanks,” the old man replied quickly.
Beckwith nodded. “And you are always in their prayers of fellowship.” He turned toward the temple, laying his hand on the man’s shoulder. “It is beautiful. A place of truth and worship.”
“And warmth,” the man added, his head bobbing up and down. “Better than the cave where my grandfather’s family went to read their Bible.”
“Indeed,” Beckwith said. “Indeed.” His voice lifted to the group. “Shall we in, then?” He moved up the steps to the door, the group following with murmured conversation and cheerful faces.
When they entered the temple, they encountered men and women already seated on the wooden pews, a few others standing along the walls and talking. Lorenzo surmised by the number of walking sticks and cloaks that these had come from places other than Rorà to hear the preaching of the foreign evangelists.
Elder Woodard came to Lorenzo’s side, speaking in a lowered voice. “I believe the word is out that the colonel has listened to our preaching.”
Lorenzo nodded. “And has taken no thought to dismiss it.”
Elder Stenhouse stood near and overheard. “I hope that means the people of the mountains are curious about the message,” he added. His voice shook with nervousness, and he tried to hide it with a cough.
“There are Waldensian pastors here,” Lorenzo added. “Those who invited us and others who did not.”
“That is unsettling,” Elder Stenhouse said, looking about.
“Do not be troubled, Elder Stenhouse,” Elder Woodard assured, leaning near to him. “We will leave the preaching to the apostle among us.”
Elder Stenhouse smiled broadly, the look of fear dropping from his face. “I agree. It’s only right that the apostle should be the mouthpiece.”
Colonel Beckwith led the Mormon missionaries to chairs at the front of the congregation and as they sat, a hush settled on the gathering. The pastor of the Rorà parishioners came forward to greet them and to receive introductions. He then went to stand at the heavy wooden table at the front of the hall on which lay an ancient opened Bible. It seemed to Lorenzo that the rural preacher was intimidated by the large gathering and the presence of Colonel Beckwith. He took a breath and laid his hand on the Bible.
“God be with all of you this day. Many of you have come from Torre Pellice, Gianavella, Bobbio Pellice, and some from the Angrogna Valley. It is good to be together in faith. We are honored to have Colonel Beckwith with us, and with him the evangelist from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” He turned to Elder Snow. “Is the name correct?”
“Yes, exactly correct,” Lorenzo answered.
The pastor turned back to his congregation. “These gentlemen have been preaching in homes in the valleys for several weeks now, and questions have begun to arise. The leaders of the synod felt it appropriate that they be given a chance to preach their doctrine in front of several pastors who will then ask questions.”
Lorenzo saw Elder Stenhouse sit straighter in his chair and heard him clear his throat.
“I have been informed that Elder Snow will give the address, and then we may ask questions.” The pastor stepped aside. “Elder Snow.”
Lorenzo stood and walked to the table, laying his hand on the Bible and saying a
silent prayer for inspiration.
“My friends, we thank you for your willingness to listen with open hearts to the message we bring to your mountains. I hope that you will accept my halting attempt at Italian. Perhaps in a little while we can invite Elder Woodard to speak to you in lovely French.” He turned to smile at Elder Woodard, and then back to the congregation. “The gospel we preach is that of the Lord Jesus Christ—the primitive church restored by revelation to a prophet.” Audible gasps were heard throughout the gathering. “I will tell you of this restoration, which came by divine manifestations and heavenly visions. I will tell you of the restoration of priesthood keys—the authority to bind on earth and in heaven. I will tell you of a people who love the holy word of God and preach from its pages. I will tell you of ancient scripture brought forth out of the ground and translated by the gift and power of God.” Lorenzo paused and looked out into the faces of the Waldensian faithful. “You are well acquainted with persecution. For hundreds of years you have been persecuted for your faith as taught by God to His prophets, and as taught by Christ to His apostles. Persecution has also been the lot of the Mormon people. I will tell you of the persecution we have faced in bringing forth the restoration of the Lord’s primitive church. I will tell you of a modern-day prophet slain by his countrymen for daring to speak the truth. I will tell you of an exodus of people driven from their homes by bloodthirsty mobs whose hearts were hardened against this truth. I will witness these things to you as one who was there; as one who walked with the Prophet, as one who heard revelations from his mouth, as one who journeyed thousands of miles across a continent to escape persecution.” He paused. “I will speak to you as an apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ.”
There was immediate loud dissent from several men, and people in the congregation began speaking to each other in uplifted voices. Several of the pastors stood and began questioning Lorenzo directly, their voices raised to be heard above the tumult.
“You know nothing of persecution!” one yelled. “Over six hundred years we Waldenese have suffered!”