Editor’s note:  Be sure to see the accompanying story that shows pictures of Kim’s son, who is Joseph’s great-great-great-grandson, and who is dressed as the Prophet Joseph would have dressed.  You may be able to see a family resemblance.

What do you give a prophet who had everything that mattered before his death? A united family.

It has been 161 years since the martyrdom of Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum. For some of Joseph’s posterity the journey of those years have been a hard climb over a bitter wall; for some it has been the opening of a door that they did not know existed until drawn to it, and for many who remain behind that wall it is a path that lies before them, but they are bound by issues from the past, unable to move forward.

On October 27, 2005 my son, Bryan Davis, became the first descendant of Joseph and Emma to receive the endowment at the Nauvoo Temple. Earlier that same day, he performed his first baptism on my sister, Candy Smith. My heart burst forth from unknown depths and brought a memory of tears that belonged to many.

I could not help but hold a vision of Joseph in my mind — how this wonderful, gentle, and beautiful soul said a sorrowful goodbye to his wife, asking her to see that the children follow in his footsteps. The fact that he said this three times conveys the thought that he must have known what the family was about to endure, that there would be traumatic times ahead that would threaten the unity of his posterity.

I pictured him riding past the unfinished Nauvoo Temple with thoughts of his family weighing heavy on his heart. Going through the Nauvoo Temple with my son, along with cousins and friends, I could not help but express with silent endearing emotion, “Here we are, Grandfather Joseph. It has been many years, but the Nauvoo Temple is complete, and your family is coming home.”

I am member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. It seems an easy thing to say; simple, and precious, yet up until seven years ago the LDS Church was something to be feared by me, and a place that I would never dare to call my church home. I have one son; Bryan, age 19, who is in the MTC at Provo, Utah, preparing for his mission to Vancouver, Canada. I also have daughter, Leah who is 16, and has been in the Church for five years.

Both children have had the joy of learning of their ancestry without any prejudices, contention, or bitterness to cause them fear or worry. They only know those feelings to be my experience and the experience of those who came before me. It has also been the experience of many cousins who descend through Joseph’s other children.

As a great-great-granddaughter of Joseph Smith, I knew very little concerning his life or church history before my baptism in 1998. I only knew that as I grew from my youth to adulthood I felt very drawn to this man who was my ancestor and there was a familiarity when my thoughts drifted to him that I would not understand until many years later.

Wonder Years

Everyone has that stage in their lives when they wonder, “Who am I and why am I here? What is the purpose of life, and what does it have to do with me?” I jokingly refer to that time as an ailment, for I was severely ill for years.

I was born Kimberly Jo Smith on August 7, 1962, in Maryville, Tennessee. Until the age of twelve I had no idea who Joseph Smith was. My father had made reference to him as an ancestor one time when I was ten, but he did not offer further information about him. To me Joseph Smith was my father’s name.  Beyond that there was no knowledge that tied this name to history in any significant manner until 1974, when we traveled from Georgia to Ava, Missouri to visit my Grandma Minnie Smith.

At the time, Grandma was the widow of Arthur Marion Smith, who was a grandson of Joseph and Emma, through their son Alexander Hale Smith. Grandpa Smith had passed away in 1965, when I was just three years old.  I can barely recall the memory of him.

Before our visit to Missouri, my knowledge of Mormonism was limited to information that I had read about the Osmond family. Like most girls my age in the seventies I was a huge fan and bought all of the teen magazines to learn all that I could about them — though the content offered very little about their beliefs as far as church history. I only knew that my father did not care very much for them because their hair was too long and they were Utah Mormons. I sensed from how he said “Utah Mormons,” that it was not a good thing, but a door was opened for me during that time in my life — a door that I didn’t recognize until many years later. A seed had been planted in my heart to learn more about this family and why my father saw their church as a threat, and the visit to Missouri in 1974 would introduce to me the many briars and thistles that would have to be cleared away before I could ever walk through that door.

Looking Through the Eyes of the Past

When we went to Grandma Smith’s I was barely 12 years old.  I remember thinking how neat it was that my grandmother lived on a hill in a log cabin. There were irises of various colors lining the yard as if to form a floral border that had been laid out by design.

I was very fond of my grandmother, because she was so good to me. I had always wondered why some of my cousins did not like me very well when I was young and I found out later that when I was just a toddler Grandma would take toys from the others and give them to me. She would also let me sit on the cabinet and drink hot chocolate, which she did not allow them to do. Being at such a young age I wasn’t aware of anything being wrong; I just knew that Grandma loved me a lot!

Eventually, of course, we all grew up and moved into a more mature state of existence.  We get along fine today, despite my favored status as a child. 

On this particular visit to Grandma Smith’s I fell into one of my reflecting moods. I was often given to quiet observance and deep thought. One day I walked through the living room of the cabin into a small sitting room, where I sat down. As I rested my head against the cushioned back of the couch, my eyes fell on two portraits that hung side by side on the wall before me.

It is hard to describe the feeling I had at that moment except to say that for a brief period it seemed as if time stood still; my hearing was not picking up any audible sounds around me, and I felt as if there was nothing else on earth except me and those two portraits.

My attention was first drawn to the man in the portrait that hung on the left.  The familiarity was deep and instant. The gentle, fair-skinned face housed eyes that seemed to hold stories in their backdrop hues of gray and piercing blue.  That face reflected a history that spoke volumes, reaching out and embracing me in unknown depths. Even at such a young age I could feel the extreme emotions that must have coursed through this man’s life. It was something I had felt many times when coming into contact with history on any scale — books, portraits, old homes, and antiques.

I found at a young age that I had been blessed with a gift of discerning feelings and emotions of a time that once was. This particular experience was different, though.  It struck a chord that had never been touched before, and I was keenly aware that the emotions I was feeling had something to do with me on a personal level.

I began to feel a longing to get close to this man.  I was very drawn to know who he was, when he had lived and why his portrait was in Grandma’s house. What did it have to do with me? For I felt the beginnings of sadness mixed with joy, and a feeling I can only describe as gut-wrenching as I looked upon a gentle but unsettling smile.

As tears began to stream down my face, I looked to the portrait beside the man and searched the face of a lovely woman with dark hair, whose eyes were large and rounded, their color a beautiful dark brown. Here too began the feelings of admiration and sadness, so much so that I could not bear to look very much longer before I got up and ran to find my Grandmother. Upon asking who the people in the portraits were, my grandmother responded, “Those are your great-great grandparents, Joseph and Emma Smith. Joseph is the one who established the Church.”

Opening Church Doors

Throughout our lives, my brother, sister, and I have always received most of our spiritual direction from our mother, Sue. Mom was raised in a family who embraced good morals, a sincere love of God, and a rich heritage of family love and patriotism that can be traced for generations throughout Tennessee and the Carolinas. I have never known a spirit more precious than that of my mother. It is by her example that I have learned the grace and love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, and as a child that is all I was aware of concerning spiritual matters. I knew of Noah’s Ark, the story of Moses, and Joseph of Egypt, but I had no knowledge of church divisions and contention.

When Grandma Smith made reference to “the Church” that day in front of the portraits, her words fell on ignorant ears — for I had no idea what she meant. My life up to that point had included a collage of different churches, none of which made any great impression upon me because we were never in one place long enough to consistently attend meetings or there wasn’t any motivation on my father’s part to attend any church so we didn’t go at all. As far as I was concerned, Grandma could have been talking about any number of churches I had been exposed to.

I would learn in time that the church grandma had referred to was the Church of Christ Temple Lot, also known as the Hedrickites, a movement that originated from several branches of break-off groups from the original church during Joseph’s lifetime. These followers had come to believe that Joseph had become a fallen prophet after 1832. Granville Hedrick, their Prophet, felt that during the years following 1832, “The true spirit of revelation from God diminished and was supplanted by human imagination leading to doctrinal deviation” (1)

According to Temple Lot church history Granville Hedrick received a revelation in 1864 to return to Independence and commence gathering the Saints once again. By 1877, the small group of approximately 60 members bought properties in Independence, including the lot where Joseph had designated the temple to be built.

While Temple Lot history was being made between the years of 1860 and 1877, Joseph and Emma’s oldest son, Joseph, had taken his place as president of the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Joseph’s younger brother, Alexander, is my great-grandfather. He was born 1838 in Far West, and died 1909 in his beloved Mansion House in Nauvoo, Illinois. He was a missionary, apostle and the first presiding patriarch in the Reorganized Church.

Alexander was described as being the son who looked most like his father — tall, with clear blue eyes and a gentle nature. He was loved by all who knew him. My grandfather, Arthur, was born in 1880 to Alexander and his wife Elizabeth Kendall.

Through Arthur Smith’s writings it is clear that their home was a very loving one, but there are hints of bitter feelings toward the church in Utah.

At the tender age of six, Arthur would experience his first brush with the residue of prejudice that remained and crossed over into the second and third generations of Saints and anti-Mormons alike — some of whom could still recall the events before and after the martyrdom. Alexander had moved his family to Independence and Arthur had started to attend school there:

I was six years old, and was thrilled with this new adventure, but on the playgrounds a lad a bit larger than I, called me a Mormon.  Now I may have heard of this name before, but I had not registered it with anything of a disgraceful nature.  Yet I recognized in the manner in which the word was spoken, that it carried with it an intent to insult.

When he repeated it a second time, I resented it with all of my might. What the outcome would have been, I do not know, for there were older ones who stopped us. But I do know that I went home with a bloody nose and a wounded heart. It was then that I learned the story of the Book of Mormon, the stigma of shame that had been placed upon it and the task that had fallen on the children of Joseph Smith to free his name from the stain of polygamy. From that day on I have always resented being called a Mormon. (2)

Through this traumatizing emotional childhood experience, and others that followed throughout his life, my grandfather would pass the torch of bitterness to his children. It is not my opinion that he purposely fed a fire of hatred toward a people and their beliefs.  Arthur was a good and loving man who felt strongly about his own beliefs, but he sincerely felt that the family name and the work that Joseph accomplished had become tainted by what he considered incorrect doctrine.

A Change in Heart

When Arthur Smith was in his early twenties he began to question the position of high priest and a First Presidency within the Reorganized Church. He could not find — to his satisfaction — biblical evidence to support such an office in the latter-day church. Such evidence was contained in Doctrine and Covenants, but since the Temple Lot considered Joseph to be a fallen prophet after 1832, some of those revelations were not held up as scripture.

After the death of Arthur’s uncle, Joseph Smith III, his cousin, Frederick M. Smith became president of the Reorganized Church. Under Frederick, many changes began to take place that paved the way for a Supreme Directional Control government of the church. Arthur was very displeased with all of these changes and on July 1, 1916 he left the Reorganized Church, transferring his membership to The Church of Christ Temple Lot. By the time Arthur joined the Temple Lot Church, the organization had abandoned the office of Prophet and operated as a council of twelve apostles.

Because of bitterness and ill feelings there has been a generational pattern of disdain toward the LDS Church from many Smith descendants. Except for the explanation by his father of why he was treated cruelly on the playground when he was six, Grandpa was 15 years old before he knew anything beyond the basic restoration story that many children are told. My father, who was born January 3, 1935, heard little during his childhood about Joseph Smith beyond the account of the First Vision.

As children, my father’s generation was admonished to refrain from speaking Joseph’s name. From all that I have learned, this rule was put into place for several reasons — fear of persecution, the stigma of shame that came as a result of the mistakes they felt Joseph had made, and to avoid giving people the impression that they worshipped Joseph Smith.

As my father grew, he gained knowledge about the Book of Mormon and basic information of the formation of the Church. It has only been in the past twenty years that he has studied continually and in depth concerning church history.

I myself only recall one brief mention of Joseph Smith’s name two years before the visit to Grandma Smith’s cabin, but it was not in such a manner that caused him to remain fixed in my mind beyond that moment.

In the summer of 1974, Grandma moved into the Ava city limits.  At that time we made a permanent move to Ava, Missouri, to live in Grandma’s cabin. It was during the years following that I would periodically attend the Temple Lot church.

I remember feeling very torn because the membership of our church was made up primarily of family.  Often I would hear discussions about church history and doctrine. Many times these discussions would erupt into contention. Here was the nucleus that formed my opinion of the LDS Church.

Like my grandfather, I associated the Mormon Church with something of a dark nature — specifically Brigham Young, whom I envisioned as a very evil man. I should be quick to say that no one in any manner sat me down and taught me against the Mormon Church, but the contentious conversations that I gave ear to as a young teen imprinted in my mind that the Utah Mormons had severely corrupted what Joseph Smith had established and only through the Temple Lot could I be assured of the true gospel. I had no idea what exactly Joseph had established or what it consisted of. I only felt that this man, Brigham Young, dealt falsely with it and by doing so placed a bad image on our family history.

Though I remained ignorant of its teachings, I was baptized into the Church of Christ Temple Lot when I was sixteen. For me the basis of the baptism was that I accepted Jesus as my Savior. In my mind there was no other church to consider because according to my father and his family any other denomination was wrong.

Where all memberships to a church should stem from a sure testimony of the restored gospel, mine came as a result of the perceptions of others. I did not know what the restored gospel was; I only knew from others that Joseph Smith had established the church, translated the Book of Mormon, and the purest form of what he had established existed in the Temple Lot. I had never read the Book of Mormon and knew very little about it, but as ignorant as I was at the time concerning all of the history that surrounded it, something in my heart and mind testified it to be a true book.

Most Important Lesson

I can look back now on this time in my life and examine the most important lesson that man can learn when searching for the truth:  It is vital to search with one’s own eyes, mind, and heart. I liken the perceptions of others to fast food, it contains what other people think will suffice to get you through the day. It is possible to live on fast food, but due to the lack of nutrients and the abundance of additives the body is robbed of its full potential, it becomes dull and listless, shutting down years before it normally would. When one searches for the truth with a sincere desire and a prayerful mind and heart, all the right nutrients are there and the additives are thrown out.

After my baptism, there was very little in the way of learning about the gospel available for me. I fault myself as well as others for the lack of information I could have gathered concerning church history and the Book of Mormon. I did not exactly present my desire to know more to my father or the family, and the opportunity was not offered. I was too intimidated by the contentious discussions I had heard in the past to ask any questions, so I withdrew and wondered to myself.

Sunday meetings were only held once a month in our area.  After a few years, even these were discontinued for a time because of my father’s absence due to working out of state. By the time I was a young adult and married, I had completely abandoned any efforts to learn more. The desire to learn was still there, as well as an undeniable longing to research the LDS side of the story, but a wall of bitterness toward the Mormon Church stood in my way and convinced me that I could not go there.  I pushed the idea to research Brigham Young and the LDS Church aside. There was a seed, however, that had been planted years before and rested deep within me, waiting for the weather to clear.

Clearing Pathways

When I was 32 years old, three things happened. I had been doing genealogy for years because I was so interested in who I was and where my people came from. Being a lover of the history of man and his adventures, I wanted to see where my ancestors had walked and what part they played in the making of our nation. But my research had come to a point to where it was necessary to investigate my ancestry through the LDS Church library — a very intimidating prospect for me. The nearest library that I knew of was in Springfield, over an hour away and I began to make frequent visits. I became curious about the warmth of the building and the people. There was a spirit there that was undeniably good, sincere, and uplifting.

At the same time I was doing my ancestral research, the missionaries began to stop by my house. I could not reason why they began coming by because I did not give any personal contact information to the people at the library.

The routine was almost always the same.  They would knock on my door, ask if they could share a message with me, and then I would say something to the effect that they could not talk about their church. So we talked about my church and a little about the history that I had learned to that point. They were very interested because many of them had never heard about the Hedrickite church.

I always felt good when they were there.  The atmosphere was lighter and I truly felt a spirit that I had never felt before, except at the church library. After several visits I came to realize that I actually enjoyed their visits because of the goodness they brought with them. The missionaries were always respectful of my wishes and never tried to push their beliefs on me.

Also at this time, the Osmonds established themselves in Branson — a sixty-minute drive from my home. Imagine my surprise:  The group that had been my favorite as a young teen was giving daily performances just an hour away. I made it a goal to go and see their show, but for some reason I never made a move toward buying tickets.

We traveled to Branson all of the time on our way to Silver Dollar City, a family amusement park and pioneer village based on an 1880’s theme. The route that we took to the park enabled me to view the Osmond Family Theater, and each time we drove by I would gaze at it, feeling pulled to go but never moving on it.

I sometimes feel that Heavenly Father gets tired of my lack of initiative when it comes time to move and sometimes he gives me a nudge. One day, unbeknownst to me, my husband bid on some tickets to the show through our local radio station, and he won them. Even having tickets in hand we waited until the very last show of the season to attend. It would be a night that changed my life. Acting upon feelings that I had during intermission, my children and I waited until after the show and met Merrill Osmond. From that friendship I found the courage to ask about the Church and to learn more on my own, through my own perception, about the history that surrounded the restored gospel.

Fearing the backlash from relatives in my hometown, Merrill allowed my children and me to come to his house and take the discussions with the sister missionaries. I will never forget the kindness of Sisters Swift and Schultz, as well as Merrill, his family and his brothers. I especially value the wonderful friendship that formed between my family and George and Olive Osmond.

During the weeks that I was driving to Branson for the discussions, I felt as if I were breathing fresh air for the first time. By the third discussion I received a confirmation that I should join the Church. But it wasn’t that easy.  By the time I reached home that evening, all of the joy that I had felt was shattered by the issues I had grown up with. The adversary waged war with my spirit, but the confirmation I had received concerning baptism carried more weight in purity and truth than the evil that was trying to push me off of the path. I pushed the clouds of the past aside and walked forward into baptism.

About a year later, when I understood more fully the trials Joseph had suffered, I read once again his account of the First Vision and how the adversary had tried to place fear and darkness in Joseph’s path directly before the Father and Son appeared. It reminded me of the clouded confusion and darkness that tried to invade my mind and persuade me not to be baptized.

I was baptized into the Church by Merrill June 7, 1998. Since that day I have learned more about the history of the Church, traveling to Nauvoo, Palmyra, and Salt Lake City on several occasions and meeting other cousins who have torn down the wall of bitterness within themselves and stepped into the light. As I have learned more about Joseph I have come to realize that the familiarity of his spirit reaches far into my childhood.  I see his influence, and that of Emma, in my own children, who are also members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It has been a very special time of growing and nurturing that has led to learning, writing and even photography when expressing my love and devotion to church and family.

Standard-bearers

I was approached by someone shortly after my baptism and hailed as the one who would make the difference in the Smith family concerning the LDS Church. Such a statement, though spoken with a sincere heart, can carry both truth and danger — truth in that I am a descendant who can make a difference in the family (but I am not the only one), and danger being in the form of arrogance and pride.

Being a descendant of Joseph and Emma Smith does carry a certain preciousness to me, but I am well aware that my ancestry doesn’t exalt me higher than any other person. I have always taught my children that we are no more special than anyone else that we greet on a daily basis and as such should never esteem to raise ourselves beyond who we really are in the eyes of our Father in heaven. In truth, I am one of many — including descendants, missionaries, and friends — who are working toward the healing of the Smith family. I likewise would love to have the same role in helping to unite other families, we are all standard-bearers and as such are responsible for one another.

The story of the Smith family is one that has taken years for me to research and I am still learning. As I endeavor to finish college and continue to research the family, I am ever mindful of the journey that brought me to where I am today. One of the best witnesses to testify that I have been walking the right path can be seen in the images that I have captured through the lens of my camera — to see the past housed within the present, brought forth in vivid imagery through my children. (Editor’s note:  See the author’s photographs today in Meridian.)

My children and I often travel to Nauvoo and Salt Lake City as we continue to venture into the history of our family.  We find new and precious friends along the way, some of whom I know have been guided to us. I have never felt so complete, yet I know there is more.

I am ever thankful for the true gospel, for the sacrifices that my great-great grandparents Joseph and Emma made (as well as the sacrifices of countless others), so that we could have those truths today. As I continue to help in the effort to soften the hearts of my family and break down the generational wall, it is my prayer that all families might do the same so that united hearts might embrace the fullness of the gospel.

A Reunion of Hope

In the summer of 2005, while the many festivities celebrating the 200^th anniversary of Joseph’s birth were ongoing by Latter-day Saints all over the world, a series of two family reunions for descendants of Joseph and Emma Smith were held in Utah, and Australia. It was the first every of its kind because there were many cousins there who belonged to other churches and believed differently. In the past many of these relatives had felt insecure about such a reunion due to the issues that had been passed down for generations, but because of the efforts of such gracious and wonderful people, all who had been invited to the reunion were assured that it was a reunion about family — not doctrine. The response was overwhelming and many gathered, establishing new friendships and hope. If it had not been for the efforts of cousins like Michael and Darcy Kennedy, President of the Joseph Smith, Jr. Organization; Gracia and Ivor Jones, both members of the Smith Organization Committee; and the many other family and friends who helped, such a landmark occasion could not have taken place successfully.

For my part, I am ever mindful of the journey that brought me here, and I share that story at firesides throughout the United States. I have been visiting some of the cousins where I live, trying to establish better friendships — with the hope that there will eventually be a softening of hearts. Many of these cousins still do not know the history behind their ancestral connection to Joseph and Emma; they only have glimpses here and there. I would love to remove the damaging image they have of Joseph as a fallen prophet, and I have made that my personal mission for however long it takes.

The key is love, the pure love Christ. It is one the most basic and precious things our Savior taught us. If we have that love at the forefront, all else will fall into place in its time.

Notes

1. http://www.churchofchrist-tl.org/history.html

2. Arthur Smith journals, used with permission of Joseph Frederick Smith