Gospel Story Finder

Sam Beaver and his father are in Canada on a camping trip. Sam likes to explore and finds two trumpeter swans and their nest of five eggs at the edge of a pond. Sam watches the nest, and finally five little cygnets hatch. The swans discover that one of their little ones, Louis, is different—he doesn’t have a voice. Sam tries to help; he takes Louis to school, where the swan learns to read. Things go well until the beautiful lady swan, Serena, spurns Louis because he is defective. Louis’s father decides his son must have a voice, and so he steals a trumpet for Louis. The story of how Louis struggles to pay off his father’s debt, becomes a successful trumpeter, and wins Serena is an exciting tale.

I enjoyed reading the New Era in high school, but in some ways it made me feel discouraged and inadequate. It was always telling stories about talented youth, and I thought I could never be like them.
It seemed I wasn’t talented in anything. I was uncoordinated and bad at sports. I was extremely shy and self-conscious, and I was made fun of in school, often because of my high standards. I did make pretty good grades—mainly because I worked hard at it.
I figured that maybe there was still something I could do, even if I couldn’t be a real star like the people highlighted in the magazine. I read the scriptures about loving others and decided I would try to do that.
One day as I came out of Mutual class, I saw a girl standing at the end of the hall. She was slouched over. The thought came to me that this girl needed a friend, so I walked over and started talking to her. More accurately, I started listening to her. She talked very softly, but I showed interest in what she had to say.
We were friends from then on. She was four years younger than I was, and she was not a member of the Church; her neighbors had started bringing her to Church. A few months later, I was able to go to her baptism. She was 13 years old and the only member in her family.
I made friends with other people too. Sometimes I would think that a person wouldn’t want to be friends with me, but I found that these people seemed happy to have someone who cared about them.
When it was time to graduate, our high school had an awards assembly to honor students’ achievements. My name was not called, but my friend who had gotten baptized made a little award for me and had my friends sign it. I felt I had really achieved something too.
I also realized that everyone has their place and purpose in this world. I know that those talented and popular people had an influence on others. But perhaps if I had been very talented or very popular, I might have been too busy for my new friends, and those friendships have become rich treasures to me.

Like Nephi, I truly was “born of goodly ­parents.”21 My mom and dad were very intentional in their parenting, including creating a Darger family mission statement; insisting on early-­morning family scripture study, family prayer, and weekly family home evenings; and providing endless private moments of mentoring. One family home evening lesson I’ll never forget was taught by my mother about the importance of creating a “home-court advantage” in our home for every member of our family. We discussed things like the importance of celebrating each other’s success; how to be patient with a sibling when they were struggling; why we decorated our home with pictures of our family, the temple, and the Savior; and how to protect our home from influences that drive away the Spirit.22

The Darger family has grown over the years. While it has grown, endearing nicknames, family songs, matching outfits, and coordinated chants and cheers have all remained an important part of the Darger home-court advantage.

The strength that comes through this home-court advantage has been particularly needed and noticed during this past year. The COVID-19 pandemic caused many families, including mine, to adjust and virtually create a family-gathering atmosphere. During these weekly Zoom calls, the cheers and encouragement continued. One memorable Zoom call ended in a cheering session for my brother and his MBA graduation.

As a new missionary in Japan, I had a hard time understanding anyone, let alone getting to know them. It was difficult to learn to love people I didn’t even know, especially when I couldn’t understand what they were saying. But I made an effort to show my love for them, and I appreciated their efforts to reach out to me.
Each week, my companion and I received a loaf of homemade bread from a sister in the ward named Sister Senba. She showed her love for the missionaries by baking homemade bread and writing small but heartfelt notes.
I was touched that someone cared about me. I felt impressed to show my gratitude to her in some small way. I wrote her a note expressing how grateful I was for her and the sacrifices she and her family made to help the missionaries. We became friends, and I began to think of her as my “mother away from home.”
Months passed. Early one Wednesday morning I received a call from my mission president, who asked me to transfer down to Okinawa. When I hung up the phone, I was filled with the most bittersweet feeling. I dreaded having to say my good-byes. Each phone call to tell members of the ward I would be leaving on the following day made my heart hurt. Saying good-bye to the people I had come to love so much was more difficult than I had imagined it would be.
As I finished these calls, I noticed that the only one who had not answered the phone was Sister Senba. I was sad I would not be able to say good-bye to a member who had become so close to my heart.
The next morning two other missionaries and I left for the airport. When we arrived at the ticket counter and tried to buy tickets, the workers told us that our cards had been declined. We did not have any money to pay for the tickets, and the flight was leaving in 10 minutes! The three of us were in a panic. We were about to miss the flight and be stranded at the airport for the day.
But all of my panic turned to comfort when I turned around and saw Sister Senba walk into the airport. I was shocked that she was there because she hadn’t known what time our flight was. As she scrambled over to us, she smiled and gave us all bread to bring onto the plane.
As we explained to her that we were going to miss our flight, she became saddened. None of us knew what to do. Then Sister Senba began rummaging through her purse, looking for something that could help us. She jumped happily into the air when she found a small envelope in her purse in which, weeks ago, she had placed ¥50,000—the exact amount of money we needed. She gave us the money, and we were able to get our tickets in time. We thanked her with every ounce of gratitude our souls could muster, said good-bye, and rushed onto the plane.
After the plane took off, my fellow missionary turned to me and said, “Isn’t she amazing?! That was a miracle!”
I then realized how truly miraculous it really was. He then said, “What does your note say?” I saw he was reading a note that was with the bread Sister Senba had given him. As I realized I had one too, I pulled out the note and read a small piece of paper personally addressed to me, which immediately made my eyes swell with tears. It said, “I love you! Please don’t forget me! I will never forget you!”
At that moment I felt the Spirit more strongly than I ever have before. Sister Senba’s example taught me how important it is to follow the promptings of the Spirit—no matter how small or strange the prompting might seem. Through these promptings we have the power to change lives for the better. I know it was not a coincidence that she came to the airport. It was a miracle.
Truly the Lord uses small means to bring about His work. How blessed we are as members of this Church to have His influence in our lives. Let us all remain worthy to receive these promptings and bless the lives of the children of God.

My parents live on the east side of town on the other side from my apartment and campus. When I decided that I wanted to attend state university but didn’t want to live at home, I moved out and into the back room of an old, dark-green Victorian house with white trim. My parents were pretty understanding. We’ve always talked together fairly well. When I quit going to priesthood, and then Sunday School, and then Church completely, they never threatened or yelled at me. I’m sure they felt unhappy inside, but I always knew they loved me. I never really ignored my parents, but I had friends and things at school and got pretty busy. Still, my folks would call me up just to say hi, and my mom would bring over some of her delicious carrot cake every now and then. In fact, when I first started going back to church, because of two great home teachers, I didn’t say much about it to my parents. I remember the little pause the first time after I asked them to attend church with me at the institute, and then my dad said, “Are you sure?”
I was surprised when I got to my folks’ and found the lights off and the car gone. But I noticed the backyard light was on, so I got out of my car and went around the side. Out back I saw my dad working on his pride and joy, his small, old sailboat. When I was little we would go sailing on Lake Lourraine, up north. The boat really wasn’t very much. Only one at a time could get in it, but we all liked to try it, even if we spent most of the time in the lake and not the boat. As everybody grew older, everybody got busier, and we didn’t take the boat out much. Finally, it sat pushed against the garage until my youngest brother grazed it with the car; then, we hid it under some tarp behind the house. Now that all the kids are gone, my dad’s interest in sailing has flared up again. Late last year he started to tinker with the boat. A few weeks ago, I helped him paint it white.
“Ship ahoy,” I called as I walked around the house.
“Hey, what a surprise! Just what I needed, another hand.”
“Sounds fine. I was in the area and thought I’d drop by. Where’s mom?”
“Oh, she’s over at the neighbors. Did you just see Bishop Smith?”
“Boy, whatever happened to subtlety?”
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking about you tonight. Here, help me sand a little.” My dad gave me some yellow, fine-grade sandpaper. We both started to work.
“Well,” I said, “do you want to know what we talked about?”
“Whatever happened to subtlety?”
I smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”
“You tell him you’re too old?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he fall for it?”
I looked quickly at my dad. He was grinning at me. “No,” I said, “bishops don’t fall for much of anything. I guess dads don’t either.”
“I guess not. So, what are your plans?”
I walked over to the back steps and sat down. “I don’t know. What do you suggest?”
“What’s more important is what you think. It’s up to you, Jeff. You and the Lord. Have you ever talked to him about your future, about a mission?”
The words weighed on me, and I fiddled with a stem of foxtail grass I had pulled up. “No,” I said quietly, surprised that the night was so still.
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“I’m afraid he wouldn’t answer or want me. I’ve let him down before.”
My dad started sanding again, and I looked up at the sky and saw Venus burning brightly. “Isn’t she a beautiful boat?” my dad said.
I was glad to change the subject. “She sure is. A beaut.”
“I hope you’ll go sailing with me sometime.”
“You can count on that.”
“She might sink on us, you know.”
“Come on,” I laughed. “She’ll float just fine.”
“Well, she used to be a wreck.”
“But look at her now,” I said. “We’re proud of her. I’d be a fool not to sail in a boat as good as this one.” I paused for a moment and looked straight at my dad. “You know, I get the feeling you want to tell me something.”
“Son, we’d all be in pretty bad shape if we couldn’t start over when we make mistakes. We wouldn’t have a chance.”
“I know, dad.”
“Why don’t you ask the Lord, Jeff. You might be surprised.”
“Do you think he’ll answer me?”
“I promise you he will.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking at my dad’s hands still holding the sandpaper. “I mean it.”
“You know, Jeff, maybe you’d like to fast before you ask. Your mom and I would be glad to fast with you.”
We sanded some more, and I told my dad about work with Professor Gotlieb. When mom came home, we talked about fasting together. My parents were right behind me, and we agreed to do it. As I drove to my apartment, I could smell the scent of rain on the pines in the mountains mixed with apple tree blossoms. I thought of some things I’d like to do before I fasted. And for the first time, way back in my mind, I knew I’d be calling Bishop Smith soon, sooner perhaps than even he expected. And this time, I wouldn’t be going to his office with any excuses.

The first time he offered to take me fishing behind his place, I brought the stuff my friends and I used when we fished from the old country bridge.
“What kind of a rig you call that?” He looked at my large lead sinker and a treble hook with a wad of dried-up cheese stuck to it. “Here, let me see that. You’re not supposed to club the fish to death.” He took the sinker from the line. “And what’s this?” he said, pointing to the cheese. “You bring your lunch?”
“I usually use worms or cheese for bait.”
He shook his head. “I’ll teach you to fly fish. Then you’ll know something about fishing.”
He stepped a little ways into the river so he could get a free swing with his fly rod. “Look over there, just in front of the boulder.” He whipped the fly line back and forth a couple of times to let out line, and then cast. The fly landed gently on the water and glided into the swirling water downstream from the boulder. Suddenly the water boiled as a German Brown rose up and took the fly. He carefully fought it to his side and then reached down and swished it up in his net. “You think you can learn to do that?” he said as he reached down into the net and pulled out the trout and dropped him gently back into the water.
Nearly every weekday afternoon that summer I’d go over to his place with my rod, and we’d walk across his field to the river. He taught me how to cast a fly rod, and where to stand, and what kind of flies to use for each part of the summer. “You got to find out what they’re feeding on, Jamie. That’s the secret.”

As a skinny 12-year-old, I watched through a chain-link fence as my two older brothers earned all-state baseball honors.
Life was exciting because they were my brothers. The guy wearing number eight and striking out three batters in a row, and the player hitting home runs over the centerfielder’s head were the same guys I shared a basement bedroom with. They were the ones who first taught me about putting gel in my hair and how to start a campfire. We were good friends.
The feelings of inadequacy kicked in because as a five-foot-three, 98-pound weakling, I could not understand how I would ever be able to fire an 80-mile-per-hour fastball or hit towering home runs.
On one hot summer afternoon, my oldest brother could see something was bothering me. After he encouraged me to tell him what was on my mind, I said in muffled tones, “How will I ever become a great baseball player like you?”
“Matt,” he said in his usual cheerful voice, “you’ve just got to do the things that great baseball players do.” After thinking about this, I came to realize that great baseball players aren’t only naturally talented, but they make themselves skilled through hours of practice. I committed myself to do all I could.
Three broken noses and six years later, I was a starter on the varsity baseball team and had just signed a national letter of intent to play college baseball.

First flight is as breathtaking an experience for eagles as it is for people, and the proud lords of the skyways start out as bumbling, incompetent aviators. They too often crash and break a wing on the first flight and become easy prey to starvation or some four-legged predator. Kent once saw a ten-week-old eagle make its first flight and remembers: “He hopped off the nest as if he knew what he was doing, but all of a sudden he was speeding down toward the opposite cliff and losing altitude fast. You could see the shock in his eyes. His wings were spread out, his primary and secondary feathers flapping back and forth in the breeze. His head was moving back and forth watching the ground and looking back up at the nest—looking everywhere at once. He looked as if he was wondering what he had gotten himself into, whether he had really blown it, but you could also feel his exhilaration and the thrill of his first flight. He dropped down to the mouth of the canyon and hit an updraft that just pushed him right up out of sight. I found him the next day sitting on a tree unhurt.”

One night when I was reading my scriptures, I felt overwhelmed with the idea of becoming perfect. I sank back onto my bed and thought, How can I ever become the person I want so much to be?
As I pondered, I glanced around my room reviewing the daily reminders that decorated every shelf. My eyes settled on a small abacus my mother had purchased from a local boutique as a gift for me when I became a Beehive. Seven small wooden beads, each painted a different color representing the Young Women values, were strung on a thin wire arched on top of a small block of wood. On the side was hand painted, “Count on the Values.”
My question was answered. Count on the values to improve each day. How? I asked. More answers poured into my mind. Seven values, seven days—a value a day. I grabbed the nearest pencil to organize my thoughts.
Sunday—Divine Nature I would study the scriptures, listen in church, ponder the things I learned there, and prepare for the coming week by increasing my spirituality.
Monday—Faith I would have the faith to meet the challenges of a new week. I remembered a quotation, “If you believe you can, you can. If you think you can’t, you’re right.” I would have faith that with the Lord’s help I would be able to do all the things that were needful.
Tuesday—Knowledge I would focus on knowledge by scheduling time throughout the week for homework and additional study for upcoming tests.
Wednesday—Choice and Accountability I would hold a midweek evaluation on how I was going. Were the choices I’d made so far in the week helping me become a better person? Were they reflecting my belief in Christ? If I was falling short, there would still be time to renew a commitment to improve. If I was doing all I could, it could be a time of grateful prayer.
Thursday—Good Works I would look for someone in need of my service. It might be a fellow student who needed a study partner or perhaps a cheerful hello in the halls. Maybe it’s my neighbor in need of a ride, a quick errand done, or help with her small children.
Friday—Integrity When I went with my friends, I would remember who I was and what my beliefs are. I would encourage others to make good decisions, particularly when we were together as friends.
Saturday—Individual Worth This was a time to know I had grown in the gospel and come a little closer to the Savior. It was a time to prepare for Sunday and the upcoming week, feeling just a little closer to my eternal goals.
This weekly plan strengthened me as I tried to live one value each day to the fullest extent possible. At first I could only do one or two things to live that particular value, but it became easier. After a while I didn’t even have to plan out each act as I’d had to at first. Soon one day blended into another. I didn’t just serve others on Thursdays, but I thought of things to help others almost without realizing I was even doing it. I discovered myself being accountable daily for the choices I made. Study time became easier because I had taken the time to make a plan to learn new things.
The Lord helped me see that perfection isn’t an immediate accomplishment but an eternal quest as I learned line upon line, precept on precept, each new day.

As our youngest son, Clark, was approaching his 12th birthday, he and I were leaving the Church Administration Building when President Harold B. Lee approached and greeted us. I mentioned that Clark would soon be 12, whereupon President Lee turned to him and asked, “What happens to you when you turn 12?”

This was one of those times when a father prays that a son will be inspired to give a proper response. Clark, without hesitation, said to President Lee, “I will be ordained a deacon!”

The answer was the one President Lee had sought. He then counseled our son, “Remember, it is a great blessing to hold the priesthood.”

Elder Quentin L. Cook in a 2011 April conference address retold the following story:
When I was recently assigned to a conference in the Mission Viejo California Stake, I was touched by an account of their four-stake New Year's Eve youth dance. Following the dance, a purse was found with no outside identification. I share with you part of what Sister Monica Sedgwick, the Young Women president in the Laguna Niguel stake, recorded: "We didn't want to pry; this was someone's personal stuff! So we gingerly opened it and grabbed the first thing that was on top--hopefully, it would identify her. It did, but in another way--it was a For the Strength of Youth pamphlet. Wow! This told us something about her. Then we reached in for the next item, a little notebook. Surely this would give us answers, but not the kind we were expecting. The first page was a list of favorite scriptures. There were five more pages of carefully written scriptures and personal notes."
The sisters immediately wanted to meet this stalwart young woman. They returned to that purse to identify its owner. They pulled out some breath mints, soap, lotion, and a brush. I loved their comments: "Oh, good things come out of her mouth; she has clean and soft hands; and she takes care of herself."
They eagerly awaited the next treasure. Out came a clever little homemade coin purse made from a cardboard juice carton, and there was some money in a zippered pocket. They exclaimed, "Ahh, she's creative and prepared!" They felt like little children on Christmas morning. What they pulled out next surprised them even more: a recipe for Black Forest chocolate cake and a note to make the cake for a friend's birthday. They almost screamed, "She's a HOMEMAKER! Thoughtful and service minded." Then, yes, finally some identification. The youth leaders said they felt greatly blessed "to observe the quiet example of a young lady living the gospel."

It all started a few years ago when the young men and women of the ward began to hear of the not-so-happy experiences some children around the country were having as they went out on Halloween night to trick-or-treat. Remembering how much they as youngsters had enjoyed the traditional activities of this night, they felt it somehow wasn’t fair that their younger brothers and sisters should have to miss out. And so a new tradition was born.

The first year the party was held, only the Primary children and their parents were invited, but about halfway through that evening the young people realized they were leaving out almost half the children of the neighborhood. The next year everyone under 12 and their parents were invited. “This year we brought nine nonmember neighbors,” said Adrienne Brantzeg, a Laurel. Two of those were six-year-old Martin Seraphin and his mother who had recently moved with their family to Salt Lake City from New Jersey. “He’ll remember this until he’s 43,” Mrs Seraphin said of her son. “I can’t believe there are young people who would go to all this work just to serve the neighborhood children.”

And they do go to a lot of work. Planning begins during the last two weeks of September. Youth and adult leaders meet to make assignments. Traditionally, the Laurels are in charge of food (a light dinner), the Mia Maids handle publicity and decorations, and the Beehives plan and direct games. The priests, teachers, and deacons put together the spook alley that wanders through several rooms on the second floor of the meetinghouse, and the priests build the cardboard tunnel slide that swoops the children from the end of the spook alley, down the stairs, and into the foyer of the chapel. All are asked to help with cleanup.

After the assignments are made and specific class members are put in charge of different items and activities, adult leaders can take a deep breath and relax. “My Laurel adviser kept calling to check on how the food was coming,” said Cyndi, “but she didn’t have to worry.”

“I spent an entire afternoon making 350 individual Jello salads in plastic cups,” said Monika Guertler. “And after the party was over, and I looked at the Jello puddles here and there on the floor, I still felt it was worth it!”

Mia Maid president Allison Wright and her classmates hand-made and delivered invitations to all the homes within the ward boundaries. Over 300 people attended, with approximately 100 being nonmember children and their parents. “It’s a great chance for us to associate with and get to know those we don’t usually meet through Church activities,” said Marianne Miner. “I was in charge of the punch and chips, and I got a big cauldron-looking pot, put dry ice in the punch to make it smoke, and asked one of my neighbors to dress up like a witch to serve it.”

The Beehives, with Kim Astin directing, decided on five games, some of them successful repeats from former years. “We played Pin the Grin on the Pumpkin, Bite the Apple, Pop the Great Pumpkin’s Balloon, Keep Your Nose Clean (wet sponges are thrown at a member of the ward who stands behind a large cardboard partition and sticks his head through a small opening), and we also had a cakewalk, which works something like musical chairs,” said Kim.

Each year the young men try to make the upstairs spook alley even better than the year before. This year each of the quorums was in charge of a room. “It was pretty spooky,” one little clown was heard to say, “but you don’t have to go through it alone.” The young men make sure that one of their number or a young woman who isn’t busy at the moment accompanies each child through so that no scares are taken too seriously. And many children brave the alley not only because of their “big” friends who help them through, but also because if they don’t go through the spook alley, they don’t get to go down the cardboard slide. The Moffat brothers, Kayle and David, have always volunteered to build the slide. Kayle built it with David’s help for a couple of years, but now he is serving as a full-time missionary and David is handling it alone. David says that by the time he gets his call in a year or two, Kayle will be back and able to take over again.

Do the children seem to miss the trick-or-treat activities of the past? “We think they’d miss our party more,” said the deacons. Weeks before Halloween each year, neighborhood children and their grateful parents, member and non, ask if there’s going to be another celebration.

“Altogether it’s a great tradition,” said Marianne. “You feel happy and satisfied when you see that everyone has enjoyed themselves.” “You feel like you’ve accomplished something,” added Cyndi. “And every year,” said Monika, “you feel as if it is the best party so far.”

Will they do it again next year? You bet! After all, everyone likes to feel happy, and it’s an even deeper and more lasting happiness when there’s a little bit of tired, a good amount of work, and a whole bunch of share involved. Start your own tradition of service and make it a habit! According to the young men and young women of the Valley View Sixth Ward, you not only create a warmer, friendlier, safer neighborhood, you create a better you.

Instead, I joined a neighborhood team with lots of friends. We had a great time the first year and were successful, but the second year the team struggled and sometimes lost focus on the game. I became frustrated. I put my best effort into every game, but we almost always lost.
After one very bad game, Coach Hashem, whose team was doing well, approached me on the soccer field. He asked me how things were going. I said, “Not so good.” I told him I missed my old teammates. Hashem coached with a great deal of skill and always seemed to get the most from his players.
“How would you like to be a guest player for our team when we go to the next tournament?” Hashem asked.
“I would really like that!” I responded excitedly.
“Great!” Hashem said, smiling. “I need to ask you one question though. Can you play on Sundays?” My stomach muscles tightened. I suddenly felt sick. I remembered what had happened that last time this question had been asked.
I looked at my mom. I looked at my dad. They too waited for my answer. I looked at Hashem.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t play on Sundays,” I said. “Will that make a difference?”
Hashem stood there for a moment. He had seen the expression of hope on my face fade quickly as I had answered his question.
“No, that’s OK,” Hashem responded. “We probably won’t get to the Sunday finals. We’d love to have you play with us.”
Soon I started practicing with Hashem’s team. The team played with a great deal of intensity, and they welcomed me back. I loved playing with them.
We didn’t win all of our games at the tournament, but we all tried our hardest, and we had a good time. Soon I became a permanent member of Hashem’s team. Though they knew I didn’t play on Sundays, they still appreciated me for what I added to the team on the other game days.

I share just one tender experience. While President Monson was serving as a bishop, he learned that a member of his ward, Mary Watson, was in the hospital. As he went to visit her, he learned that she was staying in a large room with several other patients. When he approached Sister Watson, he noticed that the patient in a neighboring bed quickly covered her head.
After President Monson had visited with Sister Watson and given her a priesthood blessing, he shook her hand, said good-bye, and prepared to leave. Then a simple but amazing thing happened. I quote now from President Monson’s own recollection of this experience:
“I could not leave her side. It was as though an unseen hand [was] resting on my shoulder, and I felt within my soul that I was hearing these words: ‘Go over to the next bed where the little lady covered her face when you came in.’ I did so. …
“I approached the bedside of the other patient, gently tapped her shoulder and carefully pulled back the sheet which had covered her face. Lo and behold! She, too, was a member of my ward. I had not known she was a patient in the hospital. Her name was Kathleen McKee. When her eyes met mine, she exclaimed through her tears, ‘Oh, Bishop, when you entered that door, I felt you had come to see me and bless me in response to my prayers. I was rejoicing inside to think that you would know I was here, but when you stopped at the other bed, my heart sank, and I knew that you had not come to see me.’
“I said to [Sister] McKee: ‘It does not matter that I didn’t know you were here. It is important, however, that our Heavenly Father knew and that you had prayed silently for a priesthood blessing. It was He who prompted me to intrude on your privacy.’”17

Three years ago I attended the funeral of a very dear friend. It was like most funerals—both a time of rejoicing for a life well lived and of sorrow as those in attendance realized how much they would miss this majestic person. We were saying good-bye to one of the truly great women of the Church in Latin America. As a young teenager, Flavia Garcia Erbolato was one of the first six to be baptized in the interior city of Campinas, Brazil. For more than 50 years she had remained faithful to the Church. After marrying her husband, Oscar Erbolato, and spending a couple of years in the early 1950s here at Brigham Young University, they returned to Brazil and worked and served in numerous positions in São Paulo. Flavia’s last job was as the director of translation for the Church in Brazil. Among many other things, she supervised the recent monumental task of retranslating the Book of Mormon into Portuguese. At the viewing, her influence in the Church in Brazil was exemplified by the presence of General Authorities, General Authorities emeritus, past mission presidents, and other leaders of the Church. There were also many others like myself who had benefited from her many quiet and mostly secret Christian acts of kindness.

The quiet hum of whispering normal at a viewing dissipated with the appearance of an elderly gentleman, Norton Nixon. As he stopped at her casket to pay his regards, he struggled both physically and emotionally. His body was showing the long-term effects of the diabetes that had already taken much of his sight and ability to walk. The physical effort to be at the viewing was considerable, and he probably should not have come. But this was something he would not miss. He wanted to pay his respects to one of his dearest friends. Flavia had been his only convert during a two-and-a-half-year mission to Brazil in the early 1940s that included much hard work, some time in jail, and little feeling of success. Yet his joy was great over this one soul who did come into the Church.

“Hi, Mom,” Max called as he walked into the kitchen and set his backpack down.
“Hey, buddy.” Mom pulled Max into a big hug and ruffled his hair. “Wow. I can hardly see you under there! I think you need a haircut.”
Max grinned. “I was thinking the same thing. And I know just how I want it cut. You know that haircut where it’s shorter in the back and on the sides and longer on the top?” A lot of boys in Max’s class had that haircut. And so did Max’s favorite comic book character—Sam Slate, kid superspy.
“I’m not really an expert hair cutter, but I think I can do that,” Mom said.
“I’ll grab the clippers.” Max raced to the bathroom as fast as he could. He couldn’t wait for his awesome new haircut!
When Max got back, Mom was ready with a towel, a chair, and a hand mirror.
“How short do you want it in the back?” she asked. She showed Max the clipper sizes, one through eight. “The smaller the clipper number, the shorter it cuts the hair.”
“Hmm.” Max sorted through the different clippers. “Maybe a size two on the bottom and a seven on top?”
“All right. Have a seat. World’s best haircut coming up!” Mom draped the towel over Max’s shoulders and turned on the clippers. Max listened to the buzzing sound as she trimmed around his ears. The falling hair tickled the back of his neck. Max tried to picture how he’d look when Mom was done. He could already feel himself transforming into Sam Slate.
Max’s younger sister, Emma, came in through the front door.
“Hi, Mom! I’m home.”
“We’re in the kitchen, honey,” Mom called.
Emma poked her head through the doorway. “Oh! Looking good.” She came in and dropped her backpack on the table. “I’m starving!”
“Me too,” Max said.
Emma peeked into a cupboard. “Can I make peanut butter crackers, Mom?”
“Sure. Can you make Max some too?”
“OK.” Emma stood on her tiptoes to reach for the peanut butter on the top shelf. “It’s too high. Mom, can you help me?”
“Good timing. I just finished with the back.” Mom switched off the clippers and went to help Emma. Then she came back and stood in front of Max. “OK, now for part two.”
Max was so excited that he wanted to jump out of his chair. But he sat very still. Mom made the first cut. Then she gasped.
“What’s wrong?” Max asked.
Mom bit her lip. “Max, I am so sorry! I forgot to change out the clippers for the top.”
Max’s heart sank. He slowly picked up the mirror.
“I can cut the rest of your hair short to match,” Mom said. “But that’s the best I can do.”
Max stared at the big chunk of missing hair. He definitely didn’t look like Sam Slate. He looked like a disaster! For a second, he wanted to shout or maybe cry. But instead, he took a deep breath. Mom was just trying to help. After a minute, he felt a lot calmer.
“It’s OK, Mom. After all, hair grows back, right?” he said with a smile.
Mom gave him a hug. “Right. And when it does, I’ll triple-check the settings so you can have the world’s best haircut.”
Mom finished cutting Max’s hair. It wasn’t the cool style Max wanted, but it was OK. Max smiled as he looked in the mirror again. He had followed Jesus by choosing to be kind. And being like Jesus was even better than being like Sam Slate.

When I studied in France, it would have been easy for me to distance myself from the Church. My family was in Tahiti and wouldn’t know what I was doing. But I had a testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and I wanted to feel his presence. So I decided to live in harmony with the teachings of my Heavenly Father. One day when I was fasting because of an exam I had to take at school, I felt the Lord’s presence strongly and knew that his love was with me. I will never forget that moment.
Jerry Brothers, 22Papeete, Tahiti

One day my cousin Jeff came over to play. We played under the back porch. Jeff had a little dump truck and I had a windup tractor. Mom gave us an empty cereal box and we made houses and roads.
I wanted to make another road. Jeff was using the shovel, so I took Woody out of my pocket and started to dig. Woody dug nice roads. I kept making the road longer and longer until I hit a rock and then SNAP! I picked up the piece that had broken off and tried to fix Woody, but it was no use. I felt like crying, but Jeff was there.
“It’s just a dumb stick,” Jeff said. I put Woody’s broken pieces under the porch steps and kept on playing. When Jeff went home, I crawled under the porch and got the pieces.
“I’m sorry, Woody,” I whispered. He didn’t say anything. I put him in the cereal box and carried him down to where we planted the flower and made a hole. Then I put Woody in the hole and covered him up.
He was a good stick and I miss him a lot.

I experienced this kind of love when I traveled to Africa to do work for the Primary. I had been asked by President Hinckley, when he called me to serve as the Primary general president, to take care of the children of the world. As I prepared for this trip, I felt apprehensive about what I would see there. Would I be able to stand the conditions in which I would see the children? But what I experienced was something totally unexpected. I saw children living in terrible conditions, it is true. I realized that I could do nothing to change that. But, at the same time, I was filled with an overwhelming feeling of love for them and a realization of the love that our Heavenly Father feels for them. That love comforted my heart.

Another story I would like to share happened winter semester 2011. The girls name in this story has been changed for confidentiality. It was the beginning of the semester and I just moved into a different house off campus. Friday evening I came home to find our neighbor Sarah sitting on the front porch all by herself playing with a cat that lived outside the house. She looked lonely and I felt bad for her but I simply said hi, and then walked to the back of the house to my apartment. I was planning to have a few friends over that evening to watch a movie. As I went into my house I felt strongly that I needed to go back outside and invite Sarah to come over to watch a movie with us, so I did. That evening was the beginning of a good friendship with Sarah. She started hanging out with my group of friends. After the semester ended Sarah and I both moved to different wards and didn’t see each other as often. Not for any particular reason, we no longer hung out anymore. We started hanging out with different groups of friends and went our own separate ways. Whenever I would see Sarah on campus or other places we always talked and said hi to each other. Just recently Sarah graduated from BYU–Hawaii. As my wife and I were saying goodbye to her she thanked me for being such a good friend to her. She said that I was so kind to her when she first got here. She said that I really helped her to meet people as well as get out and do stuff. Her roommates never invited her to do anything and she just thanked me for making her feel welcome. I could tell how sincere she was as she told me this.

This experience helped me to realize the difference I had made in her life. I never thought of it as anything great, I simply just invited her to come play games, but for her it made all the difference. She was a new transfer student who didn’t know anyone. She felt alone, which is especially hard when you go to a school thousands of miles away from home.