This past Sunday was our one and only real Mormon holiday. We celebrate all the standard holidays Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving--any excuse to reflect, get the family together, and serve food. Pioneer Day is our own. July 24th, 1848 is the day that the Mormon Pioneers first entered the Salt Lake Valley. It's the day that we honor our spiritual, if not biological, forebears who made great sacrifices and demonstrated remarkable courage in the face of overwhelming odds.
There are many, many stories of courageous men, women and children who trekked west to escape persecution and enjoy religious freedom. None of these stories are mine. The closest we have is the ancestor of my ex-husband's step-uncle who started west, said Screw this! and stayed in Iowa. Not terribly inspirational--but that's a story for another post.
My mother was the first Mormon in our family's history. She is our Mormon Pioneer. Her decision to listen to missionaries in Oakland, California has impacted three generations, so far. As a direct result, my son served as a missionary in England and Wales. The ripples continue.
The fact that my mother was even born in the United States and could enjoy religious freedom is a direct result of my grandfather George Carpen emigrating from Romania in 1914--before the Communist regime.
Combine that with the courage of my great-grandmother, Hannah Mary Reynolds Goddard Moore. She was a midwife, mother of 9, and had lost her husband to pneumonia and her eldest son to the war. She took in the church laundry, sold everything to the bare walls and got on the first passenger liner to leave England after World War I.
Because of my family's pioneers, the great cosmic choreography made it possible for me to celebrate Pioneer Day with my little band of Mormon Pioneers.
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