Because of my reticence to publicly post, I missed ideas and moments that I once intended to record. I'll probably let most of those slip away, but I'm left with this thought lingering, begging for release.
A thought about pioneers.
You see, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I am a Mormon. This fact defines me in a lot of ways. I have allowed it to shape my life, determine my course, mold my character. And I am pleased.
Many members of my church inherit their membership from a long line of ancestors-- pioneers who joined a new religion, left homes, nations, continents, friends, belongings, family members, crossed oceans, plains, mountains, rivers, endured the sun's scorching glare, the winter's harsh cold, overcame sickness, grieved death, repaired broken wagons and broken spirits-- all so they could perpetuate a faith, preserved for coming generations. I admire those pioneers, the ancestors belonging to others. I am grateful for their faith and sacrifices, because they didn't create a legacy for their descendants alone, but for every member of the Church in succeeding generations. I owe a great deal to them. All blessings I enjoy because of the Gospel, I have received at their hands and offering.
As for my own ancestors, I have only one Mormon pioneer in my lineage and she is my mother. She did not pull a handcart, but she did pave a path for me. My mom grew up in Upstate, New York, just as her parents, grand-parents, and great-grand-parents had-- very close to places significant to the establishment of the LDS church (often referred to as the "Cradle of the Restoration"). She was near this sacred ground, still never knew, was never aware of Mormons or restoration, visions or visitations. She hadn't heard of Joseph Smith, yet she was like him. Sober as a child, aware of things spiritual, aching for truth. She began a search for a religion that could support her spiritual yearnings. She attended meetings of different sects, questioned ministers, studied scriptures, doctrines, creeds, and by high school, gave up. The search was fruitless.
Thankfully, the story doesn't end there. A few years later, there was a man living on the other coast, in California. He was a successful businessman with a home, a wife, and a handful of children. They were a happy Mormon family with no need or desire for something different, but one day the man had the feeling that they needed a change. Following his impression, he left the business world and moved his family across the country to work a dairy farm in Upstate, New York. Perhaps the original intention was to teach his children about hard work, or living off the land. Maybe he wanted them to learn the lessons of life-- mortality, morbidity, birth, health and nutrition; some lessons which are best learned on a farm. Maybe life in California was becoming too fast-paced and he knew that his family could benefit from an unhurried lifestyle. Maybe he wanted to live in the so-called Cradle of the Restoration. Whatever the original intent, this family became the instrument for introducing many, many people to their unique religion.
My mom, now halfway through high school, dated one of their sons. The relationship was short-lived, but with an invitation from his older brother, she attended a Mormon service for the first time. There, the memory of all her searching and questions and spiritual impressions resurfaced as young children stood at the front of the congregation, singing and bearing testimony of things they knew as truth-- things my mom had yearned to know years before but had not been able to find. At last, she found what she had diligently searched for. It was as if water were finally quenching her dry ground and she was ready to jump in, but her parents were less sure. They asked that she wait to be baptized, but allowed her to continue her participation while she waited. She stood firm in her newfound faith and eventually passed it to her children.
As her child, I was taught the doctrines of Christianity with special Mormon overtones, learned to pray, loved scripture, felt spiritually alive. My mom took my brother and I to church meetings. She encouraged us to seek out our own faith so we could stand independently. So, at thirteen, I started my own search, privately, quietly, intently. I needed to believe for myself, in my own heart. In school, in my family, and even at church somewhat, I often felt alone in my beliefs. Standing alone was not something I was willing to continue without a pure and simple, strong and sweet witness of my own. I knew that having one would largely determine the course of my life and the way I would live it.
You see, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I am a Mormon. This fact defines me in a lot of ways. I have allowed it to shape my life, determine my course, mold my character. And I am pleased.
Many members of my church inherit their membership from a long line of ancestors-- pioneers who joined a new religion, left homes, nations, continents, friends, belongings, family members, crossed oceans, plains, mountains, rivers, endured the sun's scorching glare, the winter's harsh cold, overcame sickness, grieved death, repaired broken wagons and broken spirits-- all so they could perpetuate a faith, preserved for coming generations. I admire those pioneers, the ancestors belonging to others. I am grateful for their faith and sacrifices, because they didn't create a legacy for their descendants alone, but for every member of the Church in succeeding generations. I owe a great deal to them. All blessings I enjoy because of the Gospel, I have received at their hands and offering.
As for my own ancestors, I have only one Mormon pioneer in my lineage and she is my mother. She did not pull a handcart, but she did pave a path for me. My mom grew up in Upstate, New York, just as her parents, grand-parents, and great-grand-parents had-- very close to places significant to the establishment of the LDS church (often referred to as the "Cradle of the Restoration"). She was near this sacred ground, still never knew, was never aware of Mormons or restoration, visions or visitations. She hadn't heard of Joseph Smith, yet she was like him. Sober as a child, aware of things spiritual, aching for truth. She began a search for a religion that could support her spiritual yearnings. She attended meetings of different sects, questioned ministers, studied scriptures, doctrines, creeds, and by high school, gave up. The search was fruitless.
Thankfully, the story doesn't end there. A few years later, there was a man living on the other coast, in California. He was a successful businessman with a home, a wife, and a handful of children. They were a happy Mormon family with no need or desire for something different, but one day the man had the feeling that they needed a change. Following his impression, he left the business world and moved his family across the country to work a dairy farm in Upstate, New York. Perhaps the original intention was to teach his children about hard work, or living off the land. Maybe he wanted them to learn the lessons of life-- mortality, morbidity, birth, health and nutrition; some lessons which are best learned on a farm. Maybe life in California was becoming too fast-paced and he knew that his family could benefit from an unhurried lifestyle. Maybe he wanted to live in the so-called Cradle of the Restoration. Whatever the original intent, this family became the instrument for introducing many, many people to their unique religion.
My mom, now halfway through high school, dated one of their sons. The relationship was short-lived, but with an invitation from his older brother, she attended a Mormon service for the first time. There, the memory of all her searching and questions and spiritual impressions resurfaced as young children stood at the front of the congregation, singing and bearing testimony of things they knew as truth-- things my mom had yearned to know years before but had not been able to find. At last, she found what she had diligently searched for. It was as if water were finally quenching her dry ground and she was ready to jump in, but her parents were less sure. They asked that she wait to be baptized, but allowed her to continue her participation while she waited. She stood firm in her newfound faith and eventually passed it to her children.
As her child, I was taught the doctrines of Christianity with special Mormon overtones, learned to pray, loved scripture, felt spiritually alive. My mom took my brother and I to church meetings. She encouraged us to seek out our own faith so we could stand independently. So, at thirteen, I started my own search, privately, quietly, intently. I needed to believe for myself, in my own heart. In school, in my family, and even at church somewhat, I often felt alone in my beliefs. Standing alone was not something I was willing to continue without a pure and simple, strong and sweet witness of my own. I knew that having one would largely determine the course of my life and the way I would live it.
And so I searched, just as my mom had years before, but with more resources at my disposal. I embarked with a fundamental belief in God as a caring father who knew my deepest desires, heard my questioning heart, and would answer me liberally. I relied on this belief and the things my mom had taught me about spiritual promptings as I read and read and prayed and prayed for a period of time. I don't remember how long exactly. Maybe a month, maybe six, but during that time I had experiences that gave me hope and witnessed to my heart and my spirit. It was a sacred time of solitude. I came out of it an immovable believer, grateful for my pioneer mother and that California family of pioneers and every Mormon pioneer standing firmly behind me.
I'm grateful for your mom too.
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