How I Saw God This Week, He Sang to Me

I think we all have songs that carry us.

Not because we have beautiful voices.

Not because we always remember every word.

But because there are moments when life leaves us speechless.

Moments when the diagnosis comes.

When the marriage feels lonely.

When the child you prayed would stay close to the Lord begins walking another path.

When grief settles into your home like an uninvited guest.

When you've prayed the same prayer for so long that you're not even sure what else to say.

And then, somehow, a hymn begins to play.

A Primary song you haven't heard in years.

A line from sacrament meeting.

A melody that seems to find you instead of the other way around.

This month, I've been noticing the music.

It started in the most ordinary way.

I was waiting for a meeting to begin. There wasn't much around me except a hymn book. I picked it up simply to pass the time, expecting to flip through a few familiar hymns.

Instead, I found myself reading something I don't think I had ever really read before, the introduction.

One sentence stopped me.

"The song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads." (Doctrine and Covenants 25:12)

I read it once.

Then I read it again.

I don't know why those words felt different this time.

Maybe because lately I've been carrying prayers I can't always put into words.

Maybe because I've learned that sometimes tears are prayers.

Sometimes silence is a prayer.

And perhaps...

Sometimes songs are too.

As I kept reading, another sentence caught my heart.

"Some of the greatest sermons are preached by the singing of hymns."

I closed the hymnbook and just sat there.

Because suddenly I began seeing that everywhere.

This whole month, little phrases have been finding me.

"All is well."

"There is peace in Christ."

"Come, Follow Me."

I found myself writing them in my notebook, almost without thinking.

It didn't feel like I was remembering the hymns.

It felt like the hymns were remembering me.

Then I started noticing them in other places.

During general conference, how many speakers reached for the words of a hymn when they wanted to express something their own words couldn't quite hold? One moment especially stayed with me. A speaker reflected on the Primary song, "Heavenly Father, Are You Really There?"

Isn't that the question?

Not just for children.

For all of us.

When heaven feels quiet.

When answers are delayed.

When we can't see what God is doing.

When life isn't unfolding the way we hoped.

"Heavenly Father... are You really there?"

I think we've all whispered that question in one form or another.

And maybe Heaven has been answering it with music all along.

Then something happened in sacrament meeting that made this lesson even more personal.

I noticed a man sitting by himself.

I don't know what prompted me, but I walked over and asked if he would like to sit with me.

Before the meeting started, we visited for a few minutes. I asked him his name.

If you know me, you know names matter to me.

I have always believed there is something sacred about learning someone's name. It slows us down. It reminds us that the person in front of us is not just another face in the crowd. They are someone God knows individually.

His name was Egar.

As we talked, he quietly shared his story.

He told me he was living in a recovery house just down the road.

The night before, he had felt incredibly alone.

So he turned on some music.

A Primary song began to play.

It reminded him of church.

And that is why he was sitting there beside me that morning.

I just sat there for a moment.

Because I don't think it was an accident.

Not the song.

Not his decision to come.

Not the empty seat beside me.

Not even our conversation.

God had used a simple Primary song to lead one of His children back to church that morning.

I couldn't stop thinking about that.

How many times has God done the same for me?

How many times has a hymn interrupted my fear before it became panic?

How many times has a melody reminded me who I am before shame convinced me otherwise?

Then, later that week, I heard one of my boys quietly singing, "I Am a Child of God."

He probably didn't think twice about it.

I did.

Because every parent wonders.

Did they hear us?

Did any of it stay?

Did the truths we tried to plant actually take root?

Then I noticed something.

He wasn't singing the words exactly.

Instead of, "Teach me all that I must do," he sang, "Teach me all that I can be."

I smiled.

And I didn't correct him.

Because honestly...

Those words ministered to me.

So much of my life has been focused on doing.

Doing more.

Trying harder.

Checking the boxes.

Being enough.

But what if the Savior is just as interested in who we are becoming as He is in what we are doing?

What if discipleship isn't simply a checklist?

What if it's a transformation?

A heart becoming softer.

A spirit becoming more patient.

A life becoming more like His.

"Teach me all that I can be."

I don't think I'll ever hear that hymn quite the same way again.

Maybe that's why music matters so much.

It slips past our defenses.

It reaches places logic cannot.

It comforts before it explains.

It teaches before we even realize we're learning.

This week I saw God in a hymnbook I almost ignored.

I saw Him in the introduction I had somehow skipped for years.

I saw Him in general conference.

I saw Him in sacrament meeting through a man named Egar who reminded me that one simple Primary song can change the direction of someone's day, and maybe even their life.

I saw Him in the voice of my son.

And I left this week wondering if perhaps we don't sing hymns nearly as much as hymns sing to us.

So today, instead of asking, "God, are You speaking?"

I'm asking a different question.

"What song are You trying to remind me of today?"

Because maybe the hymn that keeps coming to your mind isn't random.

Maybe it's an invitation.

Maybe it's comfort.

Maybe it's hope.

Or maybe...

It's Heaven answering a prayer your heart has been praying all along.