Gospel Story Finder

A handsome young man, obviously a football player, told of how his testimony had been strengthened through association with fine, faithful friends, most of them a year older than he. Graduating from high school and soon to be separated from one another, they had a “last fling” together, a visit to the lovely grounds of the Provo Temple. Then they went to a quiet spot where in the late evening hours 12 future leaders of the Church bore their testimonies of the divinity of the gospel and expressed their love for one another.

Impressed with President Lee’s leadership and faced with economic desperation throughout the Church, the First Presidency asked him one morning in 1935 to lead a new welfare movement to, as he recalled, “help to put the Church in a position where it could take care of its own needy.”
He immediately turned to the Lord for direction. “After that morning I rode in my car … up to the head of City Creek Canyon into what was then called Rotary Park; and there, all by myself, I offered one of the most humble prayers of my life. …
“As I kneeled down, my petition was, ‘What kind of an organization should be set up in order to accomplish what the Presidency has assigned?’ And there came to me on that glorious morning one of the most heavenly realizations of the power of the priesthood of God. It was as though something were saying to me, ‘There is no new organization necessary to take care of the needs of this people. All that is necessary is to put the priesthood of God to work. There is nothing else that you need as a substitute.’”
Soon stake farms were established, factories and storehouses built, and needy Church members put to work under the direction of the priesthood—all a direct result of the understanding communicated through the Spirit to Harold B. Lee.

When I was in high school, I remember trying sometimes to sit at lunch with the right people, the ones that were popular. I guess that’s why I was struck by what my granddaughter, Grace, did. I guess you can say that she’s eligible to be at the cool table—she’s good looking, athletic, and has a big personality. Unsurprisingly, Grace sat with other girls like her at lunch. One day, she noticed that a Somali immigrant student was always sitting alone. She knew that he spoke virtually no English. Most kids were distantly friendly to him, but sitting next to him at lunch when you couldn't even converse with him just didn't make sense. Except to Grace. She walked over to his table and sat down. Not once, but every day. They communicated as best they could, and as his English improved, they became true friends. After a few months, Grace asked him if he had any other friends at school. Yes, he said, one other girl. It turned out to be Grace’s best friend from church.

I mentioned that Grace is athletic. She’s also quite tall—five foot eleven inches. And she has no trouble attracting the attention of the tall athletes at school. But Grace invited the shortest boy in school—a seriously short kid— to go with her to prom. The two of them got quite a laugh at how they looked. Grace figured that he would have been uncomfortable asking another girl, or maybe he would have just stayed home, so she just stepped up, so to speak.

Grace’s way is the Savior’s way. She reminds me that I also can reach out to the one.

The river is slow moving, so the girls had to paddle all the way. There’s no riding the current here. After a break for lunch and a few swampy portages, camp was in sight. The race was on to see who could be first on the beach. Those who had learned to paddle together had the advantage. Dawn Queen said, “Before we stopped for lunch, we were the last canoe, because we kept arguing with each other. But when we learned to work together, we passed everyone and finished first. It worked better when we encouraged each other.” A lesson about canoes and a lesson for life.

Our dates were very interesting and diverse: we rode bicycles and horses, visited museums, read the scriptures, cooked, walked in the parks (we even danced in one of them), and went to an orphanage to serve and play with the children.
Every time we met, we did something new, so we had a lot of fun. I appreciated how inventive Vitaly was in planning our dates. The activities he planned helped us really get to know each other.
Vitaly: Because I was a student, I couldn’t really afford many amusing things. I spent most of my money traveling to see Katya and paying my phone bill. But having a limited budget didn’t mean that our dating had to be uninteresting or unproductive. In fact, some of our best dates didn’t cost a single penny.
It may sound silly, but I wanted to see how Katya would act around children, so we went to an orphanage. It was like that with many of our dates; we really tried to learn as much about each other as we could.
Vitaly: In Russia, as in many places, it is the norm for people to live together before marrying. After I proposed to Katya, some of my friends asked me how I could possibly marry her without knowing beforehand if we were personally compatible. They reasoned, as many also did with Katya, that the only way to really know whether she was right for me was to live with her for an extended period of time.
I told them that there is no need to live with a person to get to know him or her. I also tried to explain to my friends in a way that they could understand that I had prayed and received an answer that I should marry Katya. Having prayed about my decision, I had no fears about married life. I was excited and felt like a whole new life was unfolding before me. No one ever opposed or criticized me for taking this stand. In fact, they supported me in my decision.
Katya: When Vitaly proposed, my parents tried to talk me out of getting married. They thought it was too soon for us to be engaged and that I needed to know Vitaly better than I did. My boss at work told me the same thing and added, “You need to live together before you make a choice like that.”
I’m sad that people feel that way about marriage and family. I don’t think they understand how happy couples can be when they are married and sealed in the temple. The great love and happiness Vitaly and I felt at our marriage were made even stronger by the knowledge that we are sealed for eternity.
Vitaly: Katya and I were married in Omsk on February 25, 2006. (The laws of Russia require a civil marriage prior to a temple sealing, as many countries do.) The next morning we set off on a trip to the Stockholm Sweden Temple. We boarded an airplane in Omsk and flew three hours to Moscow, where we spent the rest of the day. Then we took an overnight train to Saint Petersburg. Once there we got on a bus with other Latter-day Saints and traveled for eight hours to Helsinki, Finland. The last leg of our journey was an 11-hour ferry ride to Stockholm.
Finally, we had reached the temple.
For some, such a long trip may seem like a challenge, but in many ways, our trip across Europe made a great honeymoon.
The day of our sealing, March 1, 2006, was a great day—a day of peace and assurance. I knew that the person whose hand I was holding was the one I’d share eternity with. This thought alone filled me with great joy and gratitude to Heavenly Father for trusting me with His daughter for my wife. I felt closer to Him than ever before.
Katya: Now Vitaly and I have a young daughter. She is wonderful. I want her to marry in the temple someday, and the best support we could offer her is to be loving companions and parents.
I hope that she is able to find a worthy priesthood holder who has many Christlike attributes. It was seeing those kinds of attributes in Vitaly that helped me know I could marry him.
What attracted me to Vitaly? Of course, he is handsome and smart, and he knows how to court a woman. But these were not the main criteria. He had what I like to call “eyes of a disciple of Christ.” I sensed a light in him. He is a righteous priesthood holder.
Vitaly: Of course, it’s great to be married to someone you’re attracted to. But when our focus is solely on physical characteristics, we inevitably miss the most important characteristics—personality, spirituality, and other qualities that really matter in an enduring marriage.
I realize it may be a challenge for some young adults to find a spouse in the Church simply because there are not many Latter-day Saints where they live. I empathize with them. Nevertheless, I know that no matter what circumstances we are in, if we do our part and prepare ourselves to be sealed in the temple, Heavenly Father can provide a way.

Speaking many years ago in general conference, I told of a phrase that entered my mind as I wondered if I was prepared to serve a mission. The phrase was “You don’t know everything, but you know enough!”9 A young woman sitting in general conference that day told me that she was praying over a proposal for marriage, wondering how well she knew the young man. When I spoke the words “You don’t know everything, but you know enough,” the Spirit confirmed to her that she did know him well enough. They have been happily married for many years.

I’ve found this principle to be true in my own life. I recently found a note on my phone and was transported back to 2018. I was 29-years-old and single. My sister who is five years younger than me had just given birth to her first child, my first niece and while I was so happy for her and thrilled to be an aunt, I struggled to understand why I wasn’t married and having children of my own. I’d poured myself for three years into a job I loved at the Deseret News in an attempt to compensate for these other hopes and dreams that didn’t seem to be working out, but even that had taken a negative turn and I’d switched jobs to work at Deseret Book in a role that didn’t seem to have a clear direction. I’d briefly dated someone that seemed promising which only led to more heartbreak and discouragement. I remember very clearly one day working my brand-new job surrounded by strangers trying to cover up the tears that were dripping onto my computer keyboard.
Two months into that job though, we had an idea for a podcast called “All In.” That podcast changed my life. Among other things, it gave me greater professional purpose than I’d experienced previously, filled my life with the wisdom of dedicated disciples of Jesus Christ, and ultimately led to my meeting my husband.

Sam’s head felt hot. He had a runny nose. His sister Martha was sick too. Mom said Sam and Martha were too sick to go to church.
“Can we play with trucks?” Sam asked.
“Not right now,” Mom said. “We are going to have our own Primary!”
“How can I have Primary without my teacher?” Sam asked.
“Who will give a talk?” Martha asked.
“I have a plan.” Mom winked at them. “I can be the teacher. And I know someone very special who can give the talk.”
“Who?” Sam asked.
“You’ll see!” Mom said.
Sam and Martha went to Martha’s room. They set up three chairs.
“Welcome to our pretend Primary,” Mom said. Then they sang “I Am a Child of God” and said a prayer.
Martha chose more songs to sing. Mom told a story about Jesus. Sam and Martha colored pictures.
Sam liked their pretend Primary! But who was going to give the talk? There was nobody there except Sam, Martha, and Mom.
Finally Mom got her laptop. She put it on Martha’s bed.
“Now we have a special guest. President Thomas S. Monson is here to talk to us!” Mom clicked on a video on the computer screen. President Monson started telling them a story.
Sam smiled. He liked his special Primary with the prophet!

The Prophet Joseph Smith knew his life was in danger. Angry mobs had followed him everywhere, threatening his life and the lives of his family. Then in the fall of 1838 he had been arrested again in Far West, Missouri.
As he was tied and pushed into a canvas-covered wagon, he asked for the privilege of saying good-bye to his mother, Lucy Mack Smith, who tearfully watched him being taken away. The officers refused to let the Prophet out of the wagon, so he called out to his mother to come closer. Searching frantically, Joseph found a rip in the canvas and reached out to touch his mother’s hand for one last good-bye. Just touching her hand seemed to be important to him as the wagon quickly pulled away and Joseph Smith was taken to the Liberty Jail. There he was confined to a dark, crowded dungeon for six months.

Two weeks after I got my driver’s license, my parents let me take the car for the whole day. I was ecstatic! I couldn’t wait to go driving around town. That morning in my prayers I had a strong feeling to pray for safety and that the Holy Spirit would guide and direct me. I hopped into the car and headed to town to do some shopping with my sister. I was surprised at how comfortable I felt driving. But I was uneasy. I had a feeling that at sometime during the day some sort of obstacle would be in the road and I would have to stop suddenly. I wondered if I was just nervous because it was my first time driving alone. I decided to drive slower than usual. I drove all day without incident but still had that feeling. When we headed home, it was dark out, and we had a 45-minute drive home in the country. I decided to drive about 5–10 miles under the speed limit. Just as I came around a bend, I saw a deer standing in the middle of the road. I had to quickly slam on my brakes to stop. I stopped a couple of feet in front of the deer, which just walked off, leaving us with our hearts pounding. I couldn’t believe how close it was. I know if I had not been warned by the Holy Ghost and had been going faster, I would have hit that deer. I am so grateful to have the Holy Ghost guiding and protecting me.

Even though I lived with a father who didn’t follow God’s teachings, God placed others in my life to support me as a good father should. I had a wonderful bishop who always took a minute to say hello and see how I was doing. Bishop Hicken treated me the same way he did all the youth in our ward. He held interviews with us, went to our activities, and had us in his home for firesides. He was loving, kind, and patient. I watched how he treated his wife and children, and it helped me believe that my Heavenly Father was like that. He was a happy man, full of life and love. I tried to live better because he expected us to.
I was a late bloomer when it came to dating, and it seemed that when I got my first date, everyone knew about it—even my bishop. The big day arrived and the young man picked me up. While we were at a stoplight, someone very carefully bumped into the back of my date’s truck. As we turned around to see who had done this, I saw a man marching up to the driver’s side of the truck. It was my bishop! As my date rolled down his window, my bishop said, “That’s my girl you have in there and I want her home by 10 o’clock.” I don’t remember much about that night except that I was home by 10:00. But I will never forget that I was “his girl” and that he loved me and cared about me. I knew then that my Heavenly Father cared about me, too.

Jackson stayed close to Mom as they walked into their neighbors’ storage room. It was dark in there. Something brushed across his face, and he jumped.
“Just a little cobweb, Jackson,” Mom said. She bent down and picked up a cardboard box. “Here it is.”
Inside were Mrs. Karras’s wreath and a small nativity set. Jackson helped set them out for her every year while Dad and Grandpa put up the Christmas lights outside.
Jackson carried the box upstairs. He saw Mrs. Karras sitting in her wheelchair in front of the window. Careful not to trip on the cords from her oxygen tank, Jackson placed the box at her feet.
Mrs. Karras made a tiny noise in her throat and pointed outside. Carter and Kennedy, Jackson’s little brother and sister, were rolling in the snow and throwing snowballs at their big yellow dog. Madison, Jackson’s older sister, was handing a string of lights to Dad.
“This would be fun,” Jackson thought, “if it didn’t take all day.”
Not sure what he should say to Mrs. Karras, he put on his hat and mittens and went out to help.
“Jackson, grab me that step stool from the truck,” Grandpa called to him.
“Can you bring me the electrical tape off the front seat?” Dad asked.
“And then come hold these lights for Dad,” Madison ordered.
“Next the dog will be bossing me,” Jackson thought. But he got the stool and the tape, and he took the lights from Madison so she could go warm up inside.
Soon Grandpa walked over and handed him another string. “Even more lights this year than last year,” he said. “It’s going to be quite a display.”
“Why does Mr. Karras keep buying more lights?” Jackson asked.
“Well, he knows they make his wife happy,” Grandpa said, nodding in the direction of the window. “Since she is sick, he does all he can for her.”
Jackson looked to the window and saw that Mr. Karras had pulled a chair next to his wife. He seemed to always be sitting by her and talking to her, even though she couldn’t talk back.
When the last light was strung, Jackson carried the empty boxes back to the storage room. Walking back, he heard Mom telling Mrs. Karras about one of their Christmas traditions.
“On Christmas Eve we sit around the tree, with all its pretty lights, and we share stories about how God’s light has touched us, and the ways we feel and share His love.”
Jackson smiled. He was glad to help Mr. and Mrs. Karras.
That evening after dinner, Dad said, “Time to make sure all those lights came on.”
The family got into the car and Dad drove through town to the top of a hill. In the darkness below, the Karrases’ house was easy to spot.
“Wow,” Jackson whispered.
Lights wrapped around the large pine tree, traced the roofline of the house, and twinkled along the fence. Every bush and every window shone.
“I bet Mrs. Karras is looking out right now, just smiling and smiling,” Madison said.
“I think so too,” Mom agreed.
All at once, Jackson knew what he would talk about when they sat around their tree on Christmas Eve. It seemed to him that all those little Christmas lights were glowing in his heart.

I never knew that winning a championship baseball game could make me so miserable. Well, actually, winning the game felt great. It wasn’t until afterward that I began to feel miserable. Coach announced that the regional play-off was just five days away. On Sunday!

Until a few weeks ago, it wouldn’t have mattered to me what day the play-off was. Then Mom and I began meeting with the LDS missionaries, and we liked what they were teaching us. We were even reading the Book of Mormon. We had talked about keeping the Sabbath holy, and I didn’t think that playing in ball games—even regional play-offs—was doing that. But how I wanted to play in that game!

Dad and Mom ran to meet me on the diamond. They were as excited about the victory as I had been at first. "Son, you were fantastic out there!" Dad crowed.

"I knew you’d do it, Kimball!" Then Mom looked at me closely and asked if I was OK.

Dad answered for me. "Sure. He’s fine—just a little tired after a game like that. What he needs now is some celebrating. How about going to the Palace for a pizza?"

I didn’t worry about the game for the rest of the evening—no one worries about anything when Dad is around. If I ever want to be cheered up, I go to him. But if I ever need help with problems, Mom is the one I talk to.

While waiting for our pizza, Dad "interviewed" me. Picking up a breadstick, he pointed it at me, saying, "Don’t be afraid of the microphone, young man. Speak right into it and describe exactly how you made that fantastic catch."

That night, when Mom came in to say good night, all my concerns returned.

"All right, Kimball, out with it. Something happened at the baseball game, didn’t it?"

"Coach told us that regional play-offs are this Sunday—when we talk with the elders." Dad had agreed to let us meet with the elders as long as we did it on Sundays, and in the front room (so that we would be out of his way). To Dad, church or anything religious was for Sunday. He didn’t want it interfering with the rest of the week.

Mom sat down on my bed. "What’s on your mind?"

"Well, would it be wrong for me to play that one game?" I hit my pillow. "I just don’t know what to do. Could the elders tell me?"

Mom looked thoughtful. Then she said, "Kimball, I’m glad you care so much about doing what’s right." She asked me to read 1 Nephi 16:17–32 [1 Ne. 16:17–32] and discuss it with her in the morning.

The next morning after Dad left for work, I helped Mom clean up the breakfast dishes. "Kimball, what did you get out of those verses?" she asked.

"Well, one time Lehi and his family were traveling in the wilderness and needed food. Nephi was hunting and broke his bow, and since his brothers’ bows were broken, too, he made himself a new one."

"Then what did he do?"

"He didn’t know where he should go to hunt, so he asked his father, Lehi." All of a sudden I knew what Mom was getting at, and it scared me. "You think I should ask Dad about playing ball on the Sabbath?" I wasn’t sure he even knew what the Sabbath was!

"Why not, Kimball? He’s your father, the head of our family."

"Mom, that worked for Nephi—his dad was a prophet. But Dad doesn’t know anything about religious stuff."

Mom got out the Book of Mormon. "Kimball, read verse 20 to me." She pointed. "This part."

"‘… and also my father began to murmur against the Lord his God,’" I read.

"So even Lehi was complaining. Does that sound like the way a prophet, or a father, should act?"

I shook my head.

"But Nephi went to him anyway and asked him where to hunt. And you know what? Lehi was sorry for complaining and for not behaving like the head of the family should. He repented and made himself worthy to get an answer from the Lord so that he could give Nephi an answer."

Then I saw that to my mom, this wasn’t just about playing ball on Sunday. It was about trying to help Dad begin to change—like Nephi had helped his father to get back on track. When the missionaries had talked to us about the plan of salvation and temples and sealing and things like that, Mom’s eyes had been shiny with tears. Now I realized just how much she wanted Dad to be a part of it. I wanted it too. "OK, Mom. I’ll give it a try."

I still wanted to talk to the elders, though, so I called Elder Adams and told him my problem and what Mom had said. He just told me what a wise mom I had. Since he wasn’t going to tell me what to do, I had to gather my courage and ask Dad.

That night after supper, as Mom headed for the kitchen to get dessert, she looked straight at me. I took a deep breath. "Dad?"

"Aye, me mate," he answered in his best Australian accent, which didn’t make it any easier to get serious.

"My championship game is coming up, you know, and I’m wondering if I should, well, maybe not play in it." Dad looked shocked, so I hurried and added, "Well, it’s on the Sabbath—I mean, Sunday—and I don’t know what to do."

"Ah, a spiritual matter. Have you talked to your mother?" he asked, a little amused.

"She said I should get your advice."

"Oh? What about those two young men? Isn’t that what they’re for—to solve the world’s problems? Did you talk to them?"

"Yes. They said I should talk to you, the head of our family." I was sort of embarrassed to say that last part, but I thought it might help to point it out to him.

Dad was quiet. Finally, pulling the water pitcher to him, he stared at it and said, "Let’s take a look in our trusty crystal ball. Now, to play? Or not to play?" He studied the pitcher for a long time. "The crystal is cloudy. Maybe I need to change the water or something." He shrugged. "Sorry, son. I just don’t know. Talk to Mom about it again. Here she comes now, with an awesome dessert."

That was the end of our talk, the talk that was going to help me make my decision and to bring us closer together as a family. Dad had joked his way through it. I managed to keep back the tears of disappointment and embarrassment until I got to my room. Then I prayed. It helped some to ask Heavenly Father to help me not be mad at Dad and to know about playing on Sunday.

Mom came to my room before I went to sleep. She tried to comfort me, but she was as disappointed as I was. When I told her that I had decided not to play the game, she felt a little better. I didn’t, exactly.

The next morning, I told the coach that I wouldn’t be playing in the game because it was on Sunday. I could tell that he didn’t agree or even understand. But on the way home, I had a nice, peaceful feeling and I knew that I had made the right choice.

None of us mentioned the game again until Sunday morning. Dad looked out the window and commented on what a perfect day it was for a game. But he didn’t do his usual weatherman imitation.

That day at church, I figured the elders would ask me about my decision, but I didn’t see them at the meetings.

Pulling into our driveway after church, we saw their bikes in front of our house. Before, whenever they beat us home, they waited for us on the porch. But they weren’t there. We walked in and heard voices—not from the front room, our usual place, but from the family room. Dad was with the missionaries! On the end tables were scriptures, pamphlets, pictures, and glasses of lemonade.

As Mom joined Dad on the sofa, he squeezed her hand, smiled, then looked at me. "The other night, Kimball, you gave me the shock of my life by asking for my opinion on Sabbath ballplaying. I was caught off guard. I felt bad that you wanted spiritual advice and I couldn’t give you any. I responded the only way I knew how, by joking. I apologize, son."

Dad paused. I’d never heard him speak this long without cracking a joke.

"I figured that the elders could solve your problems easier than I could, so I was even more surprised when you said that they told you to come to me. Then, when I realized that they cared more about helping our family than gaining converts, I was impressed."

Elder Adams interrupted. "Your wife gave Kimball that counsel first, sir."

Dad looked at her in surprise.

"It was something I picked up from Lehi and Nephi in the Book of Mormon," Mom said, winking at me.

"Well," Dad went on, "when I saw that this church wants to build me up as the father in the home, I decided to hear what they have to say. That’s when I called these two young cyclists and caught them before they took off for the ‘Tour de France.’"

Mom spoke up, "Why don’t we continue this discussion over some lasagna. It’s in the oven, just waiting for us." Eagerly we started for the kitchen.

As I set the table, I thought about Dad calling the elders and about his apology, and I thought, Dad might have some Lehi in him, after all.

Then I started thinking about Lehi and his family. They had a hard life in the wilderness. I wondered if Lehi ever joked around with them, just to help make their lives a little happier. Dad would have done that, I thought. Grabbing a breadstick, I spoke into it. "Listen, everyone. I want you to meet my dad—a modern-day Lehi!"

Coming to know Him leads to perspective and purpose, even in the darkest moments. In one of the most grief-filled periods of my life, I tragically lost my father to an unexpected heart attack. What added to this grief was the imminent loss of my brother and, shortly after, another brother. During this struggling time, my dear wife and I also suffered the loss of two children—one was born prematurely and did not survive, and the other we lost to miscarriage. In these dark moments—moments of grief and pain, moments of loss and despair, moments of trial and tribulation—coming unto Christ is the sure way to bring back even a flicker of light that can grow within you, little by little, and in time lead to hope and healing.

After my wife, Anne, and I received a call to serve as full-time mission leaders, our family determined to learn each missionary’s name before arriving in the field. We obtained photos, created flash cards, and began studying faces and memorizing names.

Once we arrived, we held introductory conferences with the missionaries. As we mingled, I overheard our nine-year-old son:

“Nice to meet you, Sam!”

“Rachel, where are you from?”

“Wow, David, you’re tall!”

Alarmed, I went to our son and whispered, “Hey, let’s remember to refer to the missionaries as Elder or Sister.”

He gave me a puzzled look and said, “Dad, I thought we were supposed to memorize their names.” Our son did what he thought was right based on his understanding.

They were known everywhere they went. They were members of the best football team around, which made them members of the most popular groups on campus—in town—in the state. At every turn there was an encouraging word, a friendly smile, a jovial pat on the back. Their names were in the papers; their faces were on T.V. Their lives were a dream. Yet they willingly traded those dreams in for a hard dose of reality.
More than just voluntarily, they eagerly exchanged all that fame and glory for obscurity, taking little heed of the effect it would have on their futures. They traded the warm handshakes for indifferent shrugs, the encouraging words for curious glances. Only a handful, if that many people, knew them, and they were hundreds of miles away from those who cared for and loved them.
Yet Bart Oates, starting center for the New York Giants, and Trevor Matich, 1985’s first-round draft pick of the New England Patriots, claim they would do it again in a second. They feel their choice to interrupt their promising college football careers to serve missions was one of the most important decisions they ever made. And they acknowledge the fact that they wouldn’t be where they are today if they hadn’t served.
“When I made the decision to go on a mission, a lot of people thought I was crazy,” relates Trevor. “I’d played two seasons of football at BYU. I’d made varsity as a freshman—the only freshman on the varsity offense that year. I’d received two championship rings. I’d been to two Holiday Bowls. And I was going to leave it all to go on a mission?
“But they didn’t understand my motivation. Going through my mind was the fact that football is good and football is important, but someday football is going to end. Where would I be on that day if I based my entire life on football? I thought of what doesn’t end, and that’s my relationship with God, with my family, and with our church.
“So I left football, knowing that I might not ever play again. But even if I didn’t there would be no regrets, because the most important thing would be taken care of.”
Deep sentiments from a deep man. Trevor belies the stereotypical offensive lineman image. At age 24 he is eloquent without being arrogant, which is an accomplishment, since he had barely finished helping BYU win the national football championship when New England snatched him up to play center.
Although the Patriots offered Trevor a salary that competes with the best of them, you won’t see him flaunting it. He’s still most comfortable in a plain shirt and his old Levi’s with the strings from his Super Bowl field pass attached. Trevor had to watch his team play in the Super Bowl from the sidelines because, in the first game of the season, a gang of Green Bay Packers fell on his ankle. That, much to his frustration, left him on injured reserve for the rest of the season. But Trevor has high hopes for this, his second season.
When he’s not working with the team, Trevor often finds time to travel home to Sacramento, California, where he likes nothing better than watching his younger brother play basketball. In Boston, where the Patriots are based, he spends a lot of time counseling youth at the Gabler House, a home for children who are wards of the state.
Bart Oates doesn’t exactly fit the bruising stereotype either, although he says he’s “too fat and too slow to be anything other than an offensive lineman.” In fact, “jolly” might be the first word you think of when you see him, with his perpetual smile, rosy cheeks, and sparkling eyes. It’s a good thing too, because at 6 foot, 3 inches and 265 pounds, the man could be rather intimidating without a smile.
At age 27, he has already had four years of experience with professional football. He was drafted out of BYU to play with the Philadelphia Stars of the newly formed United States Football League, where he stayed for three years. Just last year his contract with the USFL expired, and he decided to make the switch to the National Football League. His play at center helped the Giants to a division title, and they have higher hopes this year.
When he’s not playing football, he’s studying law at Seton Hall University in New Jersey, playing racquetball, spending time with his wife and two small sons, or serving as assistant nursery leader in the Emerson Ward, Caldwell New Jersey Stake.
Bart feels the same way Trevor does about his choice to serve. “The decision to go on a mission was easy. It was just the right thing to do. And you know, when I went, I made up my mind I was not going to return to football. That was the only way I could serve well. Instead of suffering the mental anguish of going through two years of thinking ‘I’ve got to stay in shape so I can play when I get back,’ I put it all out of my mind, and in so doing I was able to concentrate on my mission.”
So out they went. Bart served in the Nevada, Las Vegas Mission from 1977–79, and Trevor served in the Mexico Torreon Mission from 1981–82. They were to learn many things in the mission field that they readily admit they would have missed had they stayed on the football field.
“It gave me a new perspective on life,” Bart says. “Before that, football was my life—it was my god, really, in that, first and foremost, everything I did was toward making me a better football player, and everything else came second. But my mission helped me to realize that the spiritual aspects of living are more important than anything we can do as far as personal glory goes.”
Trevor adds a few more lessons learned in the mission field. “When I first got to Mexico, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. There were people living in one-room houses about the size of my bedroom, with eight kids and maybe one bed, a chair, and a table. The door would be a curtain hanging down. You see other people put up four stakes, wrap butcher paper around them, and that’s their house.
“But the thing that struck me was that amidst all that lack of physical comfort, the people were happy. I mean, they were really happy. As time went on, I came to know that they placed very little value on material things, and a lot of value on people—the family—relationships. Mexico is very family oriented, and I think that’s one of the reasons why the Church is growing so fast down there. People love each other, and that’s their life. That became my life too.”
The mission experience, however, was not all smiles and tears of joy. At times, both Bart and Trevor met with hostility, pain, and frustration. No grueling spring training, no brutal two-a-day practices, no bone-jarring games can match the hardships Trevor felt. “I had some very trying times,” he relates. “But the motivating factor to keep on going was that I knew that at the point where I said ‘Stop! I can’t take any more!’ my progression would stop. So I just kept right on going.”
And Bart knows that no stunning football victory, no league or world championship, could ever match the elation he felt in the mission field when, for example, one of his closest investigators finally saw the gospel light. “His wife and kids were already members,” Bart relates, “and he just didn’t want to make a commitment. We got to be really close, great friends. Then one night I asked him if he would be willing to pray to our Heavenly Father to find out if the Church was true. He agreed, somewhat reluctantly, and the whole family knelt down to pray with him. The Spirit came over us and everyone in the room felt it. I said, ‘Fred, do you know what you’re feeling?’ He couldn’t deny it. I said, ‘You know you want to be baptized,’ and he said, ‘Yes.’”
Neither Bart nor Trevor would pass up those types of experiences—not even if they had known what they would go through when they returned to football.
“My mission did not help my football,” Bart says. “Some guys go out and expect that since they’re making a sacrifice for the Lord, the Lord is going to bless them by improving their football skills. That’s not the case.” Toward the end of his mission Bart did rise at 4:30 A.M. for conditioning workouts. (“All my companions wanted to be transferred. I know that,” he laughs.) But he wasn’t a superman when he returned. He had to scramble to regain his skills and reflexes.
“I wasn’t better than I was before my mission,” he confides. “I wasn’t even as good. But it didn’t take me long to get back into shape.” Bart also notes that by the time he returned to BYU, the starting center ahead of him had graduated, and the position was open to Bart for the next three years, whereas he would have been second string two of those three years had he chosen to stay and play.
Trevor’s absence from football didn’t help his skills, and didn’t help his size either. “I left at about 235 pounds, and I came back at about 207,” he said. “Most guys have their mothers greeting them at the airport saying, ‘Great to have you back, son,’ but all my mother said was ‘Oh Trevor, you look so thin.’ To be honest with you, the coaches were worried. But when I got home, I lifted a lot of weights and ate everything that was slower than me—lots of pizza and chocolate chip cookies. It helps to have a mom who has a master’s degree in nutrition.”
Trevor’s mother not only played a major role in filling him out when he returned, but she also helped to form his character before he left. Trevor’s parents divorced when he was young, leaving his mother alone with four children. Besides Trevor, Carol Matich has managed to raise Maren, 25, who sings with the San Diego Opera, Krestin, 21, a runner-up in the Miss Sacramento Pageant, and Dever, 19, an All-Northern California basketball star.
Bart’s family had a great influence on him as well. His father, Bob, who was a tremendous athlete himself, started Bart playing football when he was only eight years old. Bart’s two brothers and three sisters were all very active, especially Brad, who preceded Bart into the ranks of professional football. When Bart was drafted by the USFL, they drafted Brad as well, and the two brothers played together for three seasons.
Bart is now influencing his own family. There’s four-year-old Derek, six-month-old Zack, and, of course the former Michelle Ivins, a convert Bart met at BYU and married in the Salt Lake Temple when he’d been home from his mission just under two years.
Michelle readily recognizes what an important influence Bart’s mission had on his life. In the somewhat glamorous world of professional sports, it’s easy to become conceited and self-absorbed, but she says Bart is the opposite. “His mission taught him selflessness,” she says. “I’ve noticed in our marriage and in his dealing with others that he is very conscious of the other person’s needs. Instead of trying to make himself look good, he tries to make the other person feel good. That’s an attribute that going on a mission helps to develop. You’re not out there to build yourself up, but to build others up and bring light into their lives.”
It’s been several years now since Bart and Trevor were released, but their missions are never far behind them. Both serve as stake missionaries and have the opportunity to draw on their mission experiences daily. Neither lives in an area with a large LDS population, and people are always curious about their beliefs.
The Boston media, in particular, was curious about Trevor’s religion. When he signed his contract with the Patriots, the local headlines read, “Ex-missionary to get new mission on Pats—BYU Mormon center must protect passer” and “Matich’s new mission: Patriots.” The papers carried detailed accounts of Trevor’s missionary experiences in Mexico and couldn’t resist mentioning that they inspired him to be a “dedicated disciple of the work ethic.”
The Oates find people in New Jersey curious about Latter-day Saints too. They belong to a group of Christian athletes and their wives who meet regularly for Bible study and fellowship. “I was a little reluctant to go at first,” confides Michelle, “because our beliefs are so different from most other denominations. But I decided to take the time and go because they talk about leading a Christlike life, and I wanted to be associated with people who are interested in that.” More than once the Oates have had the opportunity to explain LDS beliefs to the group.
So life in the world of professional athletics goes on for these two ex-missionaries, but they’ll tell you it has a deeper dimension, a brighter sheen because they served. Giving up a few years in college seems like a small sacrifice when they consider all they got in return. Neither feels he would be in the position he is today if he hadn’t answered the missionary call.
Trevor speaks for both of them when he says, “The things that I learned and the changes that came about in me, as well as the changes I was able to be a part of in the lives of others, were something I’d trade all the football and all the pro contracts in the world for. My mission was a great influencing factor in my life.”

When I was 14, my grandfather passed away. On the day of the funeral, many people came up to me and expressed love and sympathy, but I didn’t really pay attention because I was so sad. Then my grandma came up to me and said five simple words: “We will see him again.”
Those five words meant a lot to me. I really took them to heart, and I finally fully understood that because of Jesus Christ and the great plan of happiness, we will see our loved ones again. There is a resurrection! I took great comfort in Mosiah 16:8–9:
“There is a resurrection, therefore the grave hath no victory, and the sting of death is swallowed up in Christ.
“He is the light and the life of the world; yea, a light that is endless, that can never be darkened; yea, and also a life which is endless, that there can be no more death.”
I miss my grandfather so much, but with the knowledge of the gospel, I’m comforted because I know, like Grandma said, that “we will see him again.” I’m so grateful for the gospel and for the Atonement of Jesus Christ.

After recovering from serious health challenges, Elder Robert D. Hales shared the following in general conference: “On a few occasions, I told the Lord that I had surely learned the lessons to be taught and that it wouldn’t be necessary for me to endure any more suffering. Such entreaties seemed to be of no avail, for it was made clear to me that this purifying process of testing was to be endured in the Lord’s time and in the Lord’s own way. … I … learned that I would not be left alone to meet these trials and tribulations but that guardian angels would attend me. There were some that were near angels in the form of doctors, nurses, and most of all my sweet companion, Mary. And on occasion, when the Lord so desired, I was to be comforted with visitations of heavenly hosts that brought comfort and eternal reassurances in my time of need.”17

On the way to priesthood meeting on Sunday mornings, Dad would make several stops. He would leave the car, disappear to the rear of the home, and then, in a minute or two, reappear. I inquired about why we were making the stops. “Oh, just a little missionary work” was his usual response. It wasn’t until I was a priest that I realized the missionary work being done was the quorum president knocking on bedroom windows reminding his sleepy quorum members of the need to attend their meetings. As the president of the Aaronic Priesthood, the bishop has the responsibility to see that all youth receive instruction concerning the doctrines of the kingdom as well as in the principles of honesty and charity. When the bishop encourages your attendance at meetings, he is not attempting to plan your life or adjust your schedules. He is attempting to show interest and concern because he knows the importance of partaking of the sacrament and the strength we gain by associating with each other.

On Thursday, Mr. Pearson asked me to stay after algebra class. He didn’t announce it in front of everybody, so it wasn’t a totally mortifying experience. And it wasn’t like I didn’t know what he was going to say. When you’re about the only Mormon in the entire high school, you get used to people’s unreasonable expectations of you. But just because I was getting straight A’s in English didn’t mean I had to be brilliant at everything. I was definitely not brilliant at algebra.
“I’m being as generous as I can, Liesa,” Mr. Pearson said in that I-expect-more-from-a-student-like-you tone of voice. “But if your grades don’t improve, I don’t see how I can pass you.”
I nodded contritely.
“Now, I was thinking. I’ve been organizing the tutoring sessions for summer school—No, you don’t have to worry about that at this point. But Lawrence Guzewski—you know Lawrence, don’t you?—he’s going to be working in the math lab. I thought maybe you two could get together. I think he could help you out.”
I heard an “okay” squeak out of my mouth. It was like the bishop asking you to give a talk in sacrament meeting. How can you refuse? Not that I had anything against Lawrence Guzewski. He was just one of those people who seemed to believe that intelligence alone was sufficient for a meaningful existence. It just wasn’t that he didn’t sufficiently appreciate those of us who strived for social betterment. He apparently didn’t care. Like the way he didn’t care about how he looked. And as Susan Redmond would say, “Apathy is anathema.” And so was Lawrence Guzewski.
To make things worse, by the middle of next week, it had become pretty clear that our “getting together” was supposed to be up to me. And every day I didn’t “get together” with Lawrence was another day I lived in dread of being approached by Mr. Pearson for the reason why. With guilt making me a thoroughly unconvincing liar, he would give me his I’m-disappointed-with-you look and ask what he could do to help. It was a horrid enough thought that I vowed to say something to Lawrence when the opportunity presented itself just to clear my conscience.
It wasn’t difficult to pick out Lawrence in the cafeteria. I walked over and sat down across from him. He looked up with a start, glanced at the empty chair next to me, obviously expecting it to be occupied soon.
“Mind if I sit here?” I asked.
“Oh, sorry, did you have this place saved?” He was already sweeping his things together to make a quick getaway.
“Oh, no.”
Lawrence stopped. He sat back down again. I got out my lunch. Lawrence returned tentatively to his sandwich and his book.
I remembered something Mr. Pearson had said. “You’re teaching the math lab for summer school, aren’t you?”
His head bobbed up. “Uh,” he said. He had to think about it. “I guess so.”
“That sounds interesting.”
He shrugged.
The conversation ended there. I hadn’t mentioned algebra, supposedly the reason for all of this, but I had run clean out of conversation. We finished our lunches in silence. I didn’t want to just get up and walk away, but if I didn’t he wouldn’t, so I did.
“Whew,” I heard him say with great relief.
I thought about that “whew” all afternoon. At first I thought it was a basic, “Whew, I thought she’d never leave.” But on further consideration, it might have been the more complex, “Whew, why can’t I carry on an intelligent conversation with a member of the opposite sex?” That was a “whew” I could identify with. When you’re about the only Mormon in the entire high school, trying to get asked out on a date your parents will approve of can result in a lot of short, uncomfortable conversations with guys who end up thinking you’re kind of weird. Like Lawrence Guzewski.
Lawrence was in my seventh-period study hall, a fact I had never given much attention to until now. But I noticed him right off. Actually, he seemed to have noticed me first. He had his chair scooted back from his desk and was holding a sheaf of papers. He looked like a hurdler debating whether or not to leave the blocks.
I tried to look like I wasn’t looking at him, and if I had, it wasn’t on purpose. I went back to my algebra homework. When I looked up again, there he was, right in front of me, still gripping his papers.
He sat down quickly at the desk next to me and made a considerable point of examining his papers. “Um, Liesa—” he said, turning to me again, “I was, you know, wondering if maybe you could help me on my term paper. If you don’t mind. I mean, you’re pretty good in English so I thought, you know—”
“Oh,” I said. He probably thought I said “okay,” so he handed me his term paper. I started reading it. Two pages later, I stopped and said, “Lawrence, what is it about?”
“Neutrinos.”
I didn’t ask him what they were. I said, “But you haven’t mentioned them yet.”
“I was leading up to it.”
“But how’s the reader supposed to know what you’re leading up to?”
“The title?” he said, hopefully.
I turned to the next page and found what looked like a thesis statement. I marked the paragraph. “Begin here.”
“But what about the first two pages?”
“Well, remember what Mrs. Greenbaum said: ‘Tell the reader what you’re going to say. Say it. And then tell him what you just said?’ You have to start out by saying what you’re going to write about, and how you’re going to write about it.”
“Oh, I get it. Like an abstract.”
“You begin with this paragraph and go on to here,” I said, marking the first page.
It seemed to make sense to him. I never expected to be better than Lawrence Guzewski at anything. But what was even more surprising was that I had actually enjoyed helping him. That I hadn’t counted on.
“Oh, by the way,” Lawrence said, as he shuffled his papers together, glancing over my shoulder at my algebra problem, “the answer is 2X2+1.”
Lawrence went back to his seat, leaving me wondering where in the world 2X2+1 came from. It sure wasn’t apparent to me. What was apparent was that the only thing standing between me and yet another disaster at Mr. Pearson’s blackboard tomorrow was Lawrence Guzewski. My last period class was Mrs. Greenbaum’s creative writing class. I left as quickly as I could after the bell rang and caught up with Lawrence in B-wing.
“Hey, Lawrence,” I said.
Lawrence stopped and turned around with a puzzled, “you mean me?” expression on his face, as if there were dozens of people named “Lawrence” around I could have been referring to.
“Lawrence,” I said, approaching him, “I was wondering if you could help me with my algebra homework this afternoon, if you have the time, I mean.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally, Lawrence looked at his watch and said, “Uh, I have to go to my violin lesson.”
“Oh,” I said. I took a step back.
He suddenly blurted out, “But I’m free this evening.”
I retraced my step. “What time?”
“Around seven?” he said, as if it were a question.
“Why don’t I come over around seven.”
“Okay.”
I had invited myself over to Lawrence Guzewski’s. If Susan Redmond found out, what was left of my senior year would be totally wasted, socially. Summer school was beginning to look like a reprieve in comparison.
“What were you talking to Lawrence Guzewski about, Liesa?”
I turned around and there was Susan Redmond, on her way to cheerleading practice, pom-poms in hand.
I opened my mouth and waited for the appropriate words to fill it. “Mr. Pearson—” I said, finally, “he assigned Lawrence to be my math tutor.”
Susan nodded with understanding, pity filling her dark brown eyes. She patted me sympathetically on the shoulder, and I left it at that.
Dad helped me find the little Cape Cod next to the Christian Academy on Fifth Street where the Guzewskis lived. Mrs. Guzewski met me at the door and welcomed me vigorously. “Oh, you must be Liesa,” she exclaimed. “Lawrence has told me all about you.”
I smiled nervously. I hadn’t thought that there would be that much to tell. Lawrence came down the stairs, looking even less reassured than I felt. We all stood there in the front hall, Lawrence on one side, me on the other, his mother in between, looking pleased. Finally Lawrence said, “Um, it’s probably easiest to work in the kitchen.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Guzewski, enthusiastically, “it’s right this way.” I think I heard Lawrence mutter under his breath that he knew where the kitchen was.
The kitchen smelled like my Aunt May’s kitchen, warm and friendly and delicious. There was a plate of fresh chocolate chip cookies on the table. “Please, go right ahead,” said Mrs. Guzewski, and I almost did, but I didn’t think it’d be polite to start the evening scarfing cookies. I decided I’d wait until Lawrence took one.
Mrs. Guzewski bustled in and out every other minute to make sure everything was all right. There wasn’t much to make sure of because we just sat there at the kitchen table staring at my algebra textbook, waiting for the other one to say something first.
Finally, I took a deep breath and said, “Lawrence, why don’t you show me where that 2X2+1 came from? You know, the problem you solved in study hall.”
I opened up my textbook to the page the assignment was on, and he immediately launched into a series of calculations which totally left me behind. But in the process he forgot to be self-conscious, which made it hard for me to be self-conscious. I had to slow him down most of the time, because what was obvious to him wasn’t so obvious to me. But by the time we got through the rest of the assignment, things were a bit clearer.
I put down my pencil. “I think I’m getting it,” I said. “Almost.”
Lawrence shrugged. “You know,” he said, “I never thought that you would ask me to help you. I mean, I know I never could belong to your group—I mean, I kind of had the feeling that if I ever asked you out Susan Redmond would beat me up or something.”
He thought that—come to think of it, I thought that as well at times. But when you’re about the only Mormon in the entire high school, you can’t always let your priorities be decided by the Susan Redmonds of the world.
“To tell the truth,” I said, sheepishly, “I asked you to help me with my algebra because Mr. Pearson told me to. I know what that sounds like, but I’m glad he did. Not just because I needed help with algebra.”
It was Lawrence’s turn to be embarrassed. “You know,” he said, “it was Mrs. Greenbaum’s idea that you could help me with English. She was right. You’re a lot better at it than I am.”
It was one too many compliments between the two of us, and Lawrence didn’t know what to say next, so he had a cookie. I’m glad he did, because I was starving for one.
They were great cookies.