Gospel Story Finder

At 5 a.m. on a Tuesday morning in April 2022, a group of youth and leaders gathered at Heathrow Airport. Although there were a few tired faces, everybody was excited for the trip ahead of them. The travelers were members of the Staines Ward, Staines England Stake, and they were getting ready to board a plane heading for Stockholm, Sweden.
The ward’s Swedish bishop, Örjan Olsson, and his family had moved to England a few years prior. Ever since then, he had dreamt of taking the youth to his beautiful homeland. Now, it was finally time.
After the plane landed in Stockholm, the group traveled by train to the Stockholm Sweden Temple. They would be staying in the temple accommodations for the duration of their 3-night trip. Bishop Olsson’s parents, who lived in the area and worked at the temple, were there to greet the group and had lunch prepared for the starving teenagers. Once physically fed, the youth walked over to the temple where they would spend the afternoon being spiritually fed while performing proxy baptisms and confirmations.
Every morning of the trip would be spent in the same manner—food and temple work. After breakfast (and sometimes before), the eager youth would go in groups to the temple to perform baptisms for the dead. They had a goal to perform 1,000 baptisms. In preparation for the trip, the youth had searched their family trees to find ancestors in need of temple work and had collected names from ward members. The pile of names grew even larger once in Sweden, as other temple patrons heard about the group and asked if the youth would be willing to perform the work for some of their ancestors. The youth worked hard to reach their goal. One morning, each young man and young woman performed 25 proxy baptisms. By the end of the trip, the youth had exceeded their goal and completed 1,250 baptisms and confirmations.
A particularly special moment occurred one morning while a group of youth were in the temple. A couple entered the baptistry and asked the youth if they would be willing to perform the proxy baptisms for the woman’s sister who had passed away. Tears flowed down the couple’s cheeks as they watched a priest and young woman enter the font and perform the proxy baptism. The Spirit could be felt by everyone in the baptistry as the Holy Ghost bore witness of the importance of the work being done.
When not working in the temple, the Staines party enjoyed learning about Sweden’s sights and culture and getting to know the members of Sweden. One afternoon was spent exploring central Stockholm where the youth were able to try Swedish food (the Swedish meatballs were delicious), take in the colourful buildings, buy souvenirs, and enjoy each other’s company. The youth also had the chance to get to know the youth of the local Swedish wards. They laughed their way through the nerves and awkwardness of speed dating and had fun playing games. On the last evening, the youth came together for a testimony meeting where they bore powerful testimony of Jesus Christ and His gospel in both English and Swedish.
Before heading to the airport, the travelers had to make one more stop—a Swedish pick-and-mix candy store. Once everybody had a bag full of Swedish candy, the group headed to the airport and headed back to England, where they landed safely late that night.
This unique temple trip was a cultural and spiritual feast for all those who had the blessing to attend. Of course, none of it would have been possible without the wonderful efforts of many people—the hard-working and positive youth, the leaders who helped organized the international trip, those who served in the kitchens, the dedicated temple workers, the kind temple president who taught spiritual truths (as well as cycling and competitive badminton), the entire Olsson family, and the welcoming members of Stockholm. Bonds were formed and strengthened, and everyone who made the journey returned with hearts full of love—for Sweden, for each other, and for the Lord.

The simplest of instructions may reveal the tendency to murmur. I attended a meeting once when the presiding authority invited members of the congregation to come forward in the meeting room. A few stirred. Most did not. Why not?

I feel sure there were those who questioned why they should leave their comfortable position. “Why should I?” That question was, no doubt, followed promptly by an excuse or rationalization as to why it should not matter whether the seat was changed or not. I believe there followed some irritation that the presiding authority should make such a request. The last step, obvious to all who observed, was slothfulness in responding. Few moved. Was that a small thing? Yes. But it reflected a deeper, more profound lack of willingness to obey. It reflected a spirit of disobedience. That is not a small thing.

“Preparing for my mission has been a long struggle. After deciding to serve a mission, it took almost one and one-half years to overcome problems in my conduct.”

Branch members’ cars slowly follow each other convoy-style down farm lanes past stubble fields toward the beach cliffs. It is a cold Canadian Thanksgiving day, but that isn’t unusual for Prince Edward Island. In a few months occasional Greenland icebergs will further chill the air and water as they lie grounded offshore waiting to melt free.
Everyone scurries to the protection of the cliffs above the beach, and once they are out of the wind, families gather together and wait for the service to begin.
Every family in the Summerside Branch turns out for the baptism of John Simon and Mary Pearl Keeping. It isn’t long before the field looks like a parking lot. Even 90 miles isn’t too much of a drive when you can welcome a new family into the Church.
Brother and Sister Keeping carefully make their way down the rocky cliff to the beach below. They want to be baptized in the sea on this Thanksgiving day.
Occasionally lobster traps break loose and are washed ashore. One such trap is used for a music stand and another one serves as a chair during the confirmation service.
Everyone, including the children, feels a special spirit as the group sings and prays together in a short service before the baptism.
The water is shallow, and it takes several minutes of walking through breakers before the baptismal party reaches water deep enough. The Keepings say they do not notice the cold of the air or the water. After they are baptized, friends lovingly wrap them in warm blankets before they are confirmed members of the Church.

Seventeen-year-old Brittany Crossley and her thirteen-year-old sister, Danielle, live in Vidor, Texas. Their father is an emergency room doctor at a hospital in Port Arthur, directly in the projected path of Hurricane Rita. Dr. Crossley prayed and felt impressed that if he would spend the day before the storm evacuating patients, he and his family would be all right. Since the Crossley’s home was in an area of potential danger, he obtained permission from his bishop for the family to stay in their ward building during the storm. “The ward is far enough north to be safe,” Brittany explains.

“When Dad said, ‘We’re going to the church and we’re going to be okay,’ I thought, ‘Trust the inspiration and follow him to higher ground,’” Danielle recalls. Soon they received calls that the mass evacuation had resulted in gridlock on the freeway. “It’s good that we listened to our father,” Brittany says. “Otherwise, we would have been stuck in traffic all through the storm.”

So they “hunkered down” at the church, in an inside room with no windows. “We had food and water. We played a board game to pass the time. At 11:00 p.m., the power went out, so we read scriptures by flashlight and had family prayer,” Danielle recalls. They listened to the wind rattling like a freight train. “At one point someone held a flashlight high so we could all see each other,” Brittany says. “I remember how grateful we were for the light. It made me think of the Savior, the Light of the World.”

During my youth, as I worked on protecting the private times of my life, I made personal goals in areas where I wanted to improve, such as setting goals to read the Book of Mormon, improve my race time in the 400-meter run, serve a full-time mission, and attend a university. I strived to use the time I had to progress and develop my skills. Setting and striving to achieve those goals has blessed my life with better physical health, strengthened testimony, inner peace, and lasting joy.

I also struggled with speaking when I was a little boy. I had a stutter. It was hard to share my testimony in front of everyone. Sometimes when I tried to speak, I just burst into tears instead. I had priesthood blessings to help me. My mum and dad were very encouraging. Eventually I was blessed to be able to speak more clearly and confidently.

Kim Clark, 19, and her sister Christy Ann, 17, of the North Bend Ward, Coos Bay Oregon Stake, have helped bring 18 of their friends into the Church in the past two years.

“Dennis and Lorry were friends of ours,” Christy said. “Kim knew Lorry from work and I knew Dennis from school. I was talking about our youth temple trip to Seattle, and Dennis said, ‘What’s that?’

“I told him about temple work, baptisms for the dead, and being sealed to your family. He said, ‘I want to be baptized so I can go to the temple.’”

Christy called the missionaries that night.

Meanwhile, at work, Kim was talking with Lorry.

“I said, ‘Do you go to Church?’ and that started us talking,” Kim explained. “Since I’m the stake Young Adult rep, it was easy to invite her to a Young Adult conference, then to church. I introduced her to the missionaries, and soon both Dennis and Lorry were having the missionary discussions.” Within two weeks, both were baptized.

True ministering is illustrated by an older sister in Africa who was assigned to seek out a sister who had not attended Church meetings for a long time. When she went to the sister’s home, she found that the woman had been beaten and robbed, had very little to eat, and possessed no clothes that she felt were appropriate for Sunday Church meetings. The woman assigned to minister to her brought a listening ear, produce from her garden, scriptures to read, and friendship. The “missing” sister soon came back to church and now holds a calling because she knows she is loved and valued.

The apartment room was cluttered with memories—autographed photos of famous musicians, Russian paintings, programs from concerts whose music had long ago evaporated into the air. By the window a slender young woman stood playing the violin, tossing off difficult runs like so many spring flowers. Her teacher, an older gentleman, was hammering out the accompaniment on a grand piano, listening intently to her every note, calling out instructions in a heavy Russian accent. The music seemed to burst from the room into a thousand fragrant blossoms.
Her teacher stopped abruptly. “No! No! Go a little deeper into your soul!” he pleaded. “That’s the German style you’re playing. In Russia and America we do it this way.” He picked up his violin from the piano and demonstrated. “Put more of nature’s tranquility into your playing. And don’t slide to the note.”
She started playing again, bow moving effortlessly across the strings, eyes carefully measuring the page of notes and lines before her that she somehow magically translated into music. Too soon the piece was finished, and she turned to her teacher.
“Generally speaking,” he said, “I would say that was excellent. You have a cool head and a warm heart, which make you a fine violinist. You have talent.”
On that sweet note, Lois Watkins finished her lesson with Raphael Bronstein, one of Russia’s finest violinists who now teaches talented young musicians at the Manhattan School of Music in New York City. So she packed up her violin, said thank you and good-bye, and started threading the busy west side streets of Manhattan leading back to her apartment.

Well, that service ended, and there wasn’t one person I knew who slept that night. And there wasn’t much talking going on. You held your rifle and reported to your boat team station, and at 5:00 when that whistle went off, we prepared to embark. I was assigned to the seventh wave that morning. Unfortunately, the first six waves didn’t even get ashore. Completely blown out of the water. Thousands of lives sacrificed for you, for me, for the defense of this country. And I remember how I felt as I was put on shore on that little coral reef; by then the tide was in and I had to wade to shore in water clear up to my chest, rifle extended, and I had to push through the dead bodies of my friends and those I had trained and associated with. Don’t tell me you don’t ask questions. Why was that wonderful kid, 19 years old, face down in the water? Why? As I crawled ashore, and finally made a little progress about ten feet up the beach and dug a little hole there, I took off my helmet and started to ask the Lord why. Why, Lord, why should I be out there?
I’d never prayed like that before. I’d been a Latter-day Saint all my life. I’d watched my mom and dad get on their knees in family prayer. May I confess again, mine was an attitude at ages 16 and 17, “Let’s get this over with, folks. My gosh, my folks are fanatical. Pa, do we have to pray tonight?” You know those feelings. I find that others feel and think this way in our society, and it’s because our vision is short; we haven’t been able to see enough to ask penetrating questions.
I remember kneeling a number of times with my father and listening to him pour out his soul to his Heavenly Father. My dad was a sharp, capable businessman, respected by the community, a great leader from whom others sought counsel, and yet in his own humble way he would often kneel and say, “Lord, here’s my problem. Help my boy Paul, and my sons Bob and David,” or “There’s a difficult area in my business. What’s your counsel, Lord?” And I watched time after time as my father got off his knees with a tear or two in his eyes, and looked heavenward, and gave thanks and appreciation.
Up to the time I went ashore at Guam, I had never known God. But one thing I did know as I waded ashore on that fateful day was that my dad knew that God lived, and my dad got answers. And as I dug in, I knew that I could do exactly what my dad did, and I’ll be eternally grateful for his guidance and teaching. As I knelt down with my head bared, even in the danger of cross fire, I asked my Heavenly Father very simply, “Do you live? Are you real? Is Jesus Christ really the Savior? Was Joseph Smith a prophet of the Church, like I’ve heard all of my life and can’t understand?” And then it came. That sweet inner commitment and verification. Spirit touching spirit, saying in a silent voice, “It is so.” And so complete was that feeling within my heart on that July day that I could actually have gotten up out of my hole, I felt, and walked unharmed across that battlefield. The peace and the security were that great.
A testimony was born, because I had asked with real intent. I had prayed a thousand times before in a mechanical way because the pressure was on from family and church. But now I really wanted to know. Are you there, Lord? Will you tell me? And he did. And since that day, I have given my life to him. And I’ve had verification upon verification that this church is true, that Joseph Smith was called and ordained to restore the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The image of that team standing in the field stayed with me. I thought that perhaps I could do a painting of the bishop’s team standing in the field with the reins draped over the plow.
I hesitated because it had been nine years since I had painted a picture. Two friends with unusual talent and inspiration offered to help me paint the bishop’s team, and July gave a respite from travel, so I began.
I learned much from those two friends, and in a real way they are in my painting. But I received more help from my two sons. One son took those pictures of the plowed field, for I try always to be very accurate when depicting something in wood or on canvas or with words.
That is another lesson. I could draw back from our children something they had learned when they were young.
The other son decided to do a sculpture of the bishop’s team to be cast in bronze as a companion to my painting. We spent many rewarding hours helping one another.
He took from our barn a couple of old harnesses which have hung essentially untouched for over 50 years. He dusted them off and took them home. He draped one harness over a very patient riding horse. It stood quietly as he arranged the harness in proper order and made detailed sketches of it.
His neighbor had collected some old plows. Among them was a plow of proper vintage, which he also sketched.
And so there came back that which we had given those sons in their youth. As with our other children, they have improved on that which we as parents taught them when they were very young. And if our days are prolonged upon the earth, there comes a second harvest—our grandchildren—and perhaps a third.
That painting of The Bishop’s Team will soon be finished. My son’s sculpture is at the foundry being cast in bronze.
His sculpture, incidentally, is much better than my painting. That is as it should be. His young fingers and mind respond more readily than mine do.

When I had just turned deacon age, my family moved from our home in Wyoming to a new home in Great Falls, Montana. My father, older brother, and younger sister climbed into our pickup truck and led the way. They were towing a large red trailer we had borrowed for the move. The rest of the family, with Mom at the wheel, climbed into the family van.
We had crossed the state line into Montana when the driver of a car in front of the truck suddenly stepped on his brakes. My father braked to avoid hitting the car and the trailer jackknifed. The weight of the trailer then caused the pickup truck to whip back and forth across the road. The force of the motion caused everything to shift, and the trailer’s back doors flew off. The trailer’s contents then spilled out onto the highway.
Luckily my father was able to bring the pickup under control without further incident. A crowd of at least 20 people, including my family, climbed out of their cars to help clear our things off the highway.
Suddenly, in the middle of the mess and confusion, I heard my father shout. A large truck was going too fast to stop. There was no room for him to go around and no time to slam on the brakes. The truck barreled through the debris and into the small crowd of people. Nearly everyone moved when they heard my dad’s cry, but seven-year-old Charlie hadn’t heard. Steven, who was about to turn ten, had started to move out of the way. But when he saw Charlie in the truck’s path, he turned back to save his brother’s life.
Charlie was killed instantly. Steven was hit by the truck and thrown to the side of the road. He died two hours later in a Billings, Montana, hospital. Steven literally gave his own life trying to save his brother’s. His example made me think how lucky I was to have a brother who loved others so much that he was willing to give his life to save them.

The would-be football player stood five feet one. Seen among the padded knights of the gridiron, the slender freshman looked like the answer to a “what’s wrong with this picture” puzzle. But when Dene Garner’s father Norman had taken his infant son in his arms 15 years earlier in Dewsbury, Yorkshire, England, he had blessed the child that he would always “walk tall,” and now Dene stood straight and strong. If there were only 105 pounds (including pads) on his whipcord frame, there was thunder in his left foot, and he knew it. He had often seen it launch soccer balls screaming into the net. Now he was here to prove that it could send a football arching away like an artillery shell.

The coach only had to watch him kick a few to realize that there were game-winning points stored up in that foot, and he didn’t waste any time starting to mine them. Since that decisive day, Dene Garner, 17, has been the first-string placekicker for the Alta High Hawks in Sandy, Utah.

I remember attending a general conference when I was president of the stake up in Canada and meeting President Kimball with two or three others. He said, (whispering) “Hello, I can’t speak to you.” In other words, “Hello, President Tanner, I can’t speak to you.” He could not speak at all so that you could hear him any more than just a bare whisper. They didn’t know whether he’d ever be able to speak again, but he was blessed by the priesthood, and he was able to speak. Then later on, just a few years ago, they found that he had what they thought to be further cancerous growth in his organs, and they wanted to operate. But he called the priesthood to pray over him, to bless him, anoint him, and to administer to him. Now notice that it was the priesthood whom he called. It wasn’t because it was President Lee and Eldon Tanner; it was because of the priesthood we held. He was given a blessing, and it wasn’t necessary for him to have that operation.

Several young women sit in a living room on a Sunday evening, talking about the gospel, as they are all wrapped up in patchwork quilts. The scene doesn’t seem so unusual until you know it’s the middle of summer in Utah, and it’s very warm outside.
One of the young women comments on the situation. “It’s not that the house is cold or anything,” she says. “We’re all wrapped up in our blankets because it’s just comforting.”
It’s comforting because these quilts have become a big part of their lives. Each young woman earned the squares on her quilt and stitched the final product together. The quilts have a very special meaning because of the growth each young woman went through as she collected squares for a year and sewed her quilt together.
When the leaders of the ward introduced the quilt project, they gave each young woman an unused pizza box with two quilt squares inside. Some of the young women were confused and not sure if they would ever have enough squares to make a quilt.
“When I got the two squares in a box, I thought, ‘How am I supposed to make a quilt out of two squares?’ ” says Maren M., 16.
But over the next year, the young women gained more squares. They earned a square for each Young Women lesson they attended and for special occasions like holidays, camp, and New Beginnings. They got squares for finishing Personal Progress value experiences and for reading the Book of Mormon. On her birthday, each young woman was given a large block with a picture of her favorite temple.
“When our leaders explained the whole project to me, I did not want to sew a quilt, so I was just going to put it off,” says Katie W., 13. “Then I started getting the quilt squares every week, and I was so excited because they were so cute. Then it built up into this huge pile.”
“Two quilt squares at a time didn’t seem like anything,” says Abby M., 14. “They were just two little squares of fabric, and I didn’t think much of it. But slowly as I’d take them home from church and put them in my box, the pile just grew and grew and became a stack. Then before long, it was already time to sew them together.”
Most of the young women in the ward had never used a sewing machine before and had no idea how to sew a quilt. So each young woman received help from a mother, grandmother, or Relief Society sister.

We always have a puzzle set up in the living room, where we watch general conference. We like to piece together the puzzle while the General Authorities speak. It keeps us focused.
–Barnes Family

The Mysterious Benedict Society*, by Trenton Lee Stewart. Reynie is an orphan with a talent for solving problems. When he discovers an ad in the newspaper for gifted children looking for special opportunities, he goes to apply. After a series of interesting tests, he and three other children begin a dangerous and unusual secret mission to save the world—but they’ll need each other to finish the task.

After moving to Nauvoo, Illinois, Joseph and Emma Smith built the Red Brick Store. It served as Joseph’s office and as a business to support his family.
I’ll take 20 pounds of flour, Emma.
Do you need anything else?
James had recently moved from England to Nauvoo with his sister and her husband, Henry. James was not a member of the Church.
We’ve searched for work all day, Henry. I don’t think we’re going to find anything.
Let’s ask the Prophet for help.
James had never met Joseph Smith or been near him before. He felt an overwhelming spirit just by looking at him.
He is truly a prophet of the Most High God.
Brethren, how can I help you today?
Mr. Smith, have you any employment?
Can you make a ditch?
We’ll do our best.
Joseph took the men a little way from the store and stretched out a measuring tape.
Can you make a ditch three feet wide and two and a half feet deep along this line?
When they finished the ditch, they called Joseph out to inspect it.
I could not have done better myself. Come with me.
Joseph gave the men two of his largest and best pieces of meat and two sacks of flour.
This is too much, Joseph.
We’ll do more work for it.
If you are satisfied, boys, I am.
Because of this encounter with the Prophet’s kindness and because of other experiences in which he felt Joseph’s power from God, James learned the gospel and was baptized and confirmed later that year.

It was a beautiful fall morning. “Too nice a day,” Chase thought, “to have to go to school.” As he pedaled his bike, he looked at the clear blue sky and the bright reds and yellows of the newly turned autumn leaves. This was a day for playing tag football, jumping in huge piles of leaves, catching frogs by the stream—not a day for learning about nouns and fractions and presidents. Chase rode past the sign that read “Ridgecrest Elementary,” then parked his bike at the bike rack.
“Hey, Chase!” Derek called.
“Hey, what’s up, Derek?” Chase called back.
“I got a new video game on Saturday,” Derek said. “Do you want to come over to my house after dinner tonight and play it?”
“I can’t. It’s Monday, family night—you know, when we all do something together. Maybe I can come over tomorrow night.”
Chase and Derek got to their seats just before the bell rang. Chase noticed a boy he had never seen sitting toward the front of the room. He had straight shiny hair the color of coal. On the chalkboard in big letters Mrs. May had written Gishi Ren.
“Good morning, class,” Mrs. May said, rising from her desk. “I want to introduce you to a new student.” She motioned for the new boy to come stand beside her. “I’ve written his name on the blackboard. It’s pronounced Yee-she Ren. Let’s all say ‘Welcome, Gishi.’”
Gishi hung his head bashfully as the class repeated the welcome. Chase’s eyes met Derek’s. Derek made a face and rolled his eyes.
“Gishi is from China,” Mrs. May explained. “His father has been living here for a year doing research at the university. Now Gishi and his mother have come to join him.”
Later that morning at recess, Chase and Derek played foursquare with some friends. Bouncing the ball, Derek whispered, “Watch this.” He pointed to Gishi, who stood a few feet away with his back toward them. Derek threw the big red ball hard. It bounced off the back of Gishi’s head.
When Gishi turned around, Derek yelled cheerfully, “Oh, sorry,” and winked at his friends. Gishi smiled timidly.
At lunch, Chase and Derek sat together as usual. Derek was describing his new video game. “It’s really cool. It’s like you’re in a jungle, and you’re looking for a diamond mine, and … hey, look, there’s the new kid.” Gishi spotted Chase and Derek and started walking toward them.
“Oh, no,” Derek said. “He’d better not sit with us.” But Gishi did just that. He smiled, nodded, and began eating.
Derek turned to Chase. “We can’t let him think he’s allowed to eat with us every day. Come on, let’s move.”
Chase felt sorry for Gishi. For a moment, he considered staying at the table. But when Derek got up and walked to another one, Chase followed him. Derek continued talking about his new video game, but Chase was only half listening. He kept glancing over at Gishi eating all alone.
That night, Chase’s parents gathered the family together for family home evening. After the opening prayer, Chase’s father said, “Tonight we’re going to talk about two of your ancestors—your great-great-grandparents, Joshua and Elizabeth McGowan.
“I think you older children have heard about them already, but Chase and Emily probably haven’t. I just felt impressed that I should tell you their story. As a young man, Joshua joined the Church in England and soon afterward came to America and settled in Kirtland, Ohio. There he met a lovely young woman named Elizabeth Sanders, who was also a member of the Church. They married and bought a farm with money Joshua had saved in England.
“One night,” Chase’s father continued, “an angry mob came and burned all their crops. They burned the barn and their farmhouse. Everything was destroyed. Elizabeth and Joshua had to start all over. Joshua became a blacksmith, and he did that for the rest of his life. They moved to Nauvoo and then later went to Utah with the Saints.”
“But wait—I don’t understand why those people burned their farm,” Chase interrupted.
“Simply because Joshua and Elizabeth were members of the Church,” Dad explained.
“But they must have done something to make those people so mad,” Chase insisted.
“No, Son, they didn’t do anything. It’s just that back then, being a member of the Church was often dangerous. Many people didn’t like members of the Church.”
“Why not?”
“Because they were different. They belonged to a new religion. Most folks didn’t know what the Church was really about. It’s just human nature, I guess, for some people to resent anything that’s new or different.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense, Dad.” Chase frowned.
“No, Son, it doesn’t.”
That night Chase lay awake thinking about Joshua and Elizabeth and Derek and Gishi.
Tuesday morning was cold and cloudy. It wasn’t hard for Chase to go to school on such a dreary day. As he parked his bike at the rack, Chase heard Derek’s voice coming from the playground.
As he walked over, Chase saw Derek pointing his finger and making fun of Gishi. Gishi bowed his head and looked nervously at the crowd forming around him. Some of the boys and girls snickered.
Chase ran up to Derek. “Knock it off!”
“What?”
“You heard me, Derek. Leave him alone.” Chase looked Derek right in the eye so he would know he was serious. Derek stared back at Chase. Finally, Derek shrugged.
“I was just fooling around,” Derek muttered as he walked away.
“Are you OK?” Chase asked Gishi.
“Yes. OK.”
“Believe it or not, Derek’s really not so bad. I think he just needs time to get to know you.”
Gishi said nothing, but nodded.
Then Chase asked, “Do you want to come to my house after school and play video games?”
Gishi smiled shyly. “Yes. Fine. You live where?” Chase wrote down his address and gave it to Gishi.
That afternoon, the two boys played video games for a while, then talked about some of the differences between English and Chinese. They took turns pantomiming various actions and having the other say the word for the action in his language.
Gishi wrote something on a paper and showed it to Chase. “This is you in Chinese.”
Chase looked at the pencil strokes shooting out at different angles. “You mean that’s the word for ‘Chase’ in Chinese?”
“No,” Gishi said. “Friend.”