Teaching life lessons... and primary songs

It seems that as I look back there are two things that we remember and have made a difference in our life: teachers and primary songs. 
Teaching is a calling; not a career.  So it is hard for teachers to not teach because they love learning, they love learners, and they love bringing the two together. 
Teachers don’t do it for the money and prestige.  A teacher’s ability to teach kids how to count is fine, but teaching them what counts is most important. 
We all have a teacher who we remember with fondness.  We might not remember what grade she taught, or what it was she taught, but she has a place etched in our heart because she cared, and we knew it. 
The second, are the things we learned from primary songs.  We remember the words 50 years later; they are imprinted in our hearts and bring us comfort. 
Those simple songs may be the only lifeline some people hold on to during their darkest days.  Where words fail us, music speaks; it reaches around and over walls of pain and gives comfort to even the broken hearted.
Not everyone given the job to teach, should.  There are very few talks from the pulpit that I remember and almost no speakers.  And I accept that is mostly my fault. 
Sitting still is not my strength.  I recollect a few, but mostly I remember the feeling, but not the message.  Okay, I will confess, I remember Jared Randall when he said, “Hell, that’s just the way we wuz back then.” 
Finally, somebody talking to me that probably had his pocketknife in his church pants, a little crud under his fingernails, and enough common sense to solve most of life’s problems.
My too kind and loving wife was a teacher for nearly 35 years in the public education system.  She retired, went on a mission and ended up 6000 miles away on a small Pacific Island, in a Third World country where hot running water, paved roads, traffic signs, reliable power, and internet connectivity is something we dream about. 
Her mission call wasn’t to be a teacher, but I suspect the Lord calls who he calls for His purpose and He doesn’t worry too much about the paperwork.
Wherever we go, kids seem to find my too kind and loving wife and know they have a friend.  I look at babies and they start crying. 
They see her and want to touch her blonde hair rub her light skin.  One small girl said she wanted to tell her a secret and then gave her a kiss on the cheek.  She speaks and people believe her. 
I speak and words like bamboozled, flabbergasted, discombobulated, shenanigans, cattywampus, malarkey kerfuffle, and nincompoop immediately come to mind.  I dunno.
Here in Tonga kids have found her and she is doing what she always has done; she is teaching. 
She taught an early morning Book of Mormon class to help kids with English, she helps teach a prep class for the ELAT (English Language Assessment Test), she teaches career coaches, she teaches several Self-Reliance courses, she teaches primary on Sundays, and she teaches piano.
I worked for the “guvment” and you know what?  Not one person has asked me to organize a committee, or conduct a study, write a new policy, issue a nicely written memo to the file, organize a fact-finding group, or ponder a decision for a few months until whatever I was pondering has died or become obsolete.  I dunno. 
But I am ready if the Lord should need any of these talents of mine.  But I digress, this is about piano lessons and teaching.  Sorry!  You can tell when I worked for the BLM, the “B” didn’t stand for “brevity”. 
Being on a mission in Tonga I have become convinced that if there is a choir in heaven it is going to be made up a Tongans singing primary songs.  Each night the boys that live in the dorms at Liahona sing a few songs before they go to bed, and they sing a song as they start the day. 
This isn’t a meek quiet rendition; it is a booming boys’ choir blowing the rafters off the building and easily heard a mile away.  They sing at the top of their lungs in a three-part harmony. 
The first morning I woke up in Tonga, I thought I had died because of the angelic music coming through my windows. 
My first thought was, “I hope I ain’t dead.  I probably need this mission to polish a few of my rough edges off.  I need a bit more time.”  My mother-in-law probably thinks I need a lot more time.
My too kind and loving wife is teaching six young Tongan girls how to play the piano because they need to know how to play the primary songs.  Because that is how we are going to change the world; we are going to teach the primary songs to the next generation. 
When she goes away, they will remember her as an angel that touched their life and taught them gospel principles and saved their life and will probably name their first-born child after her. 
They will also vaguely recall her mission companion was a “palongi” pompous, bamboozling, flabbergasting, discombobulated, malarkey filled, cattywampus, kerfuffled nincompoop that drove her around and helped unload the pianos every week.