One Candle

by Gale Sears

  “A letter for me?” Lorenzo asked.

  Joseph nodded. “Mama says it’s from . . . America.”

  Lorenzo took the envelope. “And so it is! From my sister Eliza.” He reached into his pocket and gave Joseph a coin.

  “What is this?”

  Lorenzo chuckled at the look of wonder on Joseph’s face. “It’s a coin.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you brought me this special letter. I have not heard from home for many, many months.”

  Happiness showed on Joseph’s face. “Now I can buy my own scone!”

  “Say thank you,” Albertina prompted.

  “Thank you, Monsieur.”

  “You are welcome. Enjoy your scone.”

  “I will, Monsieur!”

  Albertina put her hand on her brother’s shoulder and the two turned back toward town as the missionaries continued their journey on the path up the mountain. Lorenzo was so intent on studying his sister’s handwriting on the envelope that he stumbled several times.

  On the third time, Elder Woodard laughed. “Elder Snow, I think we can afford to stop for a few minutes and let you read your letter.”

  Lorenzo looked over. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  “The mountain isn’t going anywhere,” Elder Stenhouse added.

  “There,” Elder Woodard said, pointing. “You can sit on that stone wall over there, while Elder Stenhouse and I leave you in peace. We will search for mushrooms for Madame Guy’s larder.”

  “She will be thrilled,” Lorenzo said.

  The men moved off in different directions—Lorenzo to his solitude, his companions to the woods. Lorenzo took off his knapsack, sat down on the stacked-stone wall, and drew in a deep breath of the autumn air. His spirit was full of serenity and gratitude for the work of the Lord accomplished in the weeks prior: they had talked openly to many concerning the tenets of the Church, passed out the Voice of Joseph pamphlet to several interested Waldenese, and preached the restoration to a large group of ministers and members of the mountain faith. After the re-union, one man, feeling the power of their words, had come forward for baptism.

  The screech of an eagle caught Lorenzo’s attention and he looked up to follow its path through the sky. It was true that they had met with some resistance and harsh questioning, but when had that ever been different in the preaching of the gospel of Christ? Lorenzo said a prayer of thanks for those truth-seeking Waldenese who showed genuine interest in the message.

  Joyful at the prospect of news from home, Lorenzo undid the flap on the envelope and withdrew the letter. He noted the date, September 28, and marveled that the missive had made the trip in only eight weeks. He ran his finger over his sister’s penmanship and began silently reading.

  My dearest brother Lorenzo, September 28, 1850

  In many of life’s encounters I have put my pen to paper to relate the details of a scene or tell of its effect, but now my heart and hand tremble with such trepidation that I fear to drop the ink onto the page. Because of my great love for you and confidence in your unwavering faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and the power of temple covenants, I will relate the news that hesitates in my fingertips.

  Three days ago your dear companion Charlotte departed this fragile world.

  Lorenzo’s heart stopped beating. He stared at the words as if they had no meaning. Silently, he read them again. Three days ago your dear companion Charlotte departed this fragile world.

  Lorenzo slumped to the ground, a howl of misery pouring from him. “Charlotte, Charlotte,” he moaned. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain as his grieving mind conjured pictures of worn boots, a dusty skirt, a faded bonnet, and a smiling face. He smelled lavender cologne and his heart again split open. Why? Why? Why? The word pulled at his brain, muddling his reason. It couldn’t be true. Charlotte was in the little log house in Salt Lake. She was taking care of their daughter and hanging the laundry. She was reading her scriptures and brushing her hair. You wouldn’t do this to me, Lord. You wouldn’t take my Charlotte. Lorenzo crumpled into himself. He couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe? He felt hands on his back and heard the distant calling of his name.

  “Lorenzo! Lorenzo! What has happened?” Elder Woodard pleaded, dropping all sense of protocol at the sight of his suffering friend. “Lorenzo,” he said softly. “What can we do?”

  Lorenzo took a shuddering breath and sat back against the wall. The uneven stones dug into his back and he welcomed the physical discomfort. He was only thirty-six, but he felt old. There was a weight pressing his body into the boggy ground. His mind began to slide sideways into madness so he forced his eyes open. Through the slit he saw frost-covered grass, his companions kneeling by his side, and the letter crumpled in his fist. He held it out to them. Elder Woodard slowly took it.

  “Are there words here that have caused you pain?”

  Lorenzo nodded.

  “What can we do?”

  Tears coursed down Lorenzo’s face. “I . . . I can’t finish it, but . . . I must know the rest. I must. Will you please . . . read it to me?”

  Elder Woodard started. “Oh, my friend! Are you sure? I do not wish to cause you more grief.”

  “I need to know all of what my sister has written. I know she will give me words of solace. She must.” He sat a bit straighter and wiped his face with his coat sleeve. “Please. Begin with ‘three days ago.’” Tears came again, and his two friends sat down beside him.

  Elder Woodard silently read over the first part of the letter until he came to the significant words. He began reading. “Three days ago your dear companion Charlotte departed this fragile world.”

  “No!” Elder Stenhouse exclaimed, darting to his feet. “No! How is that possible?” He began pacing and muttering. “It’s not possible. It’s not possible. We’re on the Lord’s errand. Will He not protect those we’ve left behind, since we are on His errand?” He pressed his fists to his temples. “Oh, Brother Snow, how can you endure it?”

  “Elder Stenhouse, mind what you say!” Elder Woodard chided.

  Elder Stenhouse continued pacing. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But I do not think I could endure it if anything should happen to my wife.” His voice was ragged with emotion.

  “Then you must leave us if you cannot be a support.”

  The young missionary stopped abruptly. “I . . . yes, of course, you’re right.” He folded his arms tightly across his chest. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Please, go on. I will just stand here.”

  Elder Woodard gave him a withering look, and then found his place in the letter. “Her passing was unexpected and startling in its quickness. Dr. Prescott is still unsure of the cruel illness that stole her from our midst. She went within a day, without pain or suffering, and with your name tenderly upon her lips.” It was nearly a minute before Elder Woodard could contain his emotion enough to continue. “Oh, my dear brother, I wish I could gather my sisterly love and fly to you as quickly as the lightning divides the sky. I would sit quietly by your side, listening to you weep her name. I would cry with you and testify that a great soul was welcomed into heaven.”

  Silence descended again, and Elder Stenhouse turned to look out over the spreading valley, its harvested fields obscured by cold, swirling mist. A pale sun climbed partway up the eastern sky and a flock of sparrows flitted overhead.

  “She didn’t suffer,” Lorenzo whispered.

  “No.”

  “Continue reading, Brother Woodard.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I must hear to the end.”

  Elder Woodard found his place and began. “Just after you left on your mission, Sarah Ann moved her small cot into Charlotte’s room for comfort and companionship, and was completely content in the arrangement. But after Charlotte’s death she felt such a sad loneliness that, even with all th
e control of feeling she could exercise, a shuddering sensation came over her at the thought of sleeping in that desolate room. It required all the bravery she could command to enter it in the daytime, and so, for several nights she had made her bed in an adjoining room. Then, last night, a circumstance occurred that she related to me. I will share it with you, dear brother, knowing it will bring peace to your sorrowing soul.”

  Lorenzo sat forward.

  “Sarah Ann told me that last night, a vision commenced, and she could not tell whether she was awake or asleep at the time, but it seemed as though it was midday. The family were all seated in their dining room, when a very bright light, above the brightness of the sun, burst into the room, and in the midst of that light Charlotte entered, sat down, and took her little daughter Roxcy Armatha on her lap—at that time, the extra light in which she came disappeared. Charlotte said she was happy, which her calm, settled expression verified. She said, ‘I dwell in a beautiful place.’”

  Elder Woodard paused in his reading and looked over at Lorenzo, an expression of wonder in his eyes. “Well, this is a miracle I’ve not yet experienced in the Church.”

  Some of the strain left Lorenzo’s face, though tears still flowed freely. “Words of solace. A verification of eternity.”

  Elder Stenhouse took a step towards his companions. “Aye, ’tis indeed. Read on then, Elder Woodard.”

  “The brilliant light returned after a short time, and Charlotte went as she came, in the midst of the light. At this time Sarah Ann was fully awake, and although no moon was shining at the time, her room was sufficiently lighted that (as she describes it) ‘one could see to pick up a pin.’ The singular manifestation so completely revolutionized her feelings that today, with the greatest pleasure, she is replacing her bed in the deserted room, from whence all gloom and loneliness has departed.

  “This encounter bears witness to me, dearest brother, that the Lord is aware of us. How tenderly He holds us in His hand. My heart knows the anguish you are feeling and we all deliver mighty prayers for you in far-off Italy to find strength for the weight of this affliction.

  “Please write when you can. I know you are thoroughly engaged in the work, yet it would settle my heart to know how you are and that this news has not overwhelmed your commitment. Know that your little Roxcy Armatha is being well tended by the family. She is a darling girl and carries her mother in her features.

  “May the Lord bless you, dear brother.

  “Your loving sister, Eliza”

  Far off, the bells of the Catholic monastery were calling the priests to prayers, their soft pealing tone an elegant supplication in itself. Elder Stenhouse turned back to look over the peaceful valley, rubbing the tears off his cheeks with the palms of his hands. The three missionaries did not speak, but listened to the bells, the call of an eagle, and the bleating of sheep from a nearby farm, each man enveloped in an unanticipated spirit of calm and constancy.

  Finally, Lorenzo pushed himself away from the wall and struggled to his feet. Elder Woodard stood with him, carefully folding the letter and handing it to his companion. Lorenzo took it and placed it back into its envelope. He put the missive in the inside pocket of his suit coat and picked up his knapsack.

  “Where are we going, then?” Elder Stenhouse questioned.

  “Up the mountain,” Lorenzo said simply. “There is work that must be done and therefore prayers needed for its accomplishment.” He set off for the forested trail, leaving his companions to stare in amazement. It was not the answer or action the two men had anticipated. They quickly gathered their wits and their knapsacks and followed their leader.

  Notes

  Sarah Ann’s vision of Charlotte returning to speak to the family was related by Eliza Snow in her book Biography and Family Record of Lorenzo Snow.

  In a letter to Elder Orson Hyde, Lorenzo related the Church work accomplished on Mount Brigham, November 24, 1850: “Amid the sublime display of the Creator’s works, we sang the praises of His eternal name, and implored those gifts which our circumstances required. I then ordained Elder Woodard a High Priest, and asked our Heavenly Father to give him wisdom and strength to watch over the church in Italy . . . I also ordained Elder Stenhouse a High Priest, and prayed that his way might be opened in Switzerland for carrying forth the work of the Lord in that interesting country.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Torre Pellice

  December 1, 1850

  Several inches of snow fell during the night, but the morning came with intense blue skies and the promise of bearable temperatures. As Lorenzo walked the path into town with his companions, his thoughts were not on the snow or the shops of Torre Pellice, but on a small log cabin in Salt Lake City—a room, a quilt, a straw hat with blue cornflowers circling the brim. He saw slender fingers managing yarn and knitting needles. Swirled with the scene he heard a sweet laugh and the voices of children, then, unbidden, Charlotte’s face. Lorenzo’s heart chilled and he pulled his mind to the snow-dusted path at his feet. He heard someone call his name and a dog barking.

  “It’s the colonel!” Elder Stenhouse said, waving his hat.

  “And his crazy dog,” Elder Woodard added.

  “Oh, now, don’t let him hear ye calling his dog names,” Elder Stenhouse warned. “He might just throw you into the stocks.”

  The colonel approached with Nellie leading the way. Lorenzo admired the way the man navigated the snowy path without hindrance, his wooden leg finding purchase on the rutted ground.

  “Good morning, gentlemen!” the colonel called to them. “I was just on my way to the inn to search you out.”

  “Well met, then,” Elder Woodard replied, bending down to pat Nellie.

  Colonel Beckwith turned to Lorenzo, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Brother Snow, I was coming to you with deepest sorrow for the loss of your wife Charlotte.”

  Lorenzo set his jaw against emotion. Since the Guy family had been told of Charlotte’s death, Lorenzo knew it was only a matter of time before the news spread. This, though, was the first time he had to acknowledge the loss to someone. He took a breath. “Thank you, Colonel.”

  Fortunately, Colonel Beckwith was an astute judge of the pathos surrounding the loss, so he moved the conversation on to other subjects. “I have heard that two of you are set to travel soon.”

  “Yes,” Lorenzo said. “I have assigned Elder Stenhouse to undertake the mission in Switzerland. He will leave this month. And I will be going to London in January to oversee the translation of the Book of Mormon into Italian.”

  “The work calls, it seems,” the colonel said.

  “It does.”

  “But I keep you from your errand. Would it impose if I walked with you to town?”

  “Not at all,” Lorenzo said starting off. “We would be glad for your company.”

  The colonel walked with him, calling out to Nellie. “High to, you mutt! Leave the rabbits for another day!”

  Elders Stenhouse and Woodard laughed to see the short-legged terrier racing across the snowy ground.

  “He knows his master, that’s for sure,” Elder Stenhouse said, admiring the dog’s obedience.

  “He knows who feeds him, more like,” Colonel Beckwith said with an unconvincing reprimand in his tone. He playfully nudged Nellie with his walking stick and the dog fell into cadence at his side.

  “Military training,” Elder Woodard said to Elder Stenhouse, who grinned and nodded. They both turned their attention to the colonel as he addressed them.

  “I thought I might share a bit of advice concerning your ventures, if I may?”

  “With all your knowledge of these mountains? We would be grateful,” Lorenzo said.

  “So what I’ve heard is true? You plan to go up over the Alps?”

  “That was our thinking.”

  “And there is no way you can postpone till next summer?
”

  “I’m afraid not,” Lorenzo replied. “As you said, the work calls.”

  “Well, the snow is already falling thick in the mountains. Next month there could be five to six feet in the high passes—and fifteen to twenty by January.”

  Lorenzo frowned over. “Will the passes close?”

  “Most will, except for the main track over Mount Cenis.”

  “Yes, that’s the route we were planning to take—from Torino up over Mount Cenis.”

  Colonel Beckwith shook his head. “It is an arduous crossing. At times the teamsters will hitch up twenty horses to the sledge to make the climb. They usually get you over, but be prepared to use snowshoes. You might want to practice ahead of time.”

  “Good advice,” Lorenzo acknowledged. He tried to sound confident, but his youthful bravado was waning. Perhaps a winter crossing was too dangerous. It was the shortest route to Geneva, Switzerland, but perhaps they should wait until summer. As soon as the thought flickered through his mind, the Spirit set his resolve to hold to their plans. His mind left the deep snow of the mountains and returned to the colonel’s narrative.

  “The guides are expert at watching and listening for avalanches, but you will want to send out mighty prayers for safety.”

  “Indeed,” Elder Stenhouse murmured.

  “And how are you fit for rugged clothing?” Colonel Beckwith continued.

  “We’re on our way to the tailor’s to have flannel lining secured in our wool coats,” Lorenzo said.

  “That will work well,” the colonel concurred. “And trousers?”

  Lorenzo hesitated. “Well, we . . .”

  “I have a couple pair of wool trousers that would probably work for the two of you. The tailor will have to size them.”

  “That is very generous of you, Colonel.”

  “Not at all. We can’t have you freezing on the heights.”

  They came to the edge of the town and Colonel Beckwith hesitated. “You on to the tailor’s, and I shall go home to secure the trousers. I take it you’re going to Monsieur Gaydou’s?”