Gospel Story Finder

“This is it, Mark,” I say as I gaze out at the field strewn with hundreds of colorful eggs. “Next year we’ll be too old, so we have to win the prize basket today.”
“I know, Emily,” Mark answers, his grip tight on our basket, his body poised to bolt onto the field.
At the community egg hunt, we’re allowed to work in teams of two. My friend Mark and I have come close to winning before, but this year we have to win the prize basket. Besides the chocolate eggs and stuffed animals in it, there are a gift certificate to a video store, a bunch of CDs, two passes to that new amusement park—all kinds of great stuff.
And we’re going to do it, because this year, Mark and I are among the oldest, tallest, and fastest kids here. I know we can scoop up more eggs than anyone else.
Behind me I hear a woman saying, “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to let her try this, Mike.”
I glance back and catch a glimpse of a girl in a yellow skirt. She is with her parents and looks younger than me.
The flag goes down, and everyone goes tearing onto the field. Mark and I have planned out our strategy. We run past the kids stooping down to pick up the first eggs they come to. Instead, we head for the eggs beyond them. We grab eggs like crazy.
Mark and I have loaded our basket by the time the others have cleaned the front part of the field and start swarming into the area where we are. Even so, Mark and I continue to find a few eggs with the other children.
“You’re going to win,” one of the older boys groans when he sees our basket.
I smile. Yes, we’re going to win. I’m sure of it.
By now, the field has almost been picked clean of eggs. Mark and I start to recheck our chances of winning. We feel pretty confident.
Then I notice the girl in the yellow skirt walking slowly toward us. What is she doing? I wonder. She doesn’t have a partner, nor has she found a single egg. She holds her empty basket in one hand. Her other hand grips a long white stick tipped with red. She taps the stick to the ground and sweeps it in front of her as she walks as if she’s looking for something in the grass.
She can’t see! That’s why she has no eggs. Everyone ran out in front of her and grabbed every single egg, leaving none for her to find.
Why did she try this? I wonder. She couldn’t possibly beat us to eggs, let alone win.
Then I realize something. All I care about is finding the most eggs and winning the prize. But that girl doesn’t care a bit about the prize. She just wants to find eggs for the fun of it. And we’ve all taken that chance away from her.
I look over at Mark. He’s watching the girl, too. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he knows what I want to do. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s begging me not to do it. He wants to win.
But I step forward, lift an egg from our basket, and place it quietly in front of the girl. As her stick hits the egg with a satisfying clicking sound, she smiles. She bends over, gropes around for the egg, and finding it, places it in her basket.
I put down another egg. As she finds that one, Mark adds one to the grass. We both put out a couple more.
A little boy darts in front of me, heading for the eggs. I gently grab him before he can reach them. “No,” I whisper in his ear. “They’re hers.”
I know the girl will never have the most eggs—it takes her a long time to find them, and the hunt’s almost over. But at least she’ll have some. And the smile on her face shows how much fun she’s having.
The contest judge announces that the hunt is over, that we should bring all our baskets up to determine the winner. Mark and I go, but we know that we may have lost. We do lose by four eggs.
Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see the woman who stood behind me earlier. Her eyes glisten with tears, and she mouths “Thank you” at me before she goes to admire the eggs in her daughter’s basket.
And then my mom’s there. “Emily, Mark,” she says. “I know how much you wanted that prize.”
I shrug. “It’s OK that we didn’t win.”
My mom puts her arms around our shoulders and squeezes. “But you two did win.”
She’s right. Even if our basket was totally empty right now, I think I would still feel like a winner, and I can tell that Mark feels that way, too. We wanted that prize basket. Instead, we’re taking home a wonderful feeling and the memory of a young girl’s smile. That’s the best prize of all.

Robbie buttoned his jacket to the top and stuck his hands deep into his pockets as he turned to leave.
“Do you have enough money for your valentines?” his mother asked.
Robbie nodded, making the coins in his left pocket jingle.
“Remember to get enough for everyone in your class,” Mother cautioned. “And don’t forget your new teacher.”
Should I get a valentine for Miss Evers? he wondered. She’s just a substitute teacher.
Robbie was choosing some valentines from the drugstore card rack when two of his school friends came in.
“Hi, Steve, Rick,” Robbie greeted them.
“Any good ones left?” Steve asked.
“Lots of them,” Robbie answered.
“Maybe I’ll just get this package,” Rick decided, picking up a cellophane bag and reading: “Forty valentines with envelopes, plus one for Teacher.”
“I wish we knew Mrs. Davis’s address,” Robbie spoke up. “I bet she’d like to get some valentines from the class.”
“I have an idea!” Steve said excitedly. “We could all put cards in the valentine box for Mrs. Davis and ask the principal to take them to her.”
“That’s a great idea,” Rick agreed. “And we don’t have to worry about giving Miss Evers a valentine.”
Robbie frowned. He didn’t like Miss Evers very much, but he wondered if she’d be hurt when no one gave her a valentine.
“I might get one for both of them,” Robbie announced.
“How come?” Rick wanted to know. “Miss Evers isn’t really our teacher and it’s no fun being in her class.”
“I know,” Robbie admitted. “And I’ll be glad when Mrs. Davis is back, but—”
“But what?” Steve interrupted.
“Well, if I were a substitute teacher, I’d feel kind of bad if all the children brought valentines for the regular teacher and nobody gave one to me,” Robbie explained. “After all, Miss Evers has been our teacher for almost two weeks now.”
“But it’s her own fault that nobody likes her!” Rick argued. “She could at least smile once in a while.”
I wish she would smile, Robbie thought. Miss Evers is strict, all right, but at least she keeps the room quiet and makes sure we do our work.
When Robbie got home, he showed his mother the valentines he had picked out.
“Your friends at school will like these,” she said. “And I’m glad you bought one for each of your teachers. I know they’ll both appreciate them.”
After supper that night, Robbie signed and addressed his valentines. On Mrs. Davis’s card he added, “Get well soon!”
He wasn’t sure what he should put on Miss Evers’s card or even if he should sign his name. Finally he wrote, “I hope you have a happy Valentine’s Day!” and then he signed his name “Guess Who.”
The next afternoon Miss Evers placed the large red and white box on a table at the front of the room and removed the top. “We’ve finished our work for the day, and now it’s time to pass out valentines,” she announced.
Robbie’s heartbeat quickened as Miss Evers began to read off the names on each valentine. “Here’s one for Mrs. Davis,” she said. “I’ll see that she gets it. And here’s another one for her!” Soon there was a little stack of cards for Mrs. Davis.
“Marcia, Steve, Johnny, …” Miss Evers called as she passed out the valentines. Everyone seemed to be getting nearly an equal number—all but Miss Evers; she didn’t have any.
“Sharon, Robbie, Miss Evers—
Suddenly she stopped passing them out. “Miss Evers?” she echoed, a surprised look on her face. “How nice!”
Everyone was quiet as she opened the envelope. Robbie watched her expectantly.
“What a lovely valentine,” she said, smiling and holding it up. “And it’s from somebody named ‘Guess Who!’”
Robbie blushed as Steve and Rick looked at him.
“This is the nicest valentine I’ve received during all the years I’ve been a substitute teacher,” Miss Evers continued. She looked at the card again. “Thank you, ‘Guess Who,’ whoever you are!”
Miss Evers smiled a beautiful smile and it seemed to Robbie as though she were smiling right at him.

Many years ago, on my first visit to the village of Sauniatu in Samoa, my wife and I met with a large gathering of small children—nearly 200 in number. At the conclusion of our messages to these shy yet beautiful youngsters, I suggested to the native Samoan teacher that we go forward with the closing exercises.
As he announced the final hymn, I suddenly felt compelled to greet personally each of these children. My watch revealed that the time was too short for such a privilege, for we were scheduled on a flight out of the country, so I discounted the impression. Before the benediction was to be spoken, I again felt that I should shake the hand of each child. I made the desire known to the instructor, who displayed a broad and beautiful Samoan smile. In Samoan, he announced this to the children. They beamed their approval.
The instructor then revealed to me the reason for his and their joy. He said, “When we learned that a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles was to visit us here in Samoa, so far away from Church headquarters, I told the children if they would earnestly and sincerely pray and exert faith like the Bible accounts of old, that the Apostle would visit our tiny village at Sauniatu and through their faith he would be impressed to greet each child with a personal handclasp.”
Tears could not be restrained as the precious boys and girls walked shyly by and whispered softly to us the sweet Samoan greeting “talofa lava.” A profound expression of faith had been evidenced.

Freda was glad to be home. It was good to be with her family again. She had been away to a special school for a while so she could learn how to read braille and take care of herself without bumping into things. She had also learned that the only way she was different from other people was that she could not see.
Still, Freda found it difficult to adjust to another school. She had books printed in braille so she could learn along with the other students. But she wanted to join in some of the other activities, particularly the art contest the teacher had announced at school today.
Freda couldn’t paint a picture. She didn’t even know what blue looked like, though people had tried to tell her. The sky could be blue, red, orange, or yellow, for all she knew.
After arriving home from school Freda went into her room, sat in her rocking chair, and tried to think of something she could make for the contest. Her cat Fluffy jumped onto her lap and cuddled down to have his ears rubbed. As Freda rocked and petted Fluffy, she began to feel sad because she couldn’t see to paint a picture.
Then an idea started running through Freda’s mind. Suddenly she stopped rocking and began to laugh.
Fluffy, who had been purring contentedly, sat up in alarm and nudged Freda with his paws to remind her to pet him some more. “Not now, Fluffy,” Freda said putting him on the floor and hurrying into the kitchen.
“Mother, could you buy me some clay so I can make a statue for the art show?” she asked excitedly.
“That’s great idea, dear. I’ll buy the clay tomorrow,” her mother promised.
The next afternoon Freda’s mother gave her a box and told her, “You add water to the clay until it’s the right consistency to mold, then you can model whatever you want. When you’re finished, we’ll put it in the oven so it will harden like stone.”
Freda covered the table with newspapers and started to work. When she had the basic shape completed, she called Fluffy, who hopped into her lap. She petted the cat, molded the clay, and then she petted him some more.
Fluffy loved it and purred happily. He didn’t remember when he had been petted so much.
Day after day, Freda went to her room after school and worked on her statute. At last she was satisfied. Freda picked Fluffy up, hugged him, and said, “Thank you for being such a good model.” Then she carried her statute into the kitchen and placed it on a cookie sheet so her mother could put it into the oven to bake.
“It’s beautiful,” her mother told her when she took the statue out of the oven.
“I can hardly wait till it’s cool so I can see it, too,” Freda commented.
Then they both laughed—to Freda, “seeing” meant touching.
The next morning she ran her fingers all over the statue before carefully wrapping her entry in tissue paper to carry to school.
The judges for the art show studied the entries and then placed ribbons on the winners. In each grade there was a red ribbon for first place, a blue one for second place, and a white one for third place. A red, white, and blue ribbon would be awarded for the best entry in the whole school.
Finally, it was time for Freda’s class to go to the auditorium to see the display. Freda was happy that she had been able to enter the contest.
Everyone agreed with the judges’ choice of Freda’s clay cat as the top award.
“That cat looks almost real,” one boy said, admiring Freda’s statue. “You want to reach out and pet him.”
Freda smiled. She was glad Fluffy looked to others the same way he looked to her fingertips.

Although I was disappointed by Brother Kelly’s answer, he spoke the truth. Had I spent high school dating only one person, I would have missed out on meeting people who helped prepare me to recognize my husband when I met him years later. No wonder I couldn’t know the answer to my secret question. Some of my classmates married old friends, but I didn’t. At age 16, I was nine years away from meeting my future spouse!
In the years following high school, I dated a few men seriously until the Holy Ghost confirmed that “the appropriate time” and person had come into my life. I’m grateful I waited for the best time to pursue exclusive relationships and received all I’d hoped for: a sense of belonging in a marriage that could last for eternity, and a confirmation that Heavenly Father was happy with my decision.

My dad insisted he was not an alcoholic. He said he only drank beer and you couldn’t be an alcoholic if you only drank beer. I believed it for a long time because I loved him. Maybe he believed it himself.
My dad would sometimes disappear for two or three days and then come home drunk.
He never just smiled and said, “I’m going to go get drunk.” He always left when he was angry.
Many things made him angry.
If I cried he would get angry.
If I asked too many questions he would get angry.
If I didn’t say the right thing he would get angry.
Sometimes I didn’t say anything for fear I would say the wrong thing. Then he would be angry because I wasn’t talking.
Usually he started drinking Friday night. Toward the end of each week I tried very hard to be good. I thought if I didn’t do anything wrong he wouldn’t get angry and go drink.
Occasionally he didn’t drink on Friday. I thought it must be because I had been good.
My mother encouraged this way of thinking.
I tried very hard to be good, but he kept on drinking. I thought it was all my fault.
I prayed he wouldn’t get drunk again. He kept drinking. I thought my Heavenly Father didn’t make him stop because I wasn’t good enough.
I remember trying to do everything perfectly. I didn’t want to “make trouble” at home. As I look back, I realize I have always tried to earn people’s acceptance. If I did things well enough, they would like me in spite of my father’s drinking.
My mom came from a very religious family. They went to church together. They did a lot of fun things together. I loved to hear her talk about when she was a child. I would pretend that I had been a child then too. It must have hurt her a lot to live with a man who got drunk.
She was ashamed of his drinking. She told me over and over not to tell anyone. “It’s a secret,” she’d say.
I loved her. I kept her secret. But it was lonely. I thought I was the only young person in the Church who had this kind of home.
What a relief it would have been for me to share the burden, to know that I was not alone.
At sacrament meeting I watched other families sit together. I watched them smile at each other. I wanted my dad to be there. I wanted our family to sit together.
But he never came to church. He said they didn’t like him because he drank beer. My ward had parties for fathers and their children. I helped plan these parties. I never got to go to them.
On Father’s Day our ward gave rosebuds to all the fathers. I helped pick every rosebud in our garden. My dad didn’t come to the meeting.
I hated it when they talked about temple marriage at church. I hated hearing my family was different. I knew as long as my father drank we could not go to the temple. I loved my mother. I loved my dad. I wanted to be with them forever. It’s very difficult to sit in class when they are teaching about the temple.
I just kept going to church. I decided I would not drink. I decided I would be married in the temple.
I’m an adult now, and I definitely don’t drink. I have been married in the temple, and I’m happy that my children are sealed to me.
I was afraid a lot.
I was afraid my dad would kill himself while driving drunk. I was afraid he’d kill someone else when he was driving drunk.
Late at night I would lie in my bed with all the lights out. I would wait and wait to hear his car pull in. I’d pray over and over, “Please help him get home safely. Please don’t let him hit anyone.”
In the morning I’d look at how the car was parked in the driveway. Sometimes it would be barely an inch from the house. Sometimes it would be over into the neighbor’s flowers.
I was afraid he’d embarrass me. He did. He’d wake up from sleeping off a drunk and not really be sober. He’d stumble out of the bedroom. He’d stink of beer. He’d say dumb things. I hated it.
My real friends still liked me. Still, it was embarrassing.
I was afraid my parents would get a divorce. Many times they would have fights when my dad drank. He had a black leather suitcase in his closet. He’d get it out and start packing his clothes. If it were daytime I’d run out of the house. One day I took my dad’s white pocketknife with me. I wanted to have something of his if he left.
Sometimes I was afraid my parents would not get a divorce. I was afraid they would keep living together and I would never have a home that was nice. I thought my mother and I could go live with my grandparents. It sounded so safe.
The movies and television show handsome men and beautiful women drinking. These people do clever and funny things.
My dad didn’t do clever things. He did disgusting things. He would wet the bed. I would have to strip off the sheets and blankets. Then it was my job to turn over that big, blue, wet mattress. I would grab hold for all I was worth. I pulled. I pushed. It would spring back at me. The wet smelly thing would be in my face.
He threw up. He threw up and then threw up some more. My bedroom was next to the bathroom. I would bury my head in my pillow. I didn’t like that sickening smell.
Sometimes my dad would walk around without clothes on when he was drunk.
He never hit me when he was drunk. But lots of people do get mean when they drink. They hit their children and abuse their families.
Now I’m an adult I can forgive him. I know now that alcoholism requires treatment. He did the best he could do without help. But I didn’t forgive him while we were living in the same house.
It was Christmas Eve. I sat by our tree. I remember the sparkling icicles and the glowing red and white lights. I was sad my dad wasn’t home. He was drinking at some bar.
It’s not the way I wanted Christmas to be.
Drinking ruined birthdays. It ruined Thanksgiving. It ruined New Year’s and Easter and other days.
Holidays were often the saddest, loneliest, most painful times of the year. On those days the contrast was sharp and bitter between how life could and should be and how it really was.
Most people do the best they can.
I believe my dad did his best. Maybe he could have done better if he had joined Alcoholics Anonymous. Perhaps a hospital for alcoholics might have helped. Maybe going to a counselor would have helped. But he didn’t get help.
Living with him was very difficult. Living with him was disgusting sometimes. Living with him was embarrassing sometimes. Living with him was sad many times.
Sometimes I was ashamed of him. Sometimes I was scared of him.
Other times I felt angry when our Mormon neighbors didn’t seem to like him. I knew he was a good person when he was sober. Why couldn’t other people see it?
One of my children asked me what I did for fun when I was a child. Initially I didn’t have an answer. Of course, I had some good times. But the strongest memories all involve alcohol.
Alcohol steals childhood. Instead of a parade of carefree days, there is premature responsibility. Instead of happiness, there is anger and fear and guilt. Instead of openness and trust there is secrecy. Often there is estrangement from the Church.
But I survived, and others can too, if we all help. I hope we will.

The home screen of my tablet shows apps in order of recently opened to last opened. As I was looking through it one day, I noticed that my scripture app was last. I thought nothing of it, but several weeks later I was on my tablet again and realized that I hadn’t read my scriptures in a while. I decided to start reading them again. Since then I have been studying and reading my scriptures every day. It has definitely helped me grow spiritually. I have a testimony now that the scriptures are true and that they can help me get through hard times. So, now every time I go into my tablet, the first app it shows isn’t a game with enraged birds or a video app but my scriptures!

When I was 18, I asked my father to help me pay for my mission. At first he said, “No way. It’s too much money.” But a couple of days later, he asked me, “Do you really want to go on a mission?” And I said, “Yes. With all my heart.” My father said he would help me.
I didn’t understand why my father would pay such a great price for me. Then I realized it was because he loved me. It made me think of Jesus Christ’s sacrifice for us. He paid the highest price because He loves us.

Archie noticed the red-orange reflection in the mirror as he walked through the family room on his way out the door. He had seen that color thousands of times in his life. He had grown fondly accustomed to the vibrant orange hue that surrounded his roundish face. Every time Archie looked in the mirror he was reminded of the fact that he was not only a redhead, he was the personification of the brightest, most intense, flaming red that ever graced the top of a young man’s head.
He recalled several years earlier when he was living with his parents in Africa that people would pat him on the head because they thought red hair was an omen of good luck—a symbol of good fortune.
His pleasant reflection was startled by the “MEEOOOP!” of the horn from the enchanted yellow bus that would carry him to his first day of junior high.
Archie anxiously gathered his books and papers and rushed to the front door where he was greeted by a proud reception line composed of his mother, his two little brothers, his grandmother, and his dad. After all, it isn’t every day that the oldest son in the family takes off for the first day of junior high. A little embarrassed and hurried, Archie kissed his mom on the cheek, waved to his grandma and brothers, and shook his dad’s hand as he galloped off to his new adventure.
Archie slipped through the folding doors of the bus, only to find himself staring into the faces of dozens of different and older students who would also be attending Jefferson Junior High School.
With a sigh of relief he focused on Jimmy, his best friend, who had saved a seat for him by the window.
Archie plomped into the seat as the bus rumbled down the road. Jimmy said, “Greg said that we’d better watch out today at school or he and his ninth grade friends will sit us on the fountain or write on us with lipstick.”
Archie asked, “Why do they do that?”
“He said it is called initiation to junior high. Sort of like when you have to do something scary to join a club.”
While Archie’s face showed no fear, he suddenly became intensely aware of the bigger kids at the back of the bus who were laughing and joking.
Finally the bus halted in front of the big sign that said Jefferson Junior High. As he and Jimmy jumped down from the bus, his combined excitement, joy, fear, and anticipation made his heart thump twice as fast as normal.
As he reached the top of the stairs he pulled open the big metallic doors that led into a whole new world. He gazed down the hall and saw hundreds of jostling, laughing, bustling students who all seemed to know where to go and what to do. Even his friend Jimmy had wandered down the hall on his own. Now Archie was alone in the strange and exciting new environment. As he walked down the hall he felt as if everyone was staring at him. Just then he saw one of his pals from grade school.
Walt yelled across the hall, “Well, if it isn’t red Archie!”
Archie cringed when he heard the word red, and his face blushed to fit the description. Suddenly he wished that he had a hat to cover his bright thatch of red hair.
Just then the “ZZIINNGG!” of the bell sounded to go to class. He hurried down the hall to his locker and spun the dial to his combination, but nothing happened. Again he tried … 37 to the left … 15 to the right … and 22 to the left. His locker still wouldn’t open!
Frantically he pulled on his locker door but to no avail. “ZZIINNGG!” went the second bell, and Archie realized that he was tardy for the first period. He gave up on his locker and ran down the hall to his first class. As he-entered the room everyone looked at him and he hurriedly went to one of the empty desks and sat down. The teacher called the roll, “Steve Cranbrook … Archie Crenshaw … Richard Daines …” until he had called out all twenty-six students in the homeroom.
Mr. Williams, the teacher, closed the rollbook and said, “I remember the first day I went to junior high. I was so scared that I had to walk around the block twice before I dared go in. Then I couldn’t remember where my locker was and was late to every class for the first week. The worst thing was that everyone teased me.”
As Mr. Williams talked, Archie felt a grin blossom on his face. The teacher went on to explain how the first day is always the worst, and after that you get to know your way around and have a good time.
From that moment on, Archie felt a lot better about being in junior high. He didn’t even mind if kids called him Red. In fact, his bushy red locks became his trademark. Archie became confident and happy (and finally figured out how to open his locker). And it all started with Mr. Williams in social studies class.
Archie’s parents were both proud and happy that their son was doing so well in school. Nearly every day Archie had something good to say about Mr. Williams and what he had learned in social studies.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw were interested in meeting Mr. Williams, the man they had heard so much about from Archie. Finally the day came for parent-teacher conferences for Jefferson Junior High. Archie couldn’t wait for his folks to go and talk to Mr. Williams. He even drew them a map of how to get to his room so they wouldn’t get lost!
Archie’s mom and dad walked into room 29 with the sign that said Mr. Williams and suddenly understood everything they had heard about him. As they went in Mr. Williams gave them a glowing grin that was accented by the brightest, curliest, flaming red hair imaginable.

Jana Morrell is poised and ready. She inches toward home plate with a bat resting comfortably on her shoulder. She stares down the pitcher, who in this case happens to be her older sister Jodie. At first base, another sister, Jill, is waiting. In the outfield is Jana’s father and her older brother, Jason. Waiting on deck is Jana’s mom. Dinner has been served and eaten. Now it’s time for baseball.
Jana lets the first pitch go by. “Outside,” she says. Since there’s no umpire, they all take her word. Jodie winds up and delivers the next pitch, which Jana fouls off. The count is one ball and one strike, but in this game, it doesn’t even matter. No one keeps track of the count, and there is no striking out. You bat until you hit, which Jana intends to do.
When the next pitch is delivered, Jana makes contact and sends the ball rolling toward Jodie. Jana takes off for first base, going as fast as she can. Jodie gets to the ball and throws it to a waiting Jill. Jana beats the throw and is safe. She then leans back in her specially made cart and smiles. Instead of running to first base, Jana “pedaled” with her hands to get down the baseline.
Jana Morrell suffers from spina bifida, a condition that prevents the spinal area from developing and results in lifelong paralysis. But it hasn’t stopped ten-year-old Jana from becoming involved in the family’s activities. The same can be said about the family’s involvement with Jana, especially Jana’s two teenage sisters and her teenage brother.
“I know when we play baseball, it makes Jana feel good knowing she can do the things we do,” says Jill, 14. “We don’t play the games for the competition.” Obviously, who wins and loses isn’t the point of the Morrells’ backyard baseball games. Playing together as a family is.
“Sometimes I wonder how our family would be if Jana wasn’t handicapped. Would I be this close to everyone else?” asks 15-year-old Jodie. She stops and ponders her question for a minute, then says it doesn’t need answering because Jana is handicapped and it’s something they have all gotten used to.
The Morrells have also gained much comfort from the counsel of Elder Boyd K. Packer when he said, “Spirits which are beautiful and innocent may be temporally restrained by physical impediments. If healing does not come in mortal life, it will come thereafter. Just as the gorgeous monarch butterfly emerges from a chrysalis, so will spirits emerge” (Ensign, May 1991, p. 9).
“When Jana came home from the hospital, we felt a special close feeling between her and the rest of us. We had already decided as a family that even though Jana would not be able to do some things like other children, we were going to enjoy her a lot,” says Jodie. “She would always have care and love in our home.”
And outside the home too. Instead of going off with friends after school and hanging out with them, 16-year-old Jason spent his spring taking Jana to her swimming lessons. Just before her tenth birthday, Jason was right there when Jana got in the water without the use of her water wings, the flotation devices she placed on her arms to help keep her afloat. “It’s been great realizing how far she’s come with her swimming,” explains Jason.
Examples of the three oldest Morrell kids helping Jana are apparent, but it’s Jana who has also helped Jason, Jodie, and Jill better appreciate the plight of the handicapped.
“Whenever I see someone with a disability, I tend to get more sensitive about it because Jana is my sister. When people are saying things or making fun of people I tell them it’s not very nice to do,” says Jill. “A lot of the time they’ll ask ‘Why not?’ Because of my experiences with Jana, I always tell them to put themselves in the handicapped person’s position. When they think about what they’re doing, they usually stop.”
For the first month of Jana’s life, Jason, Jodie, and Jill didn’t see their new sister. When Jana was finally able to come home after a four-week stay at the hospital’s intensive-care unit, her brother and sisters were elated. “When we brought Jana home from the hospital, a special bond developed immediately between the other children and Jana,” says Sister Miriam Morrell, their mother. “I knew right then that Jana would never lack for care and love.”
By the time Jana began attending elementary school, Jill was in fifth grade. It became her responsibility to see that Jana got off the bus and into school safely in the morning, and then back on the bus at the end of the day. “Jill immediately gained a feeling for Jana’s needs as a student,” Sister Morrell continues. “She took the wheelchair, the walker, Jana, and her book bag to and from the bus each day. The school, as well as Jana, really depended on Jill.”
At home, Jason carries Jana up and down the stairs, and loads and unloads her wheelchair into the car. “Jana would not have made the progress she has without the help of the three older children,” Sister Morrell explains. “I would never have done as well as a mother without these dedicated teenagers who have taken their responsibility seriously.”
“Jana has taught me a lot about myself, and I feel good when I can help her,” Jason says. “Sometimes I’ll have a lot of homework or something, and I’ll end up giving up my study time to help Jana. That can be frustrating, but when I stop and think about what I’ve done I’m really glad I can help. And after the resurrection, we know that Jana will be able to use her legs. That really says something to me.”
And Jodie is quick to answer. “We often think about all the things we do for Jana, but it’s really the other way around.”

Cesar began looking for the gospel without really realizing it. Although he was already active in a church, Cesar became interested in other religions and started taking his first baby steps toward the truth.

“I would read literature from other churches and I would then pray to Father in Heaven saying, ‘If this is the true church, send your servants to me and have them teach me.’”

Cesar started his search, he says, without even really thinking about what a huge change it would be in his life. But not long after Cesar started praying for an answer, one came.

Cesar’s last name is Gaspar. Fortunate for him, his name fell right after Betty Garcia’s on the alphabetical seating charts for most of his junior high school classes. Since they sat next to each other most of the school day, they became friends, sometimes studying together after school.

“One day she mentioned that she was a member of the Church,” says Cesar. “I got very interested and started asking her what her beliefs were, what her principles were.”

Soon Cesar knew he needed to know more. His thirst for knowledge led him to follow Betty’s brother home from school one day so he would know where her family lived. After working up the courage to knock on her door, Cesar was invited into the house, and Betty and her family had a long talk with him about what it meant to be a Latter-day Saint.

But it was another name that led him to find the family’s house in the first place.

“When I was first learning about the Church, the thing that impressed me the most was its name. There was something very special to me about the fact that the Church had Jesus Christ in its name. It has a very spiritual and good feeling.”

Soon Cesar had a copy of the Book of Mormon—compliments of the Garcia family—and lots of questions.

Attending sacrament meeting for the first time was a real switch for Cesar. It wasn’t anything like the meetings he was accustomed to.

“There was a man carrying the bread and water trays. He was very busy fixing the microphone and saying hello to everyone. There were so many people there, I wondered if they would all fit in the church! It seemed funny that the man fixing the microphone was the bishop.

“It was also a real change to be in church for three hours; that seemed like a long time. I still remember that first Sunday School class. We talked about the birth of Jesus Christ, and I asked a lot of questions. After class, Betty’s brother, Isaac, helped me find the missionaries. I didn’t go to priesthood meeting that day; instead, I had my first discussion with the missionaries.”

That discussion led to more discussions during the week. By Thursday, he had had an interview with the bishop, and the following Sunday—exactly one week after his first attendance at Sunday meetings—he was baptized.

“It was pretty fast,” Cesar admits, “but by that time I had already read the Book of Mormon. Before meeting the missionaries, I had also read Doctrines of Salvation, Truth Restored, and The Miracle of Forgiveness. I had started reading Jesus the Christ. I felt I was ready.”

That was two years ago. Cesar is the only Church member in his family, and it would be easy for him to maybe skip church once in a while, or decide against important programs like seminary—especially since he almost always has to walk to get there! But he doesn’t even think about that. Instead, he thinks about who sees what he does.

“I have to be an example to my family,” he says. “I really try not to make mistakes and to be as perfect as I can because I know they’re watching me.”

As any convert knows, joining the Church can be a big change. Cesar was no exception.

“The Church is more than principles. It’s a way of life,” he says. “The Word of Wisdom, the blessing of the food at every meal, prayer morning and night, early-morning seminary—that was a big change! And there are other things, like studying the scriptures on your own and getting up early for church on Sundays.”

But after two years, Cesar seems comfortable with all those changes. He’s so comfortable, in fact, that he will share the gospel message with anyone who will listen.

“I try to be very careful about comments I make to my friends so that I can teach them about the Church without offending them,” he says.

Although he’s still relatively new in the gospel, you’d never know he hasn’t been a member all his life. Part of it can probably be attributed to the fact that Cesar’s a quick study and that he has a great desire to know the truth. But Cesar says that there’s another, more important reason he’s learned so much so fast.

“When I was reading the Book of Mormon, before I joined the Church, I came to the part about Jesus Christ in America, and I knew it was true,” says Cesar. “At the time, I didn’t really know that it was the Holy Ghost, but I felt very peaceful. That moment was a new beginning in my life. I felt like I could start all over and do things in a different and better way.”

And that strong prompting has translated into bold action. It’s the secret to Cesar’s great energy in living and sharing the gospel, despite the usual obstacles and weaknesses that he, like most people, has to overcome. Cesar keeps a journal to remind himself of, and to eventually share with others, the reasons he lives the gospel. It helps him keep his spirits up when the going gets tough.

“Being an example and writing in my journal will help me leave a legacy. When they read what I have written, my children and grandchildren will know that being the only member of the Church in my family isn’t easy at all, and I have had to work very hard.”

They’ll know a lot of other things about him, too—like the fact that he loves his calling as a stake missionary; that he loves to be around other Church members, especially the young men and women in his ward and stake; and, most important, that he has a testimony.

“I’ve noticed that many people think I’m not old enough to know or to receive an answer about something important, like religion. But I have a testimony that no matter your age, if you have a sincere heart and if you ask, you will receive an answer for sure,” says Cesar.

Cesar hasn’t ever sung the lyrics “Pioneer children sang as they walked, and walked, and walked, and walked,” but when he hears those words, his eyes light up, and he says with a smile, “That’s my song! I walk a lot.”

There are differences, of course, between Cesar and the pioneer children of old. Cesar walks through the busy streets of Guadalajara, not the open plains. And Cesar doesn’t gather fuel for the evening’s fire or feed livestock at the end of the day. But he, too, is a pioneer.

One day his children and grandchildren will talk about their ancestor Cesar Gaspar and how he loved to gather friends together and give them the wonderful gospel message. And they’ll talk about the fact that, even though he had to walk most of the places he wanted to go, he was always singing a song—even if you couldn’t hear it. It was a song about how happy the gospel made him and how strong his testimony was. He may or may not have even been much of a singer, but it was a tune he loved to carry.

Right in his heart.

Thirty years ago, as a branch president, I was interviewing a man and his wife. The wife was tearing down her husband: he had not been the provider she had expected; he had not been the companion she had dreamed about before her marriage; they could not communicate together without arguing and attacking one another.
Her husband loved her, and yet she hurt him. There were tears in his eyes as he absorbed the verbal abuse. I couldn’t take any more as a twenty-one-year-old branch president, and asked, “Why do you hurt this person who loves you the most? Why do you hurt a husband who would do anything to help you?”
Her answer startled me. “Oh, I guess we argue and injure those we love because we can hurt them the most.”
I have never forgotten that incident. There is truth in that example. We can’t hurt a stranger as much as we can a loved one. We know just what to do to hurt our companions, parents, or brothers and sisters. We know where they are vulnerable. We know how they can be hurt the most by our actions. To many it seems to be a test of faith in life to be wounded by those closest to us. Of Jesus it is said in Zechariah that when asked where he had received the wounds in his hands, he would say that he “was wounded in the house of [his] friends.” (Zech. 13:6.) Isn’t it true that God, our Father, and his Son grieve when we sin? When we fail to be obedient and accept the atoning sacrifice of our Lord, aren’t we hurting Him who loves us most?

When we finally arrived at the São Paulo Temple thanks to one last ride from a friend we made on the train, the temple lodging was closed. Resigned but happy, we made ourselves comfortable on a couple of benches outside the temple. There it was, just as beautiful as we had dreamed it would be. It was now midnight, and we cried as we hugged, tired and wet from the falling rain. We didn’t feel the dampness, the hunger, or the cold, just an indescribable sense of happiness for being so close to the house of the Lord. We had been obedient, and there was our reward.

While we were basking in that moment, someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was one of my former mission companions, who had been sealed in the temple that day and was returning from dinner with his wife. He let us stay in their apartment that night, and the next day he was a witness to our sealing, performed by the temple president himself. How beautiful it was to see my wife in the celestial room, all dressed in white.

With a loan from my missionary friend and help from the temple president, we made the return trip in less than five days, without any delays—and with only $20 dollars to begin a life with my wife, Maria Ondina, as my eternal companion.

President McKay recalls another vivid lesson from youth:
“I thank my earthly father for the lesson he gave to two boys in a hayfield at a time when tithes were paid in kind. We had driven out to the field to get the tenth load of hay, and then over to a part of the meadow where we had taken the ninth load, where there was ‘wire grass’ and ‘slough grass.’ As we started to load the hay, father called out, ‘No, boys, drive over to the higher ground.’ There was timothy and redtop there. But one of the boys called back, (and it was I) ‘No, let us take the hay as it comes!’
“‘No, David, that is the tenth load, and the best is none too good for God.’”

While serving as president of the Mbuji-Mayi Democratic Republic of the Congo Mission from 2016 to 2019, I had to travel on muddy and sandy roads to reach some zones to hold zone conferences and to conduct interviews with missionaries every six weeks—and to have meetings with district leaders.
In one particular case, I travelled to Ngandajika, a city located 58 miles from Mbuji-Mayi. The road connecting these two cities had a section constructed from packed clay and a section constructed from sand. It was difficult to travel the section in packed clay during the rainy season because it was always slippery.
When it rained, this road was closed and traffic could only resume four hours after the rain had stopped. This road was closed by metal barriers with a padlock so that no one could open it before this prescribed time. These barriers were called “rain barriers” and the posted notice was visible for every driver.
The reason for closing this road was to protect it from damage and to ensure it lasted for a long time—for if a vehicle drove on it before these four hours had passed, the road might deteriorate and become not only impassable but also unsafe for travellers. These four hours allowed water to completely drain off into the soil so that the road remained passable for the sake of all travellers.
During this particular trip to Ngandajika, we got caught in the rain on this road and when we arrived at the barrier, it was closed already. We had to wait, and we experienced for the first time, the impact of this rain barrier to our drive. We stopped and waited before we could continue with our journey. There was no other option.
This experience made me reflect on and better understand how gospel principles and the teachings of the prophets apply to ourselves in particular circumstances. I learnt many lessons from this event, but I am going to share with you three gospel principles I have had to apply and which allowed me to complete my assignment: patience, perseverance and diligence.
We had to wait for four hours after the end of the rain to continue our journey. I had no choice if I wanted to reach my destination and accomplish what I had planned for. I definitely had to be patient.
I was patient with myself with regard to this difficulty relating to my missionary life—given that I had to go and meet with the missionaries and fulfil my duty as a mission president. The Book of Mormon gives us an example of Alma and the sons of Mosiah:
“And the Lord said unto them also: Go forth among the Lamanites, thy brethren, and establish my word; yet ye shall be patient in long-suffering and afflictions, that ye may show forth good examples unto them in me, and I will make an instrument of thee in my hands unto the salvation of many souls ” (Alma 17:11).
Patience with ourselves means having the capacity to wait for four hours without getting angry or being annoyed. It was not enough for me to simply wait—all the while being angry because of this measure which put all my plans for meetings at risk. I had to stay calm in my heart and continue to express the joy of the gospel on my lips and on my face. I had to control this personal feeling, which arises sometimes and makes us think that we are unable to overcome a weakness, or which causes us to underestimate ourselves due to a displeasure, a difficulty, or a failure in life.
When came the time to open the barrier and the person who held the key was late, some travellers who also waited like us became angry with him and rose their voices to rebuke him.
I understood that we should be patient with him, and with others in general. We have to apply patience when we are faced with actions that hurt us. We must be patient when faced with the weaknesses, faults and recklessness of others. We should be patient with regard to the efforts of others in their respective responsibility as the Lord is equally patient with us all.
While picturing and reflecting on the condition of this road and the inherent difficulties to take it in the rainy season, we could be afraid and discouraged.
It is this perseverance I needed to keep going on the way to Ngandajika in spite of the poor road condition. I did it throughout my mission.
The hours wasted at the rain barrier had an impact on our program of meetings and activities. We had to know how to reorganize things within the remaining time without impairing the quality of the training or of the scheduled meetings. We had to do the essentials while reaching the initial goal.
We couldn’t waste more time and energy regretting our wait, but we needed, in an effective manner, to reorganize ourselves and focus on what is important. The great way is to rely upon the Holy Ghost and listen to the whisperings of the Spirit in order to know what to do and how to do it. It is all about receiving the revelation from God. That is why, if we are well prepared we shall not fear, and if we are worthy, the Holy Spirit shall be our constant companion.

I have read some of the histories of the disaster which we commemorate this day. Of particular note is the account of the near spontaneous collection of flowers throughout Salt Lake City by young and old to be sent to Scofield to somehow alleviate the terrible suffering and grief. I was moved to tears as I read from the account.
“In Salt Lake words cannot describe the scenes that took place. Every one was anxious to do their part, and the school children, … hastened from house to house gathering flowers from all the gardens in the city until almost three carloads were furnished” (History of the Scofield Mine Disaster, 57).
The flowers were placed in the baggage compartment of a special train bound for Scofield. I quote now from the account.
The flowers “were spread out on the seats two and three feet high throughout the rest of the car. …
“Everything seemed to be there that might help to cheer those who have lived out in the hills, far away from the flowers and who are now experiencing the most dreadful calamity that has ever occurred in the western country. …
“The … car, with the lilacs and cut flowers, was switched into a sidetrack near the cemetery early in the morning. The car was next to the roadway over which the long train of wagons passed as they bore the bodies to their last resting place. The doors of the car were thrown open, and as each wagon came by, it halted while Captain Barrett and his aids, … buried the coffins under lilacs and handed each driver a bunch of cut flowers for the widows and children who accompanied the coffins. At the forward end of the car, the boys in charge were almost overwhelmed by requests for flowers. Work as fast as they could, the mournful little groups of women and children, in significant black, were still there awaiting their turn for the blossoms. If the donors of the flowers and the people who helped collect them could have seen the gratitude and appreciation of Scofield they would have been repaid an hundred fold for their work. …
“Just before noon came a plea from the Finns. Their spokesman came aboard the car and said they had sixty-one dead, none of whom had a friend in the country, aside from the people of their nationality. He asked as a favor that flowers be reserved for them until their train came down the canyon. There was an abundance for all, and the man’s face lighted with evident pleasure when he was assured that all the coffins would be decorated and the graves covered with flowers. The distribution alone took nearly all the time from nine o’clock in the morning until the heavy rain late in the afternoon stopped the melancholy procession” (57–61). To these flowers were added additional bouquets from towns along the route of the train.

Edna Amburo also had difficulty reading the Book of Mormon at first—not just because she found it hard to understand, but because friends told her she was “going to the fire” for reading it. “All my friends told me to burn the book,” she says, “but I decided not to burn it because I felt the Book of Mormon was the word of God.”

Edna was baptized in 1990. Shortly thereafter, she was called to teach the Book of Mormon to seminary students.

“I said, ‘How am I going to teach? I am not an educated woman. I am not a good speaker in English, and I am not a good writer. I left school in grade five.’”

Branch members and the full-time missionaries encouraged Sister Amburo to ask the Lord for help. She took the suggestion seriously and spent a tearful two weeks fasting and praying that the Lord would help her to become an effective teacher.

“I found Moroni 10:4–5 [Moro. 10:4–5] and exercised it,” she says. “I saw it was true. I got peace in my heart. I got joy. And I was happy that I was going to teach seminary. I really love the Book of Mormon. I understand it now.”

Sister Amburo attributes her spiritual and intellectual growth to help from her Heavenly Father. In addition to teaching seminary, she teaches Sunday School and serves as a counselor in the Popondetta Branch Relief Society presidency.

“Step by step I came along. The Church has helped me a lot. It is a learning church.”

Shortly thereafter I contacted another friend in Utah, Dennis Hill, with whom I had worked. I told him I was now attending his church. He said he was going to send me a book, even though I tried to convince him that I was attending only because I liked the people.
The book, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder by LeGrand Richards, came after our second visit to the little church. I set it aside to read “sometime later.”
The third Sunday we decided we were too tired to go to church. No one called to ask “Where were you?” and we were disappointed.
But Monday night the telephone rang. It was the missionaries!
“We missed you at church Sunday.”
“Yes, but you know how it is.”
“Yes, we do.” A pause. “We promised you six lessons; we would like to begin them soon.”
“Fine! How about tomorrow night and every Tuesday thereafter?”
That was the beginning of a very fine friendship. The children loved these two young men who exuded faith and happiness.
I cooperated with their attempts to use psychology on me because I felt they needed the practice; however, I had to set the limit when they invited me to offer prayer at the opening and close of these meetings. I was happy to have them or anyone else offer the prayer, but I would have felt hypocritical praying to a God whose existence I wasn’t sure of.
The next Sunday was stake conference in Jacksonville, Florida, and the speaker was to be none other than Elder LeGrand Richards. I grabbed my book and started reading. (If I’m going to listen to a speaker, I want to know as much about him as possible.) When the day came, I managed to sit way up in the balcony where I could hear and see well. This man’s keen mind impressed me; but I was even more moved by his sincerity, conviction, and faith.
The missionary lessons continued, and we began to acquire a better comprehension of what the gospel was all about. About the fourth lesson we began to realize that these missionaries were planning to finish this by inviting us to be baptized.
I won’t do that! I told my wife. “I don’t even trust myself in a thing so simple as prayer. I’m not going to do all of that.” She agreed.
The missionaries finally mentioned it by telling us that a date had been selected for baptism. Would we like to go? “No,” I told them. “I don’t feel the urge.”
“Well,” they continued, “this Friday we are going to baptize two others. Would you like to come and observe?”
“Where?”
“A block from here—in the ocean.”
“The ocean!” gasped my wife. “That’s too cold this time of year.”
“Yes, we know.” Missionaries always seem to be undisturbed.
We went. After the baptismal service, the missionaries asked us, “Doesn’t that make you want to be baptized next time?”
“No!” I answered. And I meant it.
All of this time the elders had been teaching another family, a beautiful young couple by the name of John and Louise Hatch.
We had met the Hatches only briefly at Church, but were impressed by their vibrance and sincerity. At the time of our sixth and final lesson, the elders told us that John and Louise had elected to be baptized the following Friday, which happened to be Good Friday. The thought occurred to me that that would certainly be the ideal time to be baptized, that it would be a kind of “thank you” to Christ to commemorate that particular day with one’s own baptism. Nonetheless, I felt no urge to do so. I was still looking for that burning bush.
But as the elders prepared to leave following our sixth lesson, they asked, as was their custom, if I would like to offer the prayer. To my amazement, I heard myself agree; after my benediction, two somewhat astonished missionaries congratulated me. I was deep in thought when that beautiful evening ended.
The next day before I left for work, I gathered my courage, took a deep breath, and told my wife I had decided to be baptized on Friday and wanted her to join me. She would have been just as surprised if the roof had blown off or if Florida had begun to slip slowly into the sea.
“You can’t do this to me!” she said.
“Why not?”
“The ocean is too cold!”
“I know, but I’ve decided. With or without you, I’m going to do it. Think about it and let me know tonight because I’m going to call the missionaries tomorrow and tell them so they can get me some special clothing.”
I kissed her and left her standing in the doorway. But I couldn’t leave her in suspense all day, so I called her later.
“Have you decided?”
“I’m not going to let you do it without me!”
“Fine. I’ll call the missionaries tonight. Ask the kids if they want to join in, and let me know after work.”
The two older boys elected to join us. (The two younger children were still too young.) We were baptized on Friday; and I have not doubted since coming up from the water that I made the right decision.
Why did I suddenly decide to be baptized? Because I realized the night of the sixth lesson that a burning bush was not the right thing to look for. I realized that by looking for a burning bush I was missing something just as important. Perhaps the answer lay in the simple things that had been happening to me.
I thought back to the week before we had decided to be baptized. We had once again arrived late to Church. To dispel the awkwardness of the situation, a very young man, Eddie Markle, had welcomed us with a simple handshake. At that moment I sensed in him a faith so strong that I was deeply impressed. It was the kind of faith spoken of by Jesus to Thomas: “Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed; blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.” (John 20:29.) I decided I wanted that kind of faith.
I realized my previous experiences had impressed me in a similar way, but, because of my desire for a miraculous conversion, I had failed to recognize the promptings of the Spirit. My encounters with members of the Church had not been spectacular, but yet they had been very significant.
Each person had—in his own way—displayed a strong yet simple faith: Dick Reisner had planted the seed; Dennis Hill had sent the book; the missionaries had knocked on my door; President Pressler had waited for us that first Sunday; Elder Richards had delivered an inspiring message; Eddie Markle had eased an awkward moment with a handshake. Each person—through his example—had let the powerful light of his testimony shine forth. And to me, having been in darkness, each example was as “the bright shining of a candle” (Luke 11:36), bringing me to a testimony of the truth.
The Mormons love their families and I love them for that. As a religious group they are, in fact, a family themselves—with all the love and learning that implies. Yet through it all one fact never changes: they have the gospel of Jesus Christ. A burning bush is not the answer. We have free choice—we can choose a darkness devoid of faith or we can light it brilliantly and forever with our belief. The Mormons believe! And so do I.

In 1898, Inez Knight and Jennie Brimhall were the first two single women called as sister missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Shortly after arriving on their missions to England, the two women went to preach in Oldham, a small manufacturing town near Liverpool.
Inez Knight and Jennie Brimhall prayed for help in their missionary service in England.
Right: photograph courtesy of Jennifer Whatcott Hooton
The two sisters, their mission president, and other missionaries gathered one evening. “They formed a circle on a busy street corner, offered a prayer, and sang hymns until a large crowd formed around them.” Their efforts were so successful that the mission president “announced that a special meeting would be held the following day, and he invited everyone to come and hear preaching from ‘real live Mormon women.’”

There’s another reason Hailey is cheering for everyone. It has to do with her standards.
Hailey had already completed one season with the freshman team and was eager to earn a starting spot on the junior varsity (JV) team. But as she prepared, she ran into a problem.
The coaches held preseason games on Sundays that “were essentially the tryouts for the team,” Hailey said. But she’d promised herself and her Father in Heaven that she’d keep the Sabbath holy. “So I missed 10 games,” she said. “The coaches never really saw me play.”
She made the team, but it became clear she’d spend most of the season on the bench. Instead of becoming discouraged, she chose to encourage her teammates.
“Hailey never complained,” said her Young Women president, Jami. “Instead she became the team’s biggest cheerleader. Everyone knew she’d be there cheering, and they’d talk about what a support she was. She could have become bitter, but instead she just kept smiling.”
Hailey’s JV coach, Jon, agreed. He said no one has “a bigger heart or a greater love for the game” and that “selfless players like Hailey are critical to a team’s success.” Before one game, he said, she made signs for each player and coach using paper plates, a paper flag, and candy. “She’s always taking time for others,” he said.