The Heart that Truly Loves

by Susan Evans McCloud

  She could see that his pleasure was stronger than his fear, so the very next day they began, rising half an hour earlier than the others so no one would know.

  These strange, precious souls, she thought, watching him bend over the book, his narrow face screwed up in concentration and his brown eyes lit with the beauty that learning always sparks there. I know so little about them. Much like Adria, their past is a blank sheet to me. Yet God has entrusted me with helping to write their future. It was a sobering thought, but one that brought her a great surge of pleasure. God, whoever he is, has trusted me, she decided.So I will have faith in myself. And each summer’s day passed more beautifully and productively than the last.

  As the autumn days pushed summer away with chilly fingers, the ladies from the church came more and more often to Gloucester. They were good workers. One day they would put up fruit, another vegetables against the winter hunger of four little mouths. A merchant donated cloth, and the ladies helped Millie sew good, sturdy clothes for the three orphans and, of course, for Adria, too. They tied quilts and sewed warm flannel sheets, and one day Albert Forsyth came with three other men and put up a second bed beside Adria’s small one, then set in a good supply of wood for the winter. There seemed to be not one detail that the Saints overlooked. Millie knew they were grateful to her for shouldering what they considered the brunt of the burden, though she constantly reassured them of her willingness and of what a help the children were to her.

  “We’re all in this together,” Sister Turner beamed at her one day when Millie had been protesting their kindnesses. “We’re sisters. We help one another. That’s why there’s so much love between us.”

  Simply put. But Millie was beginning to understand. One afternoon Albert Forsyth sought her where she worked in her garden. “Are you ready yet, Sister Fenn?” he asked.

  “Ready for what?” Millie laughed.

  “You ought to be baptized. You would be by now, but something’s holding you back. Are you ready to tell me yet?”

  They had the garden to themselves. The day was cool and languid; none of the other men were about and the women were all busy inside. Maybe I can tell him just a little, she thought. She had changed; she had grown stronger since the children came. And it was easier to talk to this man in her strength than it had been in her weakness.

  Before she was through, though, she had poured out what to her seemed like every detail of what had passed in her life, from that first day in the house on Walnut Street to the coming of Nicholas Todd, the death of her father, her conversations with old Daniel, her marriage to Luther, her doubts and her loneliness, the storm that brought Adria to her, and then to Luther’s death and the dreary prospect of life forever discontent and alone.

  “You are a stubborn one,” Elder Forsyth said when at last she sat silent. “You acknowledge God’s hand in your life, but you still want to pick and choose.”

  “I may sense him sometimes, but I do not understand him the way you say you do.”

  “Understanding of God comes through love of God, and that from mainly two things: reading the scriptures and learning of him, then serving others and in that way practicing the principles he taught. You are doing both of those things, Millicent.”

  “It isn’t that simple.”

  He reached over and placed his hand on her arm. “Oh, but it is. We complicate it; we block our own way by refusing to feel the Spirit or refusing to see the truth—or refusing to take life one step at a time.”

  Did he knew what strength and sustenance she felt when he touched her?

  “What do you mean when you say ‘the Spirit’?” she asked.

  “Sometimes we mean the spirit of the Lord, which is also called the Spirit or the Light of Christ, which God is pouring out upon all his children in these last days, as he promised to do in the Bible. This Spirit is withheld from the very wicked, but it strives with all other men, helping them seek and recognize truth and light in their lives. The other ‘Spirit’ is that of the Holy Ghost, who is one of the three personages of the Godhead.”

  Millie was shaking her head at him. “I need to read more—much more—to understand what you are telling me.”

  He continued as though she had not spoken. “The Holy Ghost bears witness of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ to the spirits of men. And when you are confirmed a member of God’s church, the right to the companionship of this comforter and revelator is given to you.” He tightened the pressure of his hand on her arm. “Thus, one nevermore has to walk all alone through life.”

  There were tears in Millie’s eyes.

  “Are you ready, Millicent Fenn?”

  “No, not yet.” Do not rush me, her eyes said.

  He nodded and smiled at her, and dropped his hand from her arm. “Come, let’s go see if that good food I have been smelling this past while is ready to eat.”

  She walked with him into her kitchen, still warmed by the peace of his spirit and the things he had said.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Great Salt Lake City, 31 August 1847

  My dearest Millie,

  We have reached the Valley, along with hundreds of others! Before the winter sets in we expect to have nearly two thousand people in this place.

  To recount the tale of our travels to you would require reams of paper which I do not have. Nor could I accurately paint for you the scenes we have been through. But it would amaze and impress you to know how organized our companies were. When we made camp at night the wagons were drawn into a circle, with the livestock protected in the center. The fires were put out at nine o’clock, when all were expected to retire, for we arose between five and six in the morning and were on our way by seven—this for six days of the week. On the Sabbath we always rested and worshiped the Lord.

  I wish you could see the great herds of buffalo that inhabit these plains; great, hairy, ragged, prehistoric beasts, whose thundering movements make the whole earth tremble and reel. And the bronze-skinned Indians—I saw them only at a distance, seated on horses with elaborate saddles. The horses’ bodies were painted with designs and symbols in bright, rich colors and often the warriors were painted as well on their faces and their bare chests, with feathers festooning their hair. I wondered if we looked as strange to them, with our pale skin and our abundance of bulky clothing. Imagine how a sunbonnet with a wide brim that nearly hides the whole face must look to one of these spare, almost naked men?

  Could I any better describe the mountains to you? Blue ridge after blue ridge of them stretching off into the distance, but those straight ahead all dirt and jagged rock and perpendicular cliffs—everything about them saying, “You do not belong here! We are greater and more ancient than you, and we will remain, unchanged, long after you have ceased to exist.”

  The Valley! Oh, Millie, it is a huge, empty basin, with the lake at its end. Save for a few scrawny cottonwoods, there is not a green thing in sight. Ground has been planted, though; nearly five thousand acres, much of it in winter wheat. The men are building three sawmills in the mountains and one gristmill, and they’ve raised a stockade or fort, made of logs and sun-dried bricks, called adobes. Within its walls we will be safe from Indian raids and attacks. There is organization here, as there always is with the Saints. While one group of men clears the land, another plows, another builds a road into the canyon, and yet another cuts timber. We are also building a great arbor or bowery where meetings can be held, and dances, and perhaps even dramas. And Brigham Young has already selected a site where a temple to the Lord will be built.

  I have seen sunflowers, but mostly sagebrush—nothing but gray-green sagebrush on every hand. And mice, I fear, in the hundreds, disturbed by the plow. And crickets! Black, disgusting little creatures, which crawl on the valley floor and which the Indians, they tell us, gather to roast and eat. Oh, Millie, it is a wild and uncivilized place! And yet already it is home, because we are all here together,
brothers and sisters, and we are familiar with each other’s hopes and desires and pains. Brigham Young said, “I do not want people to understand that I had anything to do with our being moved here; that was the providence of the Almighty; it was the power of God that wrought out salvation for his people. I never could have devised such a plan.”

  Thus, with faith that God’s hand does indeed guide us, the Saints can rejoice and be grateful for the blessings he grants us. I count you as one of my blessings, Millie; you know that. Mother says I must relate to you that she dreamed of you her first night in the valley, the very first night she spent here. She says you must be told of it, for, with her Irish blood, she sets great store by portents and dreams. In truth, though, I believe it was the Spirit that impressed this dream on her mind.

  She said she saw you living here in the valley, and you dwelt in a large, lovely house surrounded by beautiful gardens. And although you were youthful as you now are, your home was filled with children! They were young, happy children—and you looked radiantly happy yourself. There, you have it. ’Tis a strange little dream; nothing more, I suppose. But it has made me miss you more sorely, dear heart. What deep, unearthly bond links some spirits to one another, Millie? I wish I knew. I wish I knew if Mother’s dream meant anything.

  Well, I fear I must close. I have no more paper, and my candle gutters in the dish. When you go to bed at night, remember that far out here, beyond the plains and the mountains, there are hearts that love you dearly and cherish fond memories of you.

  Yours always,

  Verity Winters

  It took months for Verity’s letter to reach Millie. When at last it arrived it was four months old and rather the worse for wear, but it was the one letter Millie would treasure above all the rest.

  When she read of Judith’s dream a warm feeling spread through her; not a shock or a thrill, but a deep, seeping warmth. Judith had seen her and these orphaned children. There was no possible way she could have known of them, and yet she had seen.

  The following morning Millie took the train into Boston and made arrangements with Brother Forsyth to be baptized.

  “You will be the first baptism of the new year,” he told her. “Eighteen forty-eight. I wonder what else it will bring.”

  Millie wondered, too, though she kept her counsel. One step at a time. That was what God and Albert Forsyth himself had been trying to teach her. One step after another, and each step by faith.

  Nicholas was cold and hungry, and the dreariness of the wide, empty valley depressed his spirits. The food the Saints had brought with them was nearly depleted, and where to find more? He and Abel shared the last of their flour with Lizbeth and Frederick the week before Christmas. By spring they would be reduced to digging for roots in the ground, like the Indians. But would that be sufficient to sustain them until the crops matured and could be harvested? Nicholas wished that he cared. He wished he could break free of this prison of pain that had encased him since Helena’s death.

  It was unlike him to be laid so low, and it frightened him. Other men had lost wives, and there were widows as well in abundance, and motherly arms empty and yearning after little ones left behind in shallow, unmarked graves. A numbness prevented him from joining in, from contributing, from being part of this life. He had no heart for building a future in this place when all that was precious had been lost to him. Except for his son, all he had ever loved was left at places behind him, along the path of his life. And this parched, wind-swept valley held no future for him that he could see.

  For weeks he was burdened with hopelessness; nothing could rouse him from his lethargy. Then Gerry Hines knocked on his door. It was a gray morning, much like any other. But the stout Englishman asked him to walk with him outside the fort for a spell.

  They walked in silence for many minutes, and Nicholas sensed nothing.

  “Look here, Brother Todd”—Gerry’s sudden vehemence startled him—“it’s time to come to your senses, lad.”

  Nicholas stared at him blankly.

  “That’s the truth of it, now,” Gerry blurted, and when Nicholas did not stop him, he heaved up his chest and continued. “Don’t you remember the days in Liverpool? Nothing to eat; people dying from sickness on every hand. And no hope—no hope for anything better tomorrow! Now, those were times to despair of! But what did you do? You shared the gospel, and you shared your own spirit. You starved for our sakes, you huddled in cold little rooms, you walked the stiff, wind-swept streets—all for our sakes. All for this! All for a future that only the gospel can give!”

  He placed his plump, hairy hands on Nicholas’s arms and gave him such a shake that he felt his jaw move in his head. “Enough of this, lad. Why, she’d be ashamed of you, Helena would. God helped you then, back in Liverpool, and he’ll help you now. Just don’t shut him out—don’t shut us all out, Nicholas. Come now, there’s a good lad.”

  Slowly, slowly he felt the darkness fall from him. He was weak and light-headed, but he could breathe again. He held out his arms and embraced his short, startled convert, pressing his face into the man’s ample shoulder; then gave way to tears. And the sorrow that had gone rancid within him and tainted his soul loosened and lifted with the healing tears and a friend’s love and faith.

  Despite the pinched conditions of winter there was work in plenty to be done in the Valley, and Nicholas, feeling the freedom of his release, thrust in his sickle with all his might. The walls of the fort needed to be extended, and two additional blocks, one on the north and one on the south, were begun in preparation for arrivals to the valley who would come in the spring.

  While he worked, Nicholas, who had been self-indulgent too long, questioned his motives and purposes and examined a faith that had been somewhat pompous and sure of the answers when he had been young. He took to walking along the line of the city creek in the evenings, alone, as he had walked beside the Mississippi back in Nauvoo. Here at last, the beauty of the country unfolded before him. At sunset, in the hour before twilight, the mountains glowed as though lit by some inner fire, and all the rough edges of the harsh land seemed gentled by the soft luminosity.

  As he walked Nicholas prayed in his soul that the path his life should take would be opened up to him, that he would be shown what work the Lord wanted him to do. Day after day he prayed tirelessly, morning and night, until a peace of sorts settled upon him and he knew in his heart that his course would indeed be guided.

  About the middle of March Bishop Grant called on him and informed him that the brethren were in need of elders to serve missions back east.

  “We understand you served briefly in the Boston area once before, on your way to England.”

  “That’s right. Yes. But that was several years ago.”

  “Well, would you go now? I know you’ve lost your dear wife and have only a small son to care for. Could your sister and her husband take him into their home for a season?” Under the ledge of his brow his intent brown eyes burned out at Nicholas. “The work in that area is progressing, and we feel we need to help it along. Your name came strongly into the minds of several of the brethren. I believe the Lord wants you there.”

  His words burned into Nicholas with a conviction he could not deny or ignore. “I will go whenever you want me,” he replied.

  “Good. We’ll keep in touch, then. You’ll go as soon as the roads are passable in the spring. We’ll get back to you with further instructions.”

  He held out his arm and the two men shook hands, and Nicholas knew that Brother Grant had just brought him the answer he’d been praying for.

  Albert Forsyth was waiting at the train station to meet the missionaries sent out from Salt Lake. “You’ve had a long journey, brethren,” he readily sympathized, “but as soon as you’re rested I want to hear all about the Valley and what Brother Brigham is up to out there.”

  They talked all the way back to the Forsyth home, where the two would b
e staying. But Nicholas had difficulty keeping his mind on the conversation. At least for a time he had been able to put Millicent completely out of his mind. The Lord had a work for him to do here, and he didn’t expect him to get muddled up in old affairs of the heart. Besides, he didn’t know if he wished to meet Millicent Cooper again, ten years older and married to some seaman. Perhaps she had changed. Perhaps it would be wiser to keep the almost flawless memory of her safe in his mind.

  The following morning Brother Forsyth took them over to Boylston Hall where their meetings were held and filled them in on the facts and details of Church membership there.

  “Have you proselyted anywhere outside Boston itself?” Nicholas asked.

  “We haven’t proselyted much at all, son, except on a haphazard basis. Course, it will be different having you here.”

  “Do you wish us to go further abroad, into some of the other coastal communities?”

  “I don’t think so, not yet.” He turned a soft but penetrating gaze on the young man.

  “Are all your members from right here in Boston, then?” asked Thad Newman, who had been sent out as a companion to Nicholas.

  “No, no they are not. We have some from down Concord way, a family in Marblehead and another Cape Cod way, and Widow Fenn over in Gloucester.”

  Brother Forsyth did not fail to notice the new missionary’s reaction when he said the word Gloucester. “Have you been in Gloucester before, Elder Todd?”

  “Yes I have, sir, a few years back.”

  “Are you acquainted with anyone in Gloucester?”

  “I was. Well, not really—it was so long ago.”

  The man was still watching Nicholas closely. Nicholas began to feel noticeably uncomfortable under that gaze.