A Purposeful Pilgrimage

I’ve heard of pilgrimages before: travel to an historic place to pay homage to one’s beginnings.  There are pilgrimages to the Holy Land, pilgrimages to Mecca, pilgrimages to a cemetery to see the gravesite of a loved one. Anyone who believes deeply in something has an innate desire to visit his foundations—the place where his beliefs and character and very purpose for being were established.

This summer our family took a patriotic pioneer pilgrimage. And our travels convinced me that pilgrimages are a vital and heart-changing piece of life.

Our first stop was near Kansas City, Missouri. We toured the Liberty Jail where Joseph Smith was held captive during the long, cold winter of 1839. The jail is small and crude, but the crowd that came to view the underground cell was large—a kaleidoscope of families from around the country. We sat together in silence while the narration told of damp, cold, moldy food and God-fearing saints. The experience made us better.

From the jail we drove to the Far West Temple site—a small plot of land lost in miles of Missouri cornfields. We drove and drove and wondered if we were on the right road until suddenly there was a parking lot and we were there. And, surprisingly, although we were in the middle of nowhere, we were not alone. Other families arrived in huge vans like ours and walked quietly around the temple stone perimeter. We had come because we believed it was a holy place, and it was obvious that they did, too. Despite the heavy humidity and heat the crowds never waned, coming and going in those quiet fields. We were Latter-day Saints making a pilgrimage.

Church History sites weren’t our only attractions. Early the following morning we arrived at Abe Lincoln’s Tomb. It, too, looked lonely at first until we pulled open the heavy door and walked into the cool darkness. Crowds of people were inside, filing silently through the halls and past his headstone. We all felt we were in a holy place, an American temple.

Abe Lincoln’s hometown pilgrimage took us to the room in the Illinois state capitol building where he first worked as a state legislator—the same room where he lay in state years later, in April of 1865, when 70,000 people filed silently past his casket to pay their respects as an original George Washington portrait looked on. The Old Capitol wasn’t empty when we toured it. Visitors continually came in and out. Sure, we were there in the summertime, when the world is on vacation, so visitors were expected. But the numbers were still impressive, 151 years later.

From Springfield we drove east, through rolling fields of corn, soybeans, potatoes, wheat, and crops that stretched forever. America is truly a beautiful nation, where the air is full of sunshine, as poet Henry VanDyke described it. During our 5000 mile drive we saw almost every corner of this blessed land of room enough.

We stopped in Ohio to see the first Mormon temple. Kirtland. It was filled with touring Latter-day Saints, passionate about their beginnings who wanted to view the place where the Savior and other prophets appeared, ushering in this final dispensation. The temple was old, with obvious cracks running through the plaster, but it was still holy to us. We walked and whispered through the rooms.

Driving further east we saw the Sacred Grove and pioneer houses where faith was forged around home-hewn tables and wood fireplaces. Where children slept seven or eight or nine to a room, with no air conditioning and days filled with farm work. Where industrious good people made an honest living in the infant days of our nation and religion. It was inspiring.

Our patriotic pilgrimage to the foundations of our country was just as incredible. Nothing can describe the thrill that entered this western girl’s heart when the Manhattan skyline came into view. Lady Liberty, her torch held high, was a life-altering sight. She shadowed Ellis Island, where the halls—now empty except for tourists—whispered of hope and prayers. A place I had learned about in my high school history classes. These monuments had just been photos but now they were tangible to me. 

We walked the sacred ground where thousands died, not so long ago, on a day I well remember. “These people were real,” the etched names and flowing water called to us.

Leaving the Big Apple we drove south, to halls where documents were signed that changed the course of history, where suns that promised independence rose for the entire world. Where bells rang the toll of liberty to cobblestoned streets and hopeful hearts.

Our nation’s capitol city was the most stirring. Did you know it was burned and almost destroyed during the War of 1812? Did you know the Capitol building contains a crypt for George Washington’s body? Did you know the Japanese had to send their gift of Cherry Trees twice due to an insect infestation? I’m sure I couldn’t learn—and remember—these facts anywhere but in Washington, D.C.

Gazing at the Star Spangled Banner (I mean THE Star Spangled Banner) was an experience I will never forget. Oh, Say Can You See? Yes. I saw the tattered banner. I saw the actual cloth that inspired an anthem. That same flag stirred me.

What draws people to quiet stones in cornfields? To crumbling temples? To woods with only trees? To cities and halls and statues miles and miles from home? To pieces of cloth and stone monuments? Why do we travel the long days and nights to show our children? To share stories? To read and learn more ourselves?

Pilgrimages? Yes. Which, in my opinion, every Latter-day Saint and every American should take. At least once in our lives we should pay homage to the events and locations that built our faith and our nation. Feeling the spirit of those holy spaces is a life-altering experience.

Those places are real. Those people were real. Those events shaped and molded us into what we are today.

The beauty of the Present is to make the Future free. I agree, Mr. Van Dyke. A pilgrimage will pay off in dividends to future generations and will likely determine the love we feel for our Land, and What She is to be.