Fannie Smith Spilsbury

"You will be sorry."
"I can hear it just as clearly today as I did many years ago.
The voice was that of my father's.
The place was Liverpool, England."

Would you care to hear the true story of a fair, rather small young English lady?
It is the story of my great-great grandmother Fannie Smith.
It began over 6,000 miles away.
The year was 1842.

This is her story:

My home in England was very comfortable because my father was a well-to-do squire. I was his only child and love was showered upon me. I was born on Christmas day, 1823, and as he cuddled me, his first and only child, in his arms, he called me his Christmas present from God. My mother taught me sewing and embroidery and trained me in the gentle arts of beauty and culture.

One evening some girl friends came over to our house and begged me to go with them to hear some funny men from America preach about a new religion that had started in America. This was curious to me as I belonged to the Church of England, but I truly was not happy in my religion. Well, we went, giggling, to hear about the queer religion and see the Americans.

Latter-day Saint missionaries preached about their prophet, golden plates found in a hill, and other gospel principles. I was not amused. Everything they said touched me to the depths of my being. I believed every word I heard that night. Many nights after that I sought out their meetings. I wanted to join, but I knew my father would never consent. It would have to be done in secret.

Therefore I went one night and was baptized in a river where the ice had to be broken to perform the baptism. I walked half a mile home with my wet clothes freezing about me, but my spirit carried me along as if I were a cloud. As I lay in my bed that night, thinking about what I had done, I could hear an English voice, clear and distinct, say: "You are now a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saint."

Later I was confirmed by one of our own curly-headed, blue-eyed English boys, George Spilsbury. We became better acquainted, and later we were married.

After our marriage, I told my father of joining the church. My father nearly disowned me. He would not let me take any of my lovely things from my home, and he made my life miserable.

We decided to go to America. My father came to me and said, "Fannie, I will put this locket and chain around your neck. Send it to me as a sign that you are sorry and want to come back, and I will make it possible." As we sailed away, my young-girl heart ached, tears streamed from my eyes, and I waved farewell. I never saw them again.

My eyes and my heart turned to my husband, and to the west, for the new home ahead of us. We never dreamed of the hardships and tragedies that we would have to endure. After a long and rough trip, we anchored at New Orleans. We had $5 I had earned on the ship sewing. We traded our clothes for pots and pans, and arranged for the dreadfully hard journey up the Mississippi River to Nauvoo.

The first time I saw Joseph Smith, I knew him, though I had never seen a picture. He and his brother Hyrum spent many hours in our home. My husband helped build the Nauvoo temple, and he acted as bodyguard for the Prophet. We were in Nauvoo when Joseph and Hyrum's martyred bodies were brought from Carthage.

Times were hard. We lived in poverty and fear. Our home was meager, and we had only boxes for furniture. I had to learn to make quilts, and there was much else to learn. Four little girls were born to us; all died in infancy. My health was poor. But I never turned my heart to England, for this was my life and these were my people.

Our exodus from Nauvoo began when the river was frozen over with ice. After a winter of illness we began the trek west. Every day was an adventure. We finally arrived in the Salt Lake Valley, eager to permanently settle and make a home. It was difficult, but we were like one big family, helping each other and working together.

After a few years we moved south to Draper to colonize there. After a few years, we moved south again, to Dixie. Then we moved again, this time our last, and settled in Tocquerville. Here we lost four more of our children. Only five of our thirteen children were allowed to stay with us.

Now I sit here in my wheelchair on my 80th birthday. I hold the locket in my hand, and I can hear my father say, oh so long ago, "Fannie, you will be sorry."
Why couldn't he have known, as I did, that I was doing the right thing for my children and my children's children? I am glad that we are in America. We hope that we have planted well, that our children's children might have the faith that was our choicest possession.

I was never sorry. No, there are no regrets.