At the beginning of my senior year at BYU,
I began worrying whether I was making the right decision about my future.
One day in the fall Lisa asked me if there was anyone who could possibly help me
that I hadn’t yet already talked with.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I said,
“Yes. If I could only talk to the president of BYU,
Jeffrey R. Holland, that would clear everything up.”
Several weeks prior to graduation,
I attended my senior capstone class.
As I prepared to leave the building, I noticed a crowd gathered at the west doors.
I worked my way to the front of the doors
and discovered that the reason no one was leaving
was because it was a complete downpour.
I put a Daily Universe newspaper over my head and started running through the parking lot.
The newspaper turned to a pulpy mush, and I was soaked almost immediately.
I was truly in a blue mood and felt very down.
So I walked—very slowly.
As I walked past the Brimhall Building, I heard someone yell out,
“You need this more than I do!”
I looked across the street, and there was President Holland holding up an umbrella.
He responded by opening the rear passenger door and offering me a ride home.
Sister Holland, who was already in the car, greeted me
as President Holland got into the driver’s seat.
“Where can I take you?”
President Holland asked as he looked at me through the rearview mirror.
My wife and I were managing apartments south of campus,
and I hesitated telling him where I lived
because I didn’t think he would be very impressed.
But with the president of the university looking me in the eye,
I confessed the name of the complex.
President and Sister Holland chuckled, and President Holland said,
“Pat and I managed those apartments when we were undergraduates at BYU.”
I was stunned.
My tiny brain couldn’t comprehend that
President Jeffrey R. Holland had actually lived in the same apartments that I was living in.
Impossible!
We drove south on Campus Drive past the Maeser Building.
As I sat in the car, I suddenly realized
that seven months previous I had told my wife that
if I could only talk with President Holland,
then I was confident I would receive helpful direction,
and here I was sitting in a car with him.
I mustered my courage and asked,
“President Holland, have you ever been so discouraged
that you didn’t know if things would ever work out?
Did you ever worry that you might not make it after all?”
He looked at me through the rearview mirror and answered, again to my surprise,
“Yes, I did.”
We drove to my complex,
and I moved toward the door to get out.
But President Holland put the car in park,
and he and Sister Holland turned in their seats to face me.
And we talked.
At one point he said,
“Matt, part of your problem is that you don’t believe.”
I admit I felt a little badly, as if my testimony was considered subpar.
“Oh, I’m not talking about your testimony,” President Holland said.
“You just believe that God will work His mighty miracles for everyone but you.”
His assessment was right.
And then he said with his typical fervor,
“You gotta believe, Matt.
You gotta believe.”
He offered me sound counsel and heaps of encouragement,
and then I got out of the car.
I stood and waved until they were out of sight.
Upon entering our apartment I shared my experience with my wife.
We wept together and then wrote the experience down—
so that we would always remember.