Gospel Story Finder

I was sad when I found out that my ballet exam was to be on a Sunday. My friends in the class couldn’t understand why we chose not to do things like that on a Sunday. They even offered to take me to the exam after our church meetings. I knew that the right choice was not to go, and Mum and Dad said Heavenly Father would bless me for keeping the Sabbath Day holy. At my next lesson after the exam day, my teacher gave me a medal. She felt I deserved it even though I didn’t do the exam. It is good to choose the right. I felt happy inside.

Waimate and Heeni Anaru yearned to be part of the first group to travel to the temple. Yet the task seemed impossible because of the family’s poverty and the required cost of 1,200 New Zealand pounds for the trip—a hefty sum. They would need a miracle.
For years, the Anaru family followed the prophet’s counsel and gathered their genealogical records. Those records then sat in stacks while the Anarus waited for a miracle to occur. Their son, Wiwini, knew of his parents’ faith: “Mother never ever despaired that she would [not] someday kneel with Father at a temple altar.”
A miracle did occur. Waimate won a contract from the New Zealand government for a large land-development project. His income from this project provided sufficient cash paid in advance to cover the cost of the trip to Hawaii. Waimate and Heeni overcame their fear of ocean travel and journeyed to Hawaii with a group of 14 Saints in May 1920. They received their endowments and were sealed. The impossible had happened.

Simon had had enough! Joe and Bob had been bragging about their pets all afternoon. Joe had two large German shepherds and a furry hamster, and Bob had a calico cat and six goldfish.
Simon didn’t have any dogs, cats, hamsters, or fish. But he did have a secret. “Come outside,” he said. “I’ll show you my pets.”
“What pets?” asked Joe.
“You don’t have any pets,” Bob scoffed.
Without answering, Simon led them into his backyard. He took them all the way to the back fence, which was overgrown with ivy. He jiggled the fence, then waited, listening, and jiggled it again. The leaves rustled.
Joe and Bob watched wide-eyed as a large brown lizard scooted out of the ivy and took refuge in the tall weeds by the garden shed.
“That’s one of my pets,” Simon told them. “His name is Leonard. He lives right here in the ivy and takes care of himself. I don’t even have to feed him. Mom and Dad are glad we have him, though, because he eats bugs.”
“Lucky you,” said Joe. “My mom doesn’t like lizards. If one shows up in our yard, she chases it away.”
“So does my cat,” Bob sighed.
“Come and see my next pet,” said Simon, glad that his friends liked his first one.
He led them to a shady corner of the yard where the ground was moist. “This is Oliver,” he said, pointing at a small, spotted toad sitting on a mossy rock. “He eats insects too.”
The boys watched with interest as Oliver took three short hops.
“My third pet lives over here,” said Simon, heading for the corner of the garage. He pointed up at the eaves. “That’s Edith.”
A large brown spider hung in the middle of a filmy web. “You should see her web at night,” said Simon. “The moonlight makes it shine. You can come over some evening to see it,” he offered.
“I’d like that,” said Joe.
Bob nodded his agreement.
“I have one more pet to show you,” said Simon.
He took them to the peppertree and pointed up into its spreading branches. “You have to look very carefully, or you’ll miss her,” he told them.
Peering through the leaves, the boys saw a small, gray bird sitting motionless on a nest.
“I call her Penelope,” Simon explained. “She chose our yard out of all the yards in the neighborhood for her nest. She knows she’s safe here; we won’t hurt her. Her eggs are almost ready to hatch. I’m going to watch the babies grow and learn to fly.”
“Boy! I wish a bird would build a nest in my yard,” said Bob, with a wistful sigh,
“A bird wouldn’t feel safe in your yard,” Joe pointed out. “Your cat would scare it.”
“I know,” agreed Bob glumly. “Will you let us see the baby birds when they hatch, Simon?”
“Sure,” answered Simon, “as long as you don’t get too close. We don’t want to scare them.”
“Hey, Simon, whenever you want to visit my cat or watch my goldfish, let me know,” offered Bob.
“And you can play with my dogs and hamster, too,” Joe added promptly.
“Thanks!” said Simon. “And you can come to see my pets anytime you want to. It’ll be fun to share my secret pets with my friends.”

When I was presiding over the New England Mission, I attended a zone conference; and as we entered the room where the young elders were waiting, I saw, sitting in the back row, a tall and elderly man.
“I was baptized a few days ago,” he said to me. “I’m 74 years old, and I found the gospel only now in my life.”
In a pleading voice he asked if he might attend the meeting. “I just want to be here to learn,” he said. “I’ll sit on the back row. I won’t interrupt.”
Then, almost in tears, he poured out his regret. “Why did I not find it until now? My life is over. My children are all raised and gone, and it is just too late for me to learn the gospel.”
What a joy it was to explain to him one of the great miracles that occurs over and over again is the transformation of those who join the Church. (Or I might say of those who rejoin the Church.) They are in the world and they are of the world, and then the missionaries find them. Though they are in the world thereafter, they are not of the world. Very quickly in their thinking and in their feelings and in their actions, it is as though they had been members of the Church all of their lives.

It was a Sunday afternoon near the end of my mission, and I was washing the dinner dishes in Recife, Brazil. For some reason, I began to think about the Saints in Nauvoo. I remembered that after all their sacrifices and work to construct their temple, they had to flee Nauvoo, leaving the temple and their homes behind. I marveled at the great faith of these people. In the midst of their trials, they continued to have confidence in Heavenly Father and to do all He asked of them.
Then the thought came to my mind: If Father in Heaven someday took something precious away, something for which you had sacrificed, would you rebel?
I was surprised at the question, not knowing why I had asked it. I tried to imagine myself among the Saints in Nauvoo, feeling what they felt. I concluded that I did not know what my reaction would be, but I sincerely desired to have sufficient faith to always accept God’s will. I had no idea that just such a test would confront me that very night.
A few days before, while pondering what I would do after my mission, I had decided to pursue a career in music. Before my mission, I had practiced as much as six hours each day on the piano and had completed course work at a music academy. Just recently, my teacher had sent me a letter, promising to help me launch a career as a pianist.
We had three baptisms arranged for that night. Our meetinghouse did not have a baptismal font, making it necessary for us to go to the center of Recife to hold the baptismal services. It rained much that night, and as the city was experiencing a shortage of gasoline, it was difficult to find a taxi. It was getting late, and I began to worry. Suddenly I saw a taxi a block away and ran in its direction. The rain moistened my glasses, and I did not see a popcorn vendor crossing my path. When I finally saw his cart, I could not stop and I crashed into it. I suffered a very deep cut on my left wrist and was taken to the emergency room at the hospital.
There I discovered that the tendons had been cut. Two fingers on my left hand were paralyzed. Because a surgery room wasn’t available, I was not able to have an operation immediately. Since I would be returning to my home in a few days, the doctors just sutured the wound and instructed me to seek a specialist in São Paulo.
On my return home, I received a priesthood blessing from my father and was attended by the best hand surgeon in São Paulo. My recuperation was excellent, and after much physical therapy I was able to return to playing the piano. But I had no illusions about a professional career. My life followed another path instead. Today I am a neurologist with the training and opportunity to help many people.
I believe God had a plan for my life different from what I had anticipated. When we “trust in the Lord with all [our] heart,” I know “he shall direct [our] paths” for our good (Prov. 3:5–6).

A couple of years ago, when I turned 12, I was invited to attend my first Aaronic Priesthood quorum overnight camp. This was a long-awaited invitation, as my father was a quorum leader and often went camping with the boys in the ward, while I was left at home.
When the day came, I was excited. And I must admit that I desperately wanted to fit in with the older boys. I was determined to prove myself. In that effort it wasn’t long before I was tested to see if I would play along and be part of the group.
My assigned task was to get my father’s car keys so a prank could be pulled on the leaders. I don’t remember exactly what I said to convince my dad, but I soon ran to the group of boys with keys in hand, proud of my accomplishment.
Then came the next assignment. I was to unlock the car door and wedge a stick between the driver’s seat-back and the car horn. And I was to lock the door so the horn would blare into the evening without any way for the leaders to access the car to remove the crude device.
Now, this is where the story turns painfully embarrassing for me. Once I secured the stick in place, I locked the door and ran as fast as I could to hide in a nearby patch of bushes. As I crouched down to the ground, I felt a searing pain. In the darkness and in my haste, I had sat upon a prickly pear cactus.
My screams of pain were drowned out by the blaring horn, and I had no recourse other than gingerly hobbling back to the car, confessing my “sins,” and seeking rudimentary and embarrassing medical attention.
The remainder of that night, I lay on my stomach in a tent while my father, using pliers, removed the cactus spines from my … well, let me just say that I did not sit comfortably for several days afterward.
I have reflected on that experience many times. I can now laugh at the folly of my youth, even as some underlying principles have become clear to me.

Members of the church in Ladysmith, South Africa donated almost 200 handmade curtains to the Môrester Children’s Home.

Môrester Children’s Home cares for children that were removed from their families by a court order because of unsafe and unhealthy circumstances in their homes. The home houses 157 children in 11 houses in Ladysmith and surrounding areas.

“During our visit to the care centre we found the curtains to be old and washed out and often two different curtains hung at the same window. We felt that curtains are associated with light, and this would fit in well with our campaign,” Sister Susan De Klerk, the communications director in Ladysmith District, said.

Hours of sewing the curtains, and more hours of altering the curtains to Môrester’s specifications yielded 198 curtains.

The group further donated a volleyball net and two volleyballs as well as boxes of biscuits.

With tears in her eyes, Nobambo Nzinya, a social worker at the Môrester Children’s Home expressed her gratitude for the efforts of the volunteers.

“The children kept asking when the centre is going to buy them cookies for Christmas. And I honestly didn’t know what to tell them as I knew that there was no funds available to buy cookies for Christmas,” Nobambo Nzinya said.

“We as the centre are so grateful. Your service proves that you work in collaboration with the Holy Spirit.”

A few years later this same older sister turned her heart to me when I asked her if I could borrow her car to go visit my friends. She agreed but said that I needed to have it back by four o’clock. I happily took off. We were having such a good time, I could hardly believe it when I looked at the clock and it was six o’clock! When I ran into the house, my sister wasn’t there, but on the table was a beautiful chocolate cake, my favorite, with a note that said: “Don’t worry. I know you were having a good time. I managed to get a ride. I love you.” Now, that is turning your heart to your family, holding your banner high! She was worrying about my feelings when I was the one who had inconvenienced her!

How do you remember to choose the right? Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles tells a story about a young boy and his friends who found a package of cigarettes: “They decided to go down on the cliff alongside some large boulders and smoke. … They lit up, and the young man said that as he was looking down at the smoldering cigarette that he held between his fingers, he saw his CTR ring. He quickly put the cigarette out. … He chose to choose the right, as he remembered what the emblem stood for” (“‘Choose the Right,’” Ensign, Nov. 1993, 66).

One preparation day, my missionary companion and I were visiting a cathedral in Parma, Italy. While marveling at the beautiful paintings there, I noticed a monk reading nearby. I received a prompting to talk to him about the Book of Mormon, but I became afraid.
How would a Catholic monk react to a missionary proselyting inside a cathedral? The prompting came again, but again I dismissed it.
A few weeks later, the other two elders in our apartment told us they had visited with a monk named Giuseppe while street contacting. After they had taught him a lesson, he accepted a copy of the Book of Mormon.
When the missionaries met with Giuseppe a week later, he had already read much of the book. He was very excited about it.
Before the missionaries met with Giuseppe again, my companion was transferred, so I joined their companionship. When we went to teach Giuseppe in the cathedral, I was not surprised to see that he was the same monk I was prompted to talk to earlier.
Giuseppe told us he was reading the book of Alma, whom he compared to the Apostle Paul. We decided to teach him the second lesson, which ended with an invitation to be baptized. At the end of our lesson, just before we could invite Giuseppe to follow the example of Jesus Christ by being baptized, the cathedral bells began ringing, startling us.
Giuseppe had lost track of time and said he needed to join the other monks for midday prayers. Then he apologized, saying he would be unavailable in the future because he was going to a monastic retreat. His ordination as a priest would follow.
We were surprised at how that significant moment had just evaporated. Had I responded to my earlier prompting, we would have had more time to teach Giuseppe and he would have had time to finish reading the Book of Mormon. As far as I know, missionaries never taught him again.
After that experience, the sound of clock-tower bells reminded me how valuable and short our time is. For the rest of my mission, every time I heard a bell tower ring, I was motivated to speak to anyone I could about the gospel. Today, I still strive to follow promptings from the Spirit.

Laxhmi Tulaseeswari Mada speaks with reverence of the missionaries who brought her into the Church. From them, “Tulasee” learned that she was a child of God. “Before, I didn’t feel like I was worth much,” she says. “But now I have the gospel. I know I am a daughter of God.”
Prior to her conversion, Tulasee lived her life as do many Indian women—under the waning vestiges of purdah, a tradition rooted in modesty that, for centuries, has veiled and secluded women. Brought up by her stepparents, mistreated as a child and adolescent, Tulasee had little sense of self-worth and little hope for the future. “Many times I was crying inside and outside,” she says of her life before finding the gospel.
Learning that she was valuable in God’s eyes offered spiritual balm to Tulasee’s troubled life, but she was reluctant to tell her parents of her baptism. Her father, a prominent Hindu religious teacher known as a guru, noticed a change in her and wanted to know why she seemed happy. When he found out that she had rejected his beliefs, he felt dishonored and disowned her.
Tulasee says the knowledge that she has eternal potential and that she can be exalted prompted her to accept a call as a district missionary in Rajahmundry. “The knowledge I have gained is what my people need,” says Tulasee, named after a Hindu goddess. She retains her given name because “I want people to know that I am a convert. I love missionary work, but it is hard for me to be a missionary in Rajahmundry, because people know who I am.”
It is also hard because Tulasee is a woman. The sight of women missionaries sharing the gospel is not only unusual but unnerving to some Indian men. Male investigators are often surprised to learn that they cannot be exalted without their wives. In the Church, the doctrine of eternal marriage generates increased respect for women and has helped marriages, most of which are still arranged.
Today, Tulasee’s face and bright clothing radiate her newfound optimism and sense of worth. Her baptism and the gift of the Holy Ghost that followed gave her “a most precious feeling I had never felt before. Everybody needs that feeling,” she says. “Through the Holy Ghost, God gave me great answers. I love serving, and I need to share my testimony.”

I have often pondered what it means to have a “broken” heart. When I was a boy, my uncle allowed me to help him break wild horses. We roped them, placed a strong leather halter on their heads, and attached a heavy rope to it. Then we cinched the rope around a solid wooden post sunk deep in the earth. The young colts hated the rope and would fight it for days, setting their legs defiantly in the ground and straining with all their might against it. But they hurt only themselves. In time they learned to accept the rope, and then gradually we could approach them and teach them to be led. When my uncle could lay the rope loosely over his open palm, turn his back, and walk away with the horse following him, he would say, “This horse is broken.”

Temple Square missionaries also donate several hours each week in additional service. They volunteer at Welfare Square in Salt Lake City, where they sort used clothing for worldwide distribution to the needy, assist patrons in the bishops’ storehouse, teach English as a second language to any wishing to learn, and work in the cannery or dairy.
This experience proved useful for Sister Ilona Machinic of Vilnius, Lithuania, who met a Russian man on Temple Square. Able to speak to him in his native language, she discovered that he needed assistance and was able to call upon the resources of Welfare Square to help him. He gratefully went on his way, promising to repay the kindness of the Church somehow.

Illustrations by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
One night, Joseph was told that a mob was coming to try to steal the gold plates. He ran to get them from their hiding place in a hollow log.
Are the plates safe, Joseph?
Yes, I have them right here. I was attacked three times as I ran home! I hit each man who tried to tackle me.
Are you all right?
I think my thumb is dislocated.
Another time, Joseph felt prompted to hide the plates under the hearthstones. Moments later, a mob approached.
Do you remember Grandfather Mack’s story about chasing away the Indians?
Yes. He ran at them screaming and waving his stick. They thought he was leading an army, so they ran away. But he was really alone.
Are you all ready to do the same thing?
Joseph rushed out of the house screaming, and his family followed. It worked! The mob scattered.
So many people tried to steal the plates that Joseph and Emma moved from New York to Pennsylvania. Even there, some people would not leave them alone.
My husband, Martin, and I have given you money to help you translate. I deserve to see those plates! I won’t leave until I see them.
When Mrs. Harris didn’t find the plates in the house, she decided to look for them in the woods. It was hours before she came back.
Emma, I didn’t think there were snakes in this part of the country in the winter. I’m sure I found the place where Joseph buried the plates. But as soon as I started to clear away the snow, a horrible black snake appeared and hissed at me. I was so frightened I ran all the way back here!
With the Lord’s help, Joseph kept the plates safe until he was finished translating them.
Then he gave them back to the angel Moroni.

“I’m tired of being a clown,” Till sighed one day. “I think I’ll leave the circus.”
So, still wearing his clown suit, he set out on his way through the German countryside. By the time the sun had set, Till was quite tired. He stopped in front of a little village bakery. Mmmm—the bread and rolls sure look good, the traveler thought. How I’d like to bite into one of those freshly baked rolls!
“I need a helper, friend,” said the baker, who suddenly appeared at the door to his shop. “Can you bake?”
“Bake, uh, why of course!” answered the clown with a smile. Now Till knew as much about baking as an elephant knows, but he was hungry and needed to earn some money.
“Fine, you’re hired,” the baker said, leading him inside. “Here’s your apron. Now let’s go to work.”
Till watched the baker carefully and did whatever his master showed him. This was fine for a while, but one morning the baker announced, “I’ve been invited to a wedding feast in a neighboring village, and I won’t be back until tomorrow. Tonight you’ll have to do all the baking yourself.”
Till was worried and thought, What can I do with no one here to show me? With a puzzled frown he turned to the baker and asked, “What shall I bake?”
“What should you bake? Ha-ha, what a joke! Bake owls and monkeys for all I care!” The master laughed, for he thought Till was just asking a silly question. Laughing uproariously, he repeated, “Bake owls and monkeys for all I care!” Then he left, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Owls and monkeys,” Till muttered. “Then owls and monkeys I shall bake.”
He mixed the dough just as his master always did. When it had raised to twice its size, he punched it down and broke off a piece about the size of a small ball. He squeezed and patted it until he had made a monkey figure with a long curling tail, and he used raisins for its eyes. He made tray after tray of monkeys until he had filled five trays.
With the remaining dough he shaped owls with round heads atop their small squat bodies. He gave them raisin eyes too. From ten o’clock at night until three o’clock in the morning he worked, baking nothing but owls and monkeys.
Early the next day the master baker returned, expecting to see the bread and rolls all finished. Instead he found the bakery full of owls and monkeys. “What is this—a zoo?” he shouted.
Till held up a final tray proudly. “See,” he said, “I baked owls and monkeys just as you suggested. Don’t they look real?”
“Out, out, you chowderhead!” cried the master. “But first you must pay me for the dough you’ve wasted.”
Till thought fast. “All right, I’ll pay, but only if you let me take the owls and monkeys with me.”
“Take them,” said the angry baker. “What do I want with such foolishness?”
Till paid the baker and gathered up all the owls and monkeys. He put them into a large sack and quickly left the bakery. Then he ran off to the marketplace in the center of town where people were beginning to arrive to do the day’s shopping. When they saw the funny clown with his baked animals, they were indeed amused.
“Owls and monkeys!” exclaimed one woman. “Look at these!”
People gathered to look and to buy, and soon everything was sold. Not one owl was left. Not one monkey remained. Someone had even bought the sack!
When the baker saw all the excitement, he rushed out of his shop. “I’ll get that rascal!” he cried. “I forgot to charge him for the wood he burned in the bake ovens. He owes me more money.”
The angry baker looked all around the marketplace, but Till had gone. All he saw was a crowd of happy people with their owls and monkeys.
And where was Till? Who can say!”

“After traveling along several hundred kilometers the monotony was broken by our cattle stampeding. It seemed the longer we went and the harder the cattle worked, the easier they got frightened. The one that terrified me the most was at night. We had had one or two stampedes before so the cattle were prepared for one at any moment. I think it was because of the Indians, or it might have been the large herds of buffalo that we saw daily, that our company was counseled to corral their animals every night. At night the cattle were turned out to feed, they were watched and herded, then brought into the corral. It was made with wagons formed in a large circle with the wheels touching each other with one opening to drive them in, then logs were put across the opening, so they were perfectly secure.
“We were in buffalo country. We had heard what a terrible thing their stampedes were, and that not long before a large herd had started on their mad run and that when those in front came to a high bluff of the Platte River, they dashed in and made a bridge for the last ones who trampled to death and drowned their companions.
“One night about two o’clock the whole camp was peacefully sleeping when all at once there came an awful sound of tramping and bellowing, the ground shook, our wagon trembled and rocked. It flashed through my mind in a moment that a herd of buffalo was stampeding and that we would all be trampled to death. So I covered my head and prepared to die. Mother soon called out to Phebe and myself since there was no sound from our little bedroom (the front end of the wagon). I gave a smothered answer from under the bed clothes that I was alive.
“All at once there was a change. It was our own cattle that had broken out of the corral. Something had frightened them and then they started on their wild, mad run. They had run around and around inside and then broken through the logs blocking the opening. Nothing could hold them back. They scattered over the country for many kilometers. It took our men days and days to gather them back again, and they looked terrible, those that were left, for some died from exhaustion and others were killed. One pair of the captain’s cows ran up a very steep hill, fell backwards and broke their necks—one pair less to pull his wagon and one pair less to milk (oh the delicious milk—what a luxury on the plains).
“In that stampede there were two or three men hurt, one quite badly. He was a gold digger going to California who had overtaken us and was traveling with our company a while. The California emigrants traveled much faster than the Mormon emigrants. In trying to stop the cattle he was knocked down and trampled on. His groans were hideous. I did not see him again until one day the next winter, when he visited us. During all the time he was there he was down on his knees. He could stand up but could not sit down. I never heard from him again after he left for the gold mines. Old cattlemen say that tame, domestic horned cattle are the most crazy and wildest of all animals in a stampede. It is remarkable, but they seem to start all at once, just as if lightning had struck every one at the same instant.”

Since I joined the Church in 1994, many Church members have had an impact for good in my life. However, the positive influence of the prophet, President Gordon Bitner Hinckley, cannot be overemphasized.
I may not have met him physically, but spiritually I feel I have. Whenever I read his inspired messages, I imagine him talking to me one-to-one with his hand on my shoulder. A First Presidency Message entitled “Life’s Obligations” (see Liahona, May 1999, 2) helped me understand that although income is important, I do not need to be a multimillionaire to be happy. This message has brought me inner peace and satisfaction.
Encouraged also by the prophet’s counsel in that same message not to waste the great days of preparation for my future work, I decided to enroll in a computer engineering training college for one year. I was undertaking my one year of National Youth Service and resolved to use my time judiciously. At the end of the program, I knew how to repair and install computer systems. Now my first successful appointment after my year of National Youth Service is based on my added knowledge of computer systems.
I am closer to my friends and relatives than ever before. They understand and respect my standards now—simply because I’ve been living the counsel of the prophet. What a positive influence he has on me! How grateful I am to be under the guidance of a living prophet.

Finally, let me tell you about a woman I have never met but whom I love dearly because she was true to her covenants. My great-great-grandmother Charlotte Gailey Clark was one of the last 295 people to receive their covenants in the Nauvoo Temple prior to the beginning of the great exodus west. The temple had been closed since the Saints were being forced to leave, but all those who were worthy had not yet had an opportunity to receive their endowments. My great-great-grandmother and her husband would be leading their family west, and she wanted her covenants with her before she set out on that journey. I have thought about her so often these past few months. I someday want to say to her, “Grandma, thank you for keeping your covenants. I am so blessed to be your granddaughter. Your faithfulness has blessed me and my family—and will continue to bless all of us throughout the generations.” And sisters, our children and grandchildren will one day be able to say the same to us, and of us. One day they will thank us for keeping this “bag” of covenants with us and using them to bless the lives of our families.

Many of the LDS kids in Alice attend St. Philip’s, a private school run by another church. St. Philip’s has a strict dress code. There are even rules about jewelry—only one pair of earrings, no bracelets, no rings.
That was a problem for the Mormon kids—no rings. Like many Latter-day Saints worldwide, they like to wear CTR rings. But they were told to remove them, even though exceptions had been made before for jewelry with “religious significance.”
“I had explained why it was important to me,” says Lavinia Archibald, 16. “But one of my teachers kept saying to take the ring off or she’d confiscate it.”
The LDS students and their parents talked to the principal, who knew the LDS youth were some of his best students. He talked to the faculty, explained that CTR stands for “choose the right,” and gave his approval for Latter-day Saints to wear the rings.

When I was a member of our district presidency, I helped coordinate an activity in which the members of our district donated toys to poor children living in the city of Soacha, Colombia. We had a wonderful response from all the members. Not all the gifts were new, but most were in good condition.
As we finished loading the gifts on the buses that would take us to the city, a young girl came up to me with a plastic ball that had been heavily used and was scratched. I held the ball in my hand, wondering who would have donated such a beat-up ball. With some disdain I tossed it under the seat.
When we arrived, our youth began singing Christmas hymns. Their music, along with their Christmas hats, attracted a large group of children. When we started handing out the gifts, those children called other children. Soon we had given out all our gifts.
When we were about to leave, I saw a boy about eight years old running toward us, holding his little brother by the hand. When they arrived, the older boy said, “We came for our gifts.” His innocence left me without words and touched my heart.
I explained to him that the gifts were gone. He responded, “It doesn’t matter if my gift isn’t here, but my little brother’s must be here.”
Then I thought of the ball I had tossed under my seat. I told the boys I did have one more gift but that it was a humble one.
“It doesn’t matter what it is,” he said. “That is the one.”
I got on the bus and found the ball. When I gave it to the little boy, his joy overflowed. Jumping with gratitude, he said, “A ball! That is the present I asked the Christ child to bring me.” He continued to dance around happily as he and his older brother went away with their treasured gift.
I quietly stood there and wept as a warm feeling of peace and gratitude enveloped me. The concern and selfless care the older brother gave to his younger brother touched me, and I silently hoped that I would be as eager to bless others as the older boy was to bless his brother.
As the boys happily walked away, I was reminded of the Savior’s love for us. He did not even forget a little boy on a mountainside who had asked for a simple ball for Christmas.