A Letter to a Latter-Day Mormon Catholic Saint - And a letter from my mother that was never heard.

Dear Grandma,

Why am I writing this?
You already know everything now.
You see clearly—face to face with the Living God.
The same God you loved in this life… but now, without the veil of confusion this world so often casts.

And yet, I write.
I write because others still don’t know what you now know.
Because there are good-hearted souls—just like you—caught in a fog that tries to cloud the truth.
And I write to thank you.

You were a living saint in a time of chaos.
Our family was falling apart. Mom and Dad were fighting constantly… then came the divorce… and not long after, her suicide.
But in the middle of that storm, you were there.
You were our anchor.
You were the answer to our lost hope.
You were five acres of peace—Eden, really—with a small barn, two horses, chickens scratching the earth, and every fruit tree imaginable: apricots, oranges, olives, figs… and one old apple tree that stood like a sentinel in the middle of it all.

You gave us a garden.
You gave us stability.
And in that garden, you gave us God.

Grandma, you were baptized a Christian—once.
That baptism was real.
You were sealed in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
You received the Spirit of Christ and lived it—humbly, beautifully, and well.
You were a light. And your light came from Him.

But you didn’t know then what you and I know now.
You thought you needed another baptism.
You thought that becoming a Mormon meant starting fresh—a new baptism, a new temple, a new promise.
You believed it with all your heart. You told stories of miracles, of touching the hand of the Lord. You shined when you said it. I saw the pride in your eyes—and I felt it, too.

And that’s why I write this with love. With clarity.

You brought Christianity into Mormonism without even realizing it.
You were surrounded by kind people.
People who made you feel loved.
People who brought casseroles, invited you in, and gave you a sense of belonging.

Your one and only treasured son had caused a painful rupture in the family. And still—you loved him. Just as much after as you did before.
That was your strength. That was your saintliness.

As to the Mormon Church, you didn’t sit down to compare doctrines.
You didn’t dig into 2,000 years of Church history or question the origins of Mormonism.
You brought unconditional love wherever you went. God placed you exactly where you needed to be.
You taught Sunday school like a true disciple.
I saw the young men and women—now grown—who came to see you later in life.
You played piano with the joy of someone who had already touched Heaven.
You picked flowers for each Sunday service—not for Joseph Smith—but for Jesus Christ.

You were always a child of God.

I’ve realized now—you came from a Protestant background.
It was good. Honest. Real. And your baptism was valid.
But like all Protestant churches, it had broken from the Catholic Church.
Then came Mormonism—another layer of separation. Another break. A different god. More fog.

What’s remarkable is this: you rose above it all.
Your innocence.
Your joy.
Your childlike love for God.

Jesus said, “Unless you become like little children…”
You were that child.
You were His.

And because of your love for me…
I found the Catholic Church.
I knew His voice…
because I had heard it in yours.
I recognized His tenderness…
because you had already wrapped it around me.
I believed in mercy…
because you had already lived it, even when you didn’t have the words.

I heard Christ in the way you forgave, in the way you prayed, in the way you held me.
I had heard Him in you all along.

A Letter from My Mother That Was Never Read

Before I go further, I need to share another voice—
one that never got to speak.

Mom,
You went into a Mormon church asking for help…
Full of pain. A cry for hope.
But instead of a priest or a confessor, they gave you correction.
They told you to be a better mother.

You were crushed—under the weight of already being crushed.
Your own mother—our other grandmother—couldn’t bear the weight of what you had written—your last letter.
She was a basket case of sensitivity.
Just saying your name after you left this world had her in unbearable tears.
She loved you that much. The Cross.

She destroyed the letter before anyone else could read it.
Jesus, in the end, gave the proper correction… love.

Mom,
You were the best, most beautiful, damaged mother I could have ever had.
I remember the art we did together.
I remember your soul.
Your pain. Your beauty. Your battle.

You, too, helped bring me to the Catholic faith.
Not through perfection—but through your wounds.
In your struggle, I discovered the Crucifix.
In your love, I felt Christ.
You showed me what redemption looks like when it breaks through pain.

I love you always.
And I carry you with me always—just as you now carry me.

Forever,
Rich

Utah Mission — Treasures Meant to Be Shared

Then Jesus asked them,
"Would anyone light a lamp and then put it under a basket or under a bed? Of course not!
A lamp is placed on a stand, where its light will shine.
For everything that is hidden will eventually be brought into the open,
and every secret will be brought to light.
Anyone with ears to hear should listen and understand."
—Mark 4:21–23

When someone gives you something precious—something beautiful—
you don’t hide it.
You cherish it.
You thank the one who gave it to you.
And then, you share it with others who are still searching.

That’s what the Utah Mission is.

It’s my way of giving what I was given.
Of saying what I wish someone had said to my mother.
Of honoring the love our grandmother gave to each of us.
Of opening the door to the faith that gave meaning to the pain—older than every wound, and stronger than every lie.
Not religion as a burden—
but faith as a gift.
Not perfection—
but mercy.

The Utah Mission is a thank-you.
A hand extended.
A lighthouse in the fog.

And above all else…
It is Jesus.
The treasure behind every treasure.
The truth behind every truth.
The one in whom all goodness is not only found—but fulfilled.

To be with Him.
That’s what this Mission is.

And if you’re still searching, come.
Ask.
Wrestle.
Walk.
You're not alone.
You’ve never been alone.

www.UtahMission.com

A Word to Fellow Catholics

Today, the Utah Mission is being launched.

As of this moment—not one soul is there.
There is no crowd. No momentum.
Only a single candle in the dark.
A beginning.

But it’s real.

It began with one story. One prayer. One act of faith.
And I believe—if it is God's will—others will come.

If you’ve worked with RCIA…
If you’ve walked with seekers…
If you’ve welcomed someone home to the Church with tears in your eyes…

Then I ask you to pray.
And consider helping.

I will need moderators. Teachers. Intercessors. Friends.
I will need others who know the Church is more than a building—it’s a rescue mission.

This is new. And I’m trusting God to build it.

If this be His will—may He bring the laborers.

For the harvest is ready,
even if the field is quiet for now.

In Christ,
Richard W. Horrell
www.UtahMission.com