I’d done it before, and so I had no reason to believe that this time would be any different . I was sure that when I returned home from my mission trip. as always, I'd bring back nothing more some mud on my boots. a hole or two in my jeans and, of course, a lot of great memories.

The summer before my high school graduation, I went to West Virginia with others as volunteers to repair the homes of those in need. Arriving at our destination, my group was assigned the task of rebuilding sections of a home that had been damaged by fire. No sooner had we parked on the home's dirt driveway than we saw an excited little girl, no more than six years old, standing in the doorway of the family's temporary home. Shoeless and wearing dirty clothes and the biggest smile I'd ever seen, she yelled, "Ma, Ma, they really came!" I didn't know it then, but her name was Dakota, and four more days would pass before she'd say another word near me.

Behind Dakota was a woman in a wheelchair-her grandmother, we'd soon learn. I also discovered that my job that week would be to help change a fire-damaged dining room into a bedroom for this little girl. Grabbing our tools, we went to work. Over the following days, I noticed Dakota peeking at us every now and then as we worked. A few times, I tried talking with her, but she remained shy and distant, always flying around us like a tiny butterfly but keeping to herself.

By our fifth and final day, however, this was about to change. Before I went to work on her home on that last morning, I spoke for a moment or two with the grandmother. I was especially pleased when she told me how much Dakota loved her new room-so much, in fact, that she'd begged to sleep in it the previous night, even though it wasn't quite ready. As we talked, I noticed something I hadn't seen before-Dakota was hiding behind her grandmother.

Cautiously, she stepped into view, and I could see that just like her clothes, her face was still dirty. But no amount of soil could hide those bright blue eyes and big smile. She was simply adorable. I wanted so much to hug her, but respecting her shyness, I kept my distance.

Slowly, she began walking toward me. It wasn't until she was just inches away that I noticed the folded piece of paper in her tiny hand. Silently, she reached up and handed it to me. Once unfolded, I looked at the drawing she'd made with her broken crayons on the back of an old coloring book cover. It was of two girls-one much taller than the other-and they were holding hands. She told me it was supposed to be me and her, and on the bottom of the paper were three little words that instantly broke my heart Now almost in tears, I couldn't control myself anymore-I bent down and hugged her. She hugged me, too. And for the longest time, neither one of us could let go.

By early afternoon, we finished Dakota's bedroom, and so I gladly used the rare free time to get to know my newest friend. Sitting under a tree away from the others, we shared a few apples while she told me about her life. As I listened to her stories about the struggles she and her family went through daily, I began to realize how boring various aspects of my own life were.

I left for home early the next morning. I was returning with muddy boots and holes in my Jeans. But because of Dakota, I brought back something else, too-a greater appreciation for all or the blessings of my life. I'll never forget that barefoot little butterfly with the big smile and dirty face. I pray that she'll never forget me either.

The 65-year-old Steve Goodwin was found suffering from early Alzheimer’s(阿尔茨海默症). He was losing his memory.

A software engineer by profession, Steve was a keen lover of the piano, and the only musician in his family. Music was his true passion, though he had never performed outside the family.

Melissa, his daughter, felt it more than worthwhile to save his music, to which she fell asleep each night when she was young. She thought about hiring a professional pianist to work with her father.

Naomi, Melissa’s best friend and a talented pianist, got to know about this and showed willingness to help.

“Why do this?” Steve wondered.

“Because she cares.” Melissa said.

Steve nodded, tear in eye.

Naomi drove to the Goodwin home. She told Steve she’d love to hear him play. Steve moved to the piano and sat at the bench, hands trembling as he gently placed his fingers on the keys.

Naomi put a small recorder near the piano. Starts and stops and mistakes. Long pauses, heart sinking. But Steve pressed on, playing for the first time in his life for a stranger.

“It was beautiful.” Naomi said after listening to the recording. “The music was worth saving.”

Her responsibility, her privilege, would be to rescue it. The music was still in Steve Goodwin. It was hidden in rooms with doors about to be locked.

Naomi and Steve met every other week and spent hours together. He’d move his fingers clumsily on the piano, and then she’d take his place. He struggled to explain what he heard in his head. He stood by the piano, eyes closed, listening for the first time to his own work being played by someone else.

Steve and Naomi spoke in musical code lines, beats, intervals, moving from the root to end a song in a new key. Steve heard it. All of it. He just couldn’t play it.

Working with Naomi did wonders for Steve. It had excited within him the belief he could write one last song. One day, Naomi received an email. Attached was a recording, a recording of loss and love, of the fight. Steve called it “Melancholy Flower”.

Naomi heard multiple stops and starts, Steve struggling, searching while his wife Joni called him “honey” and encouraged him. The task was so hard, and Steve, angry and upset, said he was quitting. Joni praised him, telling her husband this could be his signature piece.

Naomi managed to figure out 16 of Steve’s favorite, and most personal, songs. With Naomi’s help, the Goodwin family found a sound engineer to record Naomi playing Steve’s songs. Joni thought that would be the end. But it wasn’t.

In the months leading up to the 2016 Oregon Repertory Singers Christmas concert, Naomi told the director she had a special one in mind: “Melancholy Flower. ”

She told the director about her project with Steve. The director agreed to add it to the playing list. But Naomi would have to ask Steve’s permission. He considered it an honor.

After the concert, Naomi told the family that Steve’s music was beautiful and professional. It needed to be shared in public.

The family rented a former church in downtown Portland and scheduled a concert. By the day of the show, more than 300 people had said they would attend.

By then, Steve was having a hard time remembering the names of some of his friends. He knew the path his life was now taking. He told his family he was at peace.

Steve arrived and sat in the front row, surrounded by his family. The house lights faded. Naomi took the stage. Her fingers. His heart.