Merry Christmas -Love, Joseph & Emma
by Kimberly Jo Smith

Silent Night
       Today we are blessed with so many gifts and various ways of celebrating the
holiday season that it is hard for us to imagine the hardships that many of
our pioneer ancestors must have endured during the Christmas season. I have
often wondered how my ancestors may have celebrated the holiday season,
specifically those who lived during the early and mid 1800's. My mind has
always fallen upon two people in general, my great great grandparents, Joseph
and Emma Smith. I recall one evening, while walking through a college campus
and enjoying the trees adorned with lights, how the old stone church bell
began to ring, bringing a sweet disturbance to the silent night. The floating
tones carried on the crisp late November air and for a moment I felt the
emotion of a faint memory that was not my own yet seemed familiar. My mind
was instantly taken by thoughts of Joseph and Emma and I breathed in deeply,
closing my eyes for a brief moment. As the tower bell continued to ring I saw
an image of them both with their children, riding in a horse drawn sleigh and
laughing. Joseph, well known for his love of family and hearty laugh while
engaging in fun, particularly stood out in my mind. The bell struck one final
time as I opened misty eyes and smiled at the precious moment Heavenly Father
had given me. It was special to me that the ringing of a bell triggered such
a happy event, for I have always loved the sound of bells. As I retired for
the evening. I thought about my ancestors and what their holidays may have
been like.
       The following day was a Saturday and I began to research to see whether there
was any information concerning the Smith family and how they celebrated the
holidays. Though personal and church histories, as well as letters, from
Joseph and other early Latter Day Saints afford little information about how
the Smith family celebrated Christmas, the most precious comes from the
journals of their children, specifically the recollection of joyful sleigh
rides in the snow. A cousin of mine had shared one of these stories with me.
       "Across the snow of many states [the bells] had jingled their sweet melody.
[Joseph Smith] had buckled them on to his restless horses, and with his wife
and children tucked warm in the sleigh had gone joyfully or with heavy heart
to the sound of those bells. 'We shook each one alone, from the tiniest one
with its lisping, high-toned tongue, to the deep voiced soft toned bass so
large and round near the center of the chimes. What a variety of cadence and
what quality of sound tones lay asleep in the old leathern belt! Together
they made a full-toned, rich-throated, harmonious music. Alone there was
sweetness and clearness, but 'twas heartbreaking, lonely, unfinished. Not one
of them would command attention and move hearts to tender loving, as had the
whole in one collective movement.' Old bells, you ring to us a lesson.
Together, all together, in harmonious accord if we would make perfect our
work, Each bell in its place, and each place necessary, all moved upon by one
great power to one great end"1.
       It is only a small glimpse of how the family interacted with one another
during the holiday season but in time I would come to realize that Joseph and
Emma would in their own way send Christmas cheer throughout their descendants,
and awaken a sleeping generation of his posterity to the fullness of the
gospel, through the simple, lulling sound of a bell.

Sleigh Bells Ring, Are You Listening?
       I love the sound of a bell. Be it a joyful hymn wafting from the bell tower of
a church, or combinations of ringing tones from a child's toy when it is
shaken. I have often likened the sound of a bell ringing throughout the
countryside to that of a Shepard's voice as he calls to his flock; his
calming, beckoning tone stirring their hearts and calling them to him. I
can't help but picture the environment that surrounded the birth of our
Savior Jesus Christ, imagining the sound ringing bells among the flocks in
the area. While engaging in such a precious curiosity I am taken back to a
time when I was expecting my first child, and a small round sleigh bell found
a special place in my heart; a bell whose brass and worn surface carried with
it an ancestral history which spoke of trial, joy, sacrifice and pure love.
Although I knew very little of this history when I found the bell, it would
play a small and unusually silent part in bringing me to the fullness of the
gospel, for it called to me before I knew its previous owner and caused me to
feel an internal connection to its history.
       When I was in my early twenties and married just three years, I happened upon
a large brass sleigh bell and marveled at the tone that it carried when I
shook it from side to side. I found the bell in a trunk amidst old pictures
that had been handed down through my father's family for several generations
and wondered what it had to do with the family.
It was 1985 and I was a mere twenty-three, oblivious to the importance of all
of the items in the trunk beyond family relation; however, I was drawn to
every image contained within and since they had been poorly cared for over
the years I felt compelled to become their keeper and wonder at the mystery
that lay behind their lives and their connection to the brass sleigh bell.
This was my family history in a box, and each face held a story behind weary
eyes. I was a young expectant mother who desired to know her family history,
yet no one could tell me very much beyond a few names and their connection to
me. It was nearly Christmas and I promised myself the gift of finding out more
about my ancestors and why their images spoke to me so. This spark of interest
was actually a renewal of a desire inspired by an incident that had happened
eleven years before, when my eyes first fell upon the portraits of my great
great grandparents, Joseph and Emma Smith.

That Glorious Song of Old
       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 tohim as an ancestor one time when I was ten but he did not offer
further information about him. The only Joseph Smith I knew of was my father
and beyond that there was no knowledge given to me 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.
       On this particular visit to Grandma's I fell into one of my reflecting moods.
I was often given to quiet observance and deep thought. One day I walked into
the living room of the cabin which led 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 no one 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, like
a song of old. The gentle, fair skinned face housed eyes that seemed to hold
stories in their backdrop hues of gray and piercing blue, knowledge in a face
so fair; a history which spoke volumes that reached out and embraced 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 such as books,
portraits, old homes, and antiques. I found at a young age that I had been
blessed with a gift of adapting feelings and emotions of a time that once
was, through artifacts of those who had owned them. But this time it was
different, 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."

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
the silent stars go by
       My grandmother had explained to me who the people in the portraits were, but
beyond learning their identities I was left wanting and unsatisfied. I
learned very quickly that here was a harsh barrier within my father's family
when it came to the subject of Joseph Smith. Before our visit to Missouri, my
knowledge of Mormonism was limited to information that I had read about the
Osmond family. 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 was unknown to me until many
years later. A seed had been planted in my heart to learn more about the
Osmonds 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.
       While we were visiting Grandma Smith in 1974, I also saw, for the first time,
a large wooden trunk containing many family pictures; my grandparents, their
children, and a vast company of faces that I did not recognize but longed to
know. From the time that she had mentioned Joseph's name, I desired to know
who he was, and why there was a mixture of silence and contention whenever
his name was mentioned. But I remained silent for years, intimidated by the
bitterness I had encountered. The old trunk was filled with other items as
well but I was not allowed to go through them at the time, and the contents
would remain closed to me for another eleven years.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel
and ransom captive Israel
       The Church of Christ, Temple Lot, also known as the Hedrickites, is a movement
that was established in 1860. These followers viewed Joseph as a fallen
prophet after 1832, believing that "the true spirit of revelation from God
diminished and was supplanted by human imagination leading to doctrinal
deviation"2.
       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 membership 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. 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.
       My grandfather, Arthur, was born in 1880 to Joseph and Emma's son Alexander
and his wife Elizabeth. 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 which remained and eventually
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 playground 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"3.
       Throughtout his traumatizing emotional childhood experience 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 abouthis 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.

Angels We Have Heard On High
       I believe there is always a silent chorus coming from the heavens, continually
guiding us in subtle tones on a journey toward the right path. Sometimes it
takes generations, but the song eventually finds completion.
When Arthur Smith was in his early twenties he began to question the positions
of High Priest and First Presidency within the Reorganized Church. Due to
these views, and the many changes that began to develop within the
Reorganized Church after Joseph Smith III's death, Arthur transferred his
membership to the Church of Christ Temple Lot on July 1, 1916. Because of
bitterness and ill feelings there has been a generational pattern of disdain
toward the LDS church within 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 they were 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 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.
       When she was older my Grandma Smith moved into the Ava city limits and we
relocated to Ava, Missouri and lived in her log cabin. It was during the
years following that I would periodically attend the Temple Lot church. 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, who 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.
       By the time I was a young adult and married I had completely abandoned any
efforts to learn more about Joseph. 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, so 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, and a
curious sleigh bell had found its way to my heart, beginning to open the
doors to change. The old pictures and the bell prompted me to start my family
history research.

Oh Come All Ye Faithful
       By the time that I was 30 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. Seeing the pictures and the bell accelerated my
interests. 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,
Missouri, 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 missionaries were always respectful of my wishes and never tried to push
their beliefs on me. During this same time period the Osmonds established
themselves in Branson, Missouri, 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 point 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, in the
Spring of 1997, 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. During this time we sold the business that
had been in my husband's family for thirty years and he went to work for his
father. Somehow, during all of the moving after the sale my sleigh bell was
misplaced and I lamented at such a loss because it had become attached to my
heart in a great manner. I silently hoped that one day it would turn up
somewhere.
       My investigation into the Mormon Church continued. Fearing the backlash from
relatives in my hometown, Merrill allowed my children and I to come to his
house and take the discussions with the sister missionaries. I will never
forget the kindness of Sister's 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 I was driving to Branson for the discussions it felt as if I
was breathing fresh air for the first time. By the third discussion I
received a confirmation that I should join the church. 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 placefear 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.
Merrill baptized me into the church on 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, stepping into the light.
One such cousin is Gracia Jones and her dear husband Ivor. Gracia's
grandmother, Coral, was a sister to my grandfather Arthur Smith. I met Gracia
at a Joseph Smith Sr., reunion in Nauvoo in 1999, and it was during this
meeting that I discovered why I had been drawn to the little brass sleigh
bell so many years before. Gracia had brought with her several artifacts that
had been handed down through the family, and I was amazed as I handled them,
feeling the deep connection. One of the items, however, caught my full
attention. It was a brass sleigh bell.
       "I have a bell that looks very similar to this one," I said to her. "Really?"
she replied. "Joseph and Emma handed their sleigh bells down to their
children," and I began to listen, enthralled as she began to relay to me the
story of the Smith family and their joyful sleigh rides. I was heartbroken
when I found out where the bell had come from because it had been misplaced
and my desire to have it back greatly increased. But as these recollections
near to a close, an incident has reminded me that all things happen for a
purpose.

Joyful and Triumphant
       In June of 2005 my husband's grandmother had passed away and I was helping to
do some things in her home when it happened that I needed a needle. Knowing
that she had always kept her pincushion in the first drawer, I went to her
sewing cabinet but for some reason grabbed the second drawer by mistake. As I
shook my head at myself my eyes spotted something tucked away in the corner
that looked out of place. Upon opening the drawer further my mouth fell open
in amazement. There amidst all of the scrap pieces of lace lay my sleigh bell
and I picked it up yelling in immeasurable glee. It was Christmas in June and
I had the sweetest gift. What was lost was now found and it fell into my mind
that I had felt such a joy, even more, when I had joined the church. What had
been lost for generations had been found and I was so grateful to have opened
my heart and mind to the truth. For some hours after the great discovery of my
sleigh bell I marveled at how it came to be at my grandmother in law's house,
but a faint memory came to me that she had taken a box of things from our
business to keep for me, as I had no room at my house. It was the only
possible explanation, how it got from the box to her sewing cabinet is beyond
me but it was there for me to find at the appropriate time for all of her
belongings were to be auctioned off the next week!
       Having the bell close to me again is a dear reminder of Joseph and Emma and
their love for family. The knowledge Joseph restored to us concerning the
uniting of families for eternity is so precious and upon thinking of such
spiritual treasure my mind is called up to remembrance of a night of joy and
a bright star, when the birth of our Savior was the beginning of so many long
awaited promises. Promises of hope, life, peace, truth, and salvation.
       Just recently I reached the seven-year mark of my baptism. My son will soon be
going on a mission and my fifteen-year-old daughter is a member of the church
as well. As I have learned more about Joseph I have come to realize that the
familiarity of his spirit reaches far into my childhood and I see his
influence, and that of Emma's in my own children. I count myself blessed
beyond imagining throughout every year, but the Christmas season brings a
vast awareness of what I have found, and it all comes flooding to my heart
with great emotion whenever I hear sleigh bells ring.

1 Source: Vida E. Smith, Autumn Leaves Vol. 33, #1, January 1930, Herald
House,
Independence, Missouri.
2. http://www.churchofchrist-tl.org/history.html
3. Arthur Smith Journals, used by permission of Joseph Frederick Smith