I believe I started joining this Church,
the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was four years old even
though I had never heard its name.
Our family
lived in a rather humble existence on a small farm that boasted a three-room
house. We called this home. Daddy worked at a dairy and we kids sold
blackberries from door to door. The world was in the depths of the depression
and almost every nickel earned went toward survival.
My mother had
strong religious ties to a local church and she wanted her children to have the
same beliefs that she had. Every Sunday
morning she would line us up, inspect our neatly patched clothes, scrub a few
ears, place a nickel or dime in each of our hands and lead us the mile and half
to the church. There we were separated
and sent off to various classes designed to “build our character in the grim
shadow of an angry and vengeful god.” I
was always frightened on Sunday—especially when it came time to give that
nickel or dime up to this church. Not
that I minded giving up the money although I have always felt that it would
have been better used to buy a candy bar or a sucker. It was how it was received that frightened
me. And I knew it was coming. It was the same every Sunday. It played over and over in my mind during the
week like some never-ending nightmare. I
knew it would happen again the next Sunday.
It had happened every Sunday for as long as I could remember. The minister would walk into the classroom
and gather up the envelopes that had our donations in them. We were required to put our name and the
amount of the donation on the front of the envelope. When I resisted—and I often did—the teacher
would fill out the envelope for me. The
minister would stand like a giant in front of the class and go through each
envelope one by one. Reading off to the
class who the donation was from and how much it was. And I would cringe in fear, humiliation and
embarrassment. I knew what was going to happen.
"Ah, Billy Jones, five dollars.
You really love the Lord, don’t you Billy?” He would read from another envelope. “But Betty White, seven dollars! You love the Lord even more than
Billy. Isn’t that
right?” Billy’ eyes would turn toward
the floor in shame, and Betty would exclaim, “I do, I do!” My turn was coming, and I would slip down in
my seat trying to hide from the world.
“And Emmett Smith, five cents.
You don’t love the Lord much at all, do you Emmett Smith? Stand Emmett so that God’s children can see
someone who does not love the Lord.”
I was humiliated down to
the to my feet which seemed so seemed to be glued to the floor. Is this really the way God would want me to
feel when I was doing the best that I could?
I felt heavy and useless. I felt
flat and without substance. I left that
building that day and never went back. I
knew that my mother would never tolerate attitude about this religion that she
belonged to, so each Sunday, I would get ready for Church, walk the mile and
half to the building and circle the elementary school play grounds jogging as
many times as it took to take up the meeting hours and then I would return
home. My mom worked almost every day-all
day and into the night-so she never questioned why I came home looking like and
I suppose smelling like I had just run a marathon. I guess this didn’t do much
for my spiritual growth, but I have often thought that it helped me become a
distance runner. I realized, even at
that young, age that I was just running in circles and not really going
anywhere. And I knew that there had to
be a happy direction for me if I could just find the right course.
One Friday
afternoon as I was returning home from school, I crossed the little park which
was in the middle of Glendale. Usually, it was just a nice shady break from
walking the sidewalks and then down the railroad tracks, under the ice docks
across some fields and finally to the “Little White House” where we lived. Usually that park was quiet on winter
days. Today, however, I heard cheering,
laughter, and boisterous talk. Then I
saw boys in scout uniforms pitching tents, playing games and in general having
a great time. Some of the boys looked
about my age. A few of them I had seen
at school. One saw me and waved and then
went back to work driving stakes that would hold up his tent. Suddenly, from deep within me came this
burning desire to become part of this group.
The next day I
asked around among my friends about the scouts that I had seen. No one seemed to know much about them. Then one boy who belonged to the same church
that I had been going to before I took up jogging in circles, said that he
thought they were the “Mormons.” “But
watch those Mormons, they’re really weird.”
Well, I didn’t know what a Mormon was, but I sure wanted to be a
scout. When I asked my mom if I could
become a scout, she told me she would see if there was a troop that met close
to home that I could join. At that time,
there was only one in this small, farming community. It met down on Wednesday night at some sort
of church building about two miles from our house. She warned me that I was not to get involved
with the church-whatever it was-only the scouts. I felt like telling her that I had no
intentions of getting involved with any church-ever.
I approached
the building hesitantly that night. I
felt an anxiety that I could not
explain. I knew somehow that my life was
about to change. As I approached the
door a man opened the door as if he knew I was there and was waiting for me
just on the other side.
He
was big and wearing a dark suit. I had
never seen anyone wear a suit-much less a dark one-except Dr. Frankenstien in
those monster movies and the school principal, and they both scared me to
death.
“I-I-I’m looking for a s-s-scout troop?” I
stammered. “It doesn’t meet here, does
it?” (I hoped)
“Sure does,” he said, “They’re out on the
basketball court. What’s your name?”
“S-S-S-S-S (I was beginning to sound like a
nervous snake) Smith.” I had finally gotten it out but couldn’t remember my
first name. “Emmett Smith.” I had finally said it.
“Well, come on Emmett Smith. Hmn, Smith, a
very good name. I’ll take you out there.
I’m Bishop Barrett. And you are welcome here.”
Did this person know me?
Did he know I was coming? He sure
sounded like he did. He put his hand on
my shoulder and led me down a hall past a patio, down another hall and out onto
an outside basketball court. There, I
saw group of people. Some were kids of
various ages, some were girls, some were boys in scout uniforms, some were men,
some were women. They formed a large
circle. They were singing and acting out
the words of the song:
“ Put
your right foot in,
Put your right foot out,
Put your right foot in,
And you shake it all about!”
“Okay,” I
thought midst deep, gasping breaths, (I
was beginning to breath into a panic) “time to start running! These Mormons are really weird.”
Then I felt an
increased pressure on my shoulder from that hand. “Come on, let’s join them.” He gently pushed me into the circle. Soon, the both of us-along with everyone
else-were putting our:
“…right
foot in,
…right foot
out,
…right foot
in,”
and shaking
it
“…all about!”
“…all about!”
I had so much fun that night. Weird or not, these Mormons knew how to have
fun. They welcomed me into their circle
as if they had known me all my life.
I was one of them from the beginning.
At school the
next day, I saw some of them at lunch.
They waved me over to their table.
Then I began to recognize them at band and choir. They were on the athletic teams and in student
government. They stayed in groups but
invited me to join them. I was
immediately attracted to them. They were
exciting. They seemed to be everywhere
doing everything. They were exciting and
I was excited to be around them. I began
to become very involved with scouts and my newly-found friends. I began to think of them as my family.
A few weeks went by. I was called into Bishop Barrett’s office one
Wednesday evening. Next week, he said,
we wouldn’t be having MIA. (Whatever
that meant, that’s what they called this night.) Instead, we would be going to pick grapefruit
at the welfare farm. There would be no
pay, that the grapefruit would be juiced and canned and would be given to “the
poor, the needy”.
I remembered being poor. I wanted no part of the embarrassment. The feeling of being used to bolster
another’s ego. I was about to tell him
so when he said, as best as I can remember, these words. “We do this because we want to serve. We don’t just believe, we act upon what we
believe. Our religion is a way of
life. Those we serve; they too will be
expected to serve others so that they may keep their pride and dignity.” Even though I did not understand at the time
some of the words that he used, I knew he was sincere. And I believe that I have accurately
recreated his statement to me for they have stayed with me-word for word-these
many years.
So I went to the farm that next week. And I was amazed, astonished, pleased and
impressed. On one side of me as we moved
down the rows of trees was Brother Harmon, the rancher; on the other Brother
Fish, who owned a construction company; and Bishop Barrett and his counselor in
the next tree. And my friends were there
too, all having fun-singing, teasing, socializing-happily working in service to
our fellow man.
Then one morning, I woke up feeling strange
and frightened. I was changing. I was becoming something more that what I
was. I felt pulled toward the church
building, these people, their beliefs and their way of life. I felt pressured by demands and commitments,
and I didn’t even know what they were. I
felt overwhelmed by something I couldn’t explain.
And so I didn’t go to Scouts that week or
the next or the next or the next. I
didn’t associate with Morman kids. But
soon I became lonely, with a thinness of spirit and a hollowness of the soul
. I knew I had drawn away from something
I desperately needed, and so I returned and was welcomed bask as if I had never
left.
Then I met Sylvia Crosby. She had just moved into the area and I found
out right away that she was a Mormon. I
first saw her at school and then at MIA.
Just about the first words that came out of her mouth was: “Why don’t you come to Church with me
Sunday?”
And the first words that came out of my
mouth to her were: “I don’t go to Church
here; I belong to another church.
(Actually, I didn’t go to church anywhere. I hadn’t been to the church that I belonged
to in over two years. I suspected that
they were all the same anyway so why go.)
She
wouldn’t leave me alone about this. “Come one Smith. Come to Church just this
one Sunday. We’ll pick you up. We’ll bring you home. Come, you’ll really like it.”
Well, I had been to church, and I didn’t
like it. And God didn’t like me. That’s why he let me be so torn apart inside
when I was just trying to do what was right. Finally, I said to her, (just to
get her off my back), “I’ll tell you what, you come to my church with me and
then I’ll go to your church with you.”
Well, I knew that had her. I knew
she would never do that. No body in
their right mind would go to my church.
That next Sunday, in the afternoon, I was
sitting in the Glen
Theatre watching my
favorite actor, Roy Rogers, in my favorite type of movie, a western. Just at the best part when Roy was trying his best to sing the bad guys
into giving themselves up, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up.
It was Sylvia.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well what?” I asked trying not to sound
startled.
“I just came from your church. I sat through the whole meeting. You were not there. Now you get up-now-and come to my meeting
with me.”
And I did. I went to my first Sacrament Meeting. I came away that day feeling so
uplifted. Now I do not remember what the
message of the talks, but I felt a depth of spirit there. It was as if God himself was sitting in that
congregation nodding his head in agreement with all that went on. Beautiful hymns were sung, prayers were
given, and I felt a since of belonging, of unity, of family. I felt for the first time in my 14 years that
I belonged to something eternal, and that I could have an important part in it.
A few weeks later, Sylvia told me that there would be no
meetings at the ward building that Sunday, but we would be going to the stake
house. “Would you like to go with us?”
she asked.
“Sure,” I said,
“how much money do I need?”
At first she
looked puzzled at my response and then she giggled, covered the giggle with her
hand. She explained that this would be a
gathering of many of the members of the church from this area who would meet
together to be instructed by an apostle.
Now that was
scary but intriguing. I knew about the
twelve apostles of Jesus’ time. But now,
today, in these times, apostles? Peter,
James, John…and the others that were called by the Savior? I had never heard of anything like this.
She
explained, “You’ve heard us say that
this is God’s only true church?”
“Right—all the
time!”
“Well, it is,
and if it is then it would have to be just like his church that he organized
when he was here on earth.”
“Yeah,” I said,
“that makes sense, I guess.”
“It is true; I
know it is. Would you like to hear him
speak and you can make up your mind for yourself.”
So that Sunday
I went with the Crosby’s to a big building down in Phoenix
called a Stake Center.
It was so filled with people that we had to sit off to the side in an
overflow room, but I could hear him and I could feel of his spirit and of the
spirit of all those present. His message
and counsel: By following the footsteps
of the Savior, we can gain the same qualities and characteristics that he
had. What an astounding and outstanding
idea. That we could be like God! And I knew it was true.
Life among the
Mormons became more and more exciting.
But most exciting was the Joseph
Smith, the Prophet. Could it be true? Could it really be true that a boy of
fourteen with that most common name of “Smith” could become a prophet? I knew deep within my soul that when I asked
that question, that God was going to give me an answer. I didn’t have the answer yet, but I knew it
was going to come soon.
Sylvia gave me
a Book of Mormon. Not being a great
reader of the scriptures, I at first read nothing but the title page, but I did
(as kind of a status symbol) carry it with me on Sundays. One Sunday morning I was crossing our front
lawn on my way to church when a friend of my brother John asked me what it was
that I had in my hand.
“Book of
Mormon,” I said rather proudly and continued walking across the yard.
She stepped in
my way, and I knew that for some reason I was in trouble. “Don’t you
realize what that is? That is the book
of the devil. And those people, those
people…” Her voice began to rise to a hysterical pitch. “…those people are the devil’s disciples!”
Now I loved irritating my older brothers, and this was a
friend of my brother so I guess it was all right to irritate her, so I put two
fingers on top of my head to form horns and continued on my way. But I was concerned by this. Why all of this antagonism? Why the violence that I had heard of
perpetrated against these kind, peace loving people? Why the obvious hate? I did ask these questions within my own
soul. I knew that I was going to get
answers.
At this time,
during the summer 1953, I was working for my mother at her place of business,
The Maternity Home, an old home where women from the small farming community of
Glendale, Arizona,
would come to have their babies. For two
hours every day, I would sit up in the front of the house to answer the phone
while my mother napped. Not too many
calls came in so I had plenty of time to do nothing. Something is always better than nothing so I started
to read the Book of Mormon. Maybe I
would find the answers to my questions within its covers. The reading became an obsession. What did it preach, what did it promote, what
was it teaching to be called a book of the devil? For eleven days, beginning with the Joseph
Smith Story, I poured over its contents to its completion. Therein, I found a plan for happiness through
repentance, commitment, faith, and service.
And it seemed to be written just for me!
And all of this
wonder had come about under the direction of God through Joseph Smith, a
14-year-old boy, common in every respect that had the audacity to say that he
had communicated with God and his Son, Jesus Christ. Now that was something, there were two of
them and there was also the Holy Ghost.
Three distinct personages, but one in purpose: to bring happiness to who had ever lived or
who would ever live on this earth. I had
never heard this idea before, but it made me feel good, that there were three
looking after me instead of just one.
“Hey Smith,”
Sylvia asked, “would you like to go to a meeting down in Phoenix Friday night?”
I noticed she
was a little nervous. “Sure why not?’ I
was beginning to love Mormon meeting.
Besides it wasn’t on Sunday and so that meant that we would probably
have refreshments! “Will it be like the
other meetings we have been too?”
Now she was
looking a little more nervous.
“Well…no…ah but my mom said I should ask you if you want to go. You don’t have to though,” she responded a
little too quickly I thought.
That Friday
night found Brother and Sister Crosby, Sylvia, her brother Jimmy, and myself at
a grassless lot where a huge tent had been erected. People were streaming into a glaring light of
the tent’s only door. Sounds of
trumpets, drums and guitars leaped out into the night blaring into a sort of
music (if one would dare call it that).
Were we really going to go in there?
Not me. I hesitated. Sylvia took my hand and pulled me along. Mr. Crosby took out five one dollar bills,
handed them to the man at the door (we were going to pay to go in there?) and
we entered.
We stood at the
back of the tent. The place was filled
with people. Up front just stepping to
the microphone was a man dressed all in white.
There were many “hallelujahs” and “amens” voiced loudly and with much
excitement as he spoke. Over and over,
he claimed that his voice was the voice of God and that his will was the will
of God. When he would make these proclamations many would jump to their feet
and loudly voice their sustaining of his pronouncements. At certain moments in
his sermon, as if on cue would come forward uninvited. Some were in wheelchairs, some on crutches,
some claimed to be blind or deaf or filled with demons. He would then place his head on their heads (sometimes
two at once) and push them back as he cured them of their infirmities and
afflictions. They would then claim a
miracle had occurred and that they were “cured.” But I never quite knew just was the will of
God was that came from this man who claimed to be a prophet. I wanted to leave. I felt uncomfortable and alien here in this
place. I kept pushing harder and harder
against the back wall of the tent. One
more minute of this and I was going to turn and rip my way through the tent and
run all the way home. About that time,
men and women, all dressed in white, came from back stage with baskets in
hand. The “prophet” told the
congregation that their money was needed so that his will, which was the will
of God, might continue. The more money
they gave, the more blessings they would receive.
That’s when we left.
We went outside and walked through the night to the car. No one said anything until we were in the
car. Sister Crosby turned to me and
asked, “He said he was a prophet. What
do you think?”
“I don’t know
what to think,” I almost whispered. Was
this a Mormon meeting I wondered. It
couldn’t have been. But if it wasn’t,
why was I brought here?
“Do you think
that man’s will was the will of God?”
asked Brother Crosby.
Now I was a
little angry, and I was going to give my opinion. “No, no it wasn’t, I don’t believe God would
reveal his will that way. It was too
loud and noisy and demanding. And you
know something, I didn’t ever hear him say what the will of God is.”
Sylvia squeezed
my hand and Sister Crosby said, “Good for you.”
Not another word was spoken.
I was left with my own thoughts.
The following
week, as I was making my mother-timed “five minute only and
I-don’t-care-who-you’re-talking-to-even-if-it’s-that-little-Mormon-girl,” phone
call to Sylvia, she—right in mid sentence, stopped. A long, pause came over the phone. All I could here was here breathing. It did not sound normal. Maybe she had died. No, I could still hear her breathing. Finally, and very quickly: “Do you want to go to another meeting with us
this Saturday?”
Now I was the
one that was silent. Finally, and very
slowly: “Is it like the last meeting
that we went to last Saturday?”
“No, nothing
like it. I think you’ll really like this
one.”
So I went to another meeting that Saturday morning out to
a large open, grassy park in Litchfield, about fifteen miles from Glendale. It was bright and clear and cool. By the time we arrived, I could see that we
were not going to get one of the several thousand seats. They were already filled. Some people had spread blankets on the grass
at the sides of the seats and were waiting there for the meeting to begin. We went up as far as we could to the right of
the congregation, spread out a blanket and sat on it. I wondered why we were there. I saw a few people from the Ward, but most of
them were strangers to me, but I knew they were Mormons. Almost another hour passed. We talked about school, farming and the
future but not why we were there. Then
suddenly, as if on cue (but no one directed us) everyone stood and began to
sing:
We thank
thee, O God, for a prophet To guide us in these latter days,
We thank thee for sending the gospel to lighten our minds with its rays.
We thank thee for every blessing bestowed by they bounteous hand
We feel it a pleasure to serve thee, and love to obey they command.
Walking up on a
platform placed there for them were six men and two women. They all looked like they were somebody. Who were they? I could not see their faces clearly, but
from the reaction of those around us, I knew that they must be special. My attention came to rest on one individual
in the middle of the procession. He had
a shock of white hair that presented almost an angelic glow. I
noticed that he helped the woman accompanying him to her seat, kissed
her on the cheek, and then took a seat himself.
It was only then that the thousands there sat. Who was he?
A hymn was sung and a prayer was
offered. Still, my eyes would not leave
this man. Finally, I asked Sylvia, “Who is that man, the one with the white
hair?”
“Oh,” she said as if
she were giving a common answer to a common question, “that’s David
O’McKay, he’s our prophet.
“Really?
Just like Joseph Smith?” I
asked.
“Really,” she whispered, “just like Joseph
Smith.”
“A prophet ? A real live prophet?” I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. Prophets belonged up in the mountains, in a
white robe talking to God. Here he was,
talking to us as if we were the most important people on earth. And I especially felt as if he were talking
directly to me about the importance of following in the footsteps of the savior
in all that we did. “Learn of him and be
like him,” he said. He told us how
wonderful we were and how wonderful life would be if we kept the commandments. And that wonderful life would go on forever.
After the meeting was
over, hundreds of people lined up to meet the prophet. “Would you like to meet him?” Sylvia asked,
“We’ll have to stand in line.”
“I would, I really would. And the line,“ I said, “I’ve stood in longer
lines to see a Gene Autry movie.” I
teased, “Let’s go!”
The
line was long when we joined it, but two men kept it moving. The prophet would shake hands, say a few
words, and the men would move them on.
Finally after almost an hour, I was standing in front of him. I looked deeply into—no, he looked deeply
into my eyes. They gently pierced my
soul. It seems I could see and feel the
eternities. I could not move. I was mesmerized. He actually had to reach down and take my
hand. “How are you,” he asked in the
most gentle voice I had ever heard.
“Rea..Real..Really good,”
I stammered. Actually I was shaking
inside like a leaf in a wind. One of the
two men there to control the line began to move me on. And I was relieved. I didn’t know how much longer I could stand
to be in the presence of this man who talked to God and God talked to him. I began to move away, but he continued to
keep a firm grip on my hand.
And then his voice,
“You’re searching for something, aren’t you.”
It was more of a statement of fact than a question.
“Yes sir,” I
whispered, “I guess I am.”
“Just keep searching
and you’ll find it.” He released my hand
and turned to the next person.
Soon after that Sylvia
moved. I knew that I was not going to
see my good friend as often as I had before and I knew I would miss her strong,
valiant spirit. But I had the
strongest feeling that if I stayed close to these people and this Church that I
would have many good friends. In fact,
for three years, ages fourteen to 17, I continued to attend meetings. And this meeting, and this was back in the days, where you
would go to a meeting, go home, come back for another, go home and finally go
back for Sacrament Meeting in the late afternoon, all as a non-member. I believe that I became such a fixture at that
building that the members saw me as a member of the Church. I went to all the activities, participated in
the service projects, showed up at the baptisms of the children, and even spoke
in Sunday School. It’s a wonder I wasn’t
interviewed for a recommend to go to the Temple. Then one Sunday, I saw a new girl at activity
night and asked her for a date. There is
nothing like holding hands with a Mormon girl.
We dated a time or two when one Sunday a fireside was announced and I
asked her if she wanted to go. She
accepted. After the fireside, I was
exceptionally quiet, not speaking one word to this new friend of mine. I know I must have seemed solemn and distant,
but something that I had heard from the fireside speaker was giving me great
concern.
Finally, she said,
“Well…” There was just a touch of trouble in her voice.
“ ‘Well’ what ?” I responded.
“Listen, Smith, you
haven’t said one word since we got into the car. Now what’s wrong?”
“Do you believe what
that brother said at the fireside?” I
asked her.
“I sure do,” she said
firmly without an ounce of doubt in her voice.
“Don’t you?”
“What he said makes
since, that we should not date outside of our religious faith or marry outside
the faith. Maybe we should not date
anymore.”
“But..but I’m a Mormon.” She said through tears. “Don’t I act like one?” I could hear the hurt in her voice.
“You act just like
one. And I know you’re a Mormon. The problem is I’m not a Mormon.”
“What!? But you’re everywhere and at every meeting
and every activity. And the only people
I ever see you with are the kids from this ward. I just don’t understand.”
“I not sure that I
understand. I just want to be around all
of you. I want to be like all of
you. I want to believe what you believe,
and I do believe what you believe. I
want to have what you have. Do you
suppose I could ever have what you have?”
She did not answer my
question, but three days later two men showed up at our home. I recognized that one of them was a member of
the Ward, Neldon Cook. They introduced
themselves to my mother as members of the Church and missionaries. To this day, I have never found out who sent
them to our door, but I have a pretty good idea!
Brother Cook spoke,
“Sister Smith, we have come here to deliver to your son the greatest message
that the world has ever received since the resurrection of Jesus Christ.”
“And what would that
be?” she asked skeptically and looked at me as if I has just sold my little
sister!
“Simple,” he
said. “The Church that Jesus Christ
established on this earth when he was here, has been restored. And just as in olden times, it has a prophet
who directs its people in the direction that the Church should go.”
Brother Cook’s
message might have been a simple one, but to get my mother to let me listen to
the missionaries was not going to be a simple task to accomplish. She had certainly not encouraged me to attend
the meetings that past three years. In
fact, she had told me that if I insisted on going to “their church,” then I
would have to find my own way. No one
would take me nor could I use the family car although I did use it when going
on a “date” to firesides. She did not
know that they were Church related and I didn’t tell her. So I almost went into cardiac arrest when she
said, “If that what he wants, then okay, but not here. He’s been going to your meetings so I guess I
can’t stop him now.”
I took the
discussions at Brother Cook’s home. A
good move. We had refreshments after
each discussion, and I wouldn’t have to explain to the missionaries why my mom
and dad, brothers and sisters would disappear from the scene like the Black
Plague was visiting our house.
And now to a night
when the Black Plague did visit our home:
the minister from the church, my mother’s church, that I had belonged to
before leaving it for the activities of the Mormon Church. My mother answered what sounded like a most
ominous knock at the door. Knock. Knock…Knock…Knock. It sounded like the grim reaper was waiting
out their in the dark. And I am not far
off in the assessment of who was there.
Knock…knock…knock…knock. My
mother opened the door. There he
stood. Black suit and all—the minister
of the church. Without being invited in,
he quickly stepped inside the kitchen.
He gave me one glance that could have melted horseshoes. Then to my mother he said in a steady,
hissing voice, “I want to talk to you about you son.” She then motioned to me
to go into the next room. Which meant
she wanted me to get out of the line of fire.
But I could still hear clearly what was being said—especially if I got
very close to the door, like my ear was right up against it!
“I understand your
son is associating with those Mormons,” he said. This was not a question.
“Yes,” my mother said, “he is.”
“I understand that he
is even thinking about joining that cult.”
She did not
respond. If fact, there was a hard,
cold, dark silence coming from the kitchen.
The minister
again: “If he continues his association
with those people, he is going to go to hell.
All of them are going to hell.
Now you sit down with him and have him read this pamphlet.” He turned and left and I went back into the
room. She didn’t say a word. Finally, after a long silence, she began turning
the lights off which was her way of saying I’m angry. Now go to bed before I say or do something
I’m going to regret.”
I couldn’t fall
asleep. I tossed and turned and worried
about what this man had said. The
Mormons, a cult. They’re going to go to
hell. I had heard plenty about
hell. Not a nice to be and not nice
people there to be with. Scary! Finally I got out of bed, went into the
kitchen and looked for the pamphlet. It
was on the kitchen table. I went close
to the kitchen window so I could at least read the title without turning the
lights on. Across the top were printed
in giant, fiery red letters: DON’T LET
THE MORMONS GET YOU ON YOUR KNEES. Then
it pictured a man dressed in black with a broad-rimmed black hat, with two
horns protruding through the top of the hat.
He appeared wickedly gleeful as he chained up several howling, kneeling
people. Smoke and flames poured off
their bodies. Obviously, this was not a
fun time for them. I read no more. I went back to bed and pulled the covers up
over my head. A shiver went through my
body. Then I did just what the author of
the pamphlet told me not to do. I got
out of bed, dropped to my knees. With
elbows on the bed and my hands clasped in an attitude of prayer, I looked out
the window into the heavens. I asked in
a voice so soft that I know not even God could hear me (and besides, I didn’t
want to wake up my brothers or sister)
“Is it really true that the Mormons are going to go to hell?” Silence.
“Well—is it?” Long silence.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity,
there came over me a calm, peaceful, serene feeling, and one like I had never
had before. Then a thought, maybe it was
a voice entered, my mind and heart.
There was a quiet, gentleness to that communication. There seemed to be a smile, even a sense
humor in the question that was presented to me,
“If the Mormons are going to go to hell, then don’t you want to be there
with them?”
I came to my feet,
crawled back into bed with this thought just before I went into a deep and very
restful sleep. “If the Mormons are going
to go to hell, that’s exactly where I want to be, right there with them. It couldn’t be such a bad place, if Clair
Gardner, Loa Lamb, Sylvia Crosby, DeNell Chrisman, Denny Harman, Ann Schurter,
Bishop Tenny and on and on and on I named those that would be welcome company
anywhere. And besides that, I wouldn’t
have to put up with the twins anymore!”
I knew that I wanted
to be a member of this Church. I
finished the discussions. And approached
my parents for the required signed permission for baptism. My dad didn’t say anything. Nor did my mother, she just gave me one of
those looks that would turn granite into dust, and turned and walked away. To even approach them again would be asking
for a quick and horrible death. I was
desperate. I was in turmoil. I felt as if an anvil had been tied around my
neck. What was I to do? Tomorrow was the date set for the baptism and
I wanted to be baptized. I knew and
still know that membership in this Church puts us on a journey of excellence—if
we are obedient to the commandments. But
one of those commandments is to honor your parents. Honor!
Honor! I reasoned: the greatest
honor I could show them was to be a valiant member of Heavenly Father’s
Church. So-o-o-o, I signed the
permission slip myself, using my mother’s name and I was baptized the next day,
Saturday, February 6, 1954, at the building north of Encanto Park in Phoenix,
Arizona.
The next day, Sunday, February 5, 1954,
Brother Neldon Cook, laid his hands on my head and confirmed me a member of the
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Thus the door was opened to the gift of the Holy Ghost, and that great
spirit has confirmed to me on that day and many times since then the great
message of this Church, that indeed God has restored his Church to this earth,
and that he has placed prophets beginning with Joseph Smith and since that time
other prophets and come to speak to all who will listen, even the whole world
of the direction that we need to take in order to return to Him, He that
created us.
I have been in the Church as of February 4,
2003, nearly fifty years, but I know that my conversion did not stop with my
baptism and confirmation. With the
gospel as my roadmap I believe I am continually being converted. As I serve, study, pray, ponder, struggle and
act, I learn more of the mysteries of Godliness which motivated me to continue
to serve, study, pray, ponder, struggle, and act.
Alma 26:22
Yea, he that repenteth and exerciseth faith, and bringeth forth good
works, and prayeth continually without ceasing—unto such it is given to know
the mysteries of God…
Now, at the age of 66 years, I realize the
great blessing that have come to me because of my membership in His Church. I have a beautiful wife and sweetheart. Her name is Jackie. She came to me as Jackie Hiland from the
farmlands of Indiana. She had never heard of this Church before
coming to Arizona. We fell in love young. She was 17 and I was 18. And we married young. She was 18 and I was 19. In five years after our marriage, we had four
children, one before she joined the Church.
And we took our loved to the Temple
and where we were all sealed together forever.
Our children: Rob, Scott, Rick
and Laurie. They too were sealed to
worthy members of the Church for Time and All Eternity: Rob to April Conner, Scott to Gayla Gardner,
Rick to Kathleen Best and Laurie to Bill Wilson.
All have lived valiant lives. All actively participate in the forward movement
of our Father’s kingdom. They have been
are in bishoprics, Scott and Rob have been bishops, stake positions, Relief
Society Presidents, Elders Quorum Presidents, teachers in Sunday School,
Primary, leaders and workers in every auxiliary in the Church. They go often to the Temple.
We now have fifteen
grandchildren: Patrick, Jason, Amber,
Ira, Jamie, Stephen, Andrew, Harrison, Katie, Tricia, Misty, Kalee, Dennis,
Riley, and Autumn. Each of these children have been blessed and baptized and
confirmed by the hands of a worthy father and priesthood holder. Loving mothers are nurturing each. Amber married just a few months ago in the Mesa Temple,
Randy McBride. Our first Great
Grandchild will be here soon.
Because of the Church, our lives are filled
with hope and promise and of bright tomorrows.
Doctrine and Covenants 65:2 (as revealed to Joseph Smith
in 1831) The keys of the kingdom of God are committed unto man on the earth,
and from thence shall the gospel roll forth unto the ends of the earth, as the
stone which is cut out of the mountain without hands shall roll forth, until it
has filled the whole earth.
-Emmett R. Smith
-Emmett R. Smith
