Back in 1932, I was a fairly new
husband. My wife, Nettie and I
lived in a little apartment on
Chicago 's south side. One hot
August afternoon I had to go to St.
Louis where I was to be the featured
soloist at a large revival meeting. I
didn't want to go. Nettie was in the
last month of pregnancy with our
first child. But a lot of people were
expecting me in St. Louis . I kissed
Nettie good-bye, clattered
downstairs to our Model A and, in a
fresh Lake Michigan breeze,
chugged out of Chicago on Route
66.
However, outside the city, I
discovered that in my anxiety at
leaving, I had forgotten my music
case. I wheeled around and headed
back. I found Nettie sleeping
peacefully. I hesitated by her bed;
something was strongly telling me
to stay. But eager to get on my way,
and not wanting to disturb Nettie, I
shrugged off the feeling and quietly
slipped out of the room with my
music.
The next night, in the steaming
St. Louis heat, the crowd called on
me to sing again and again. When I
finally sat down, a messenger boy
ran up with a Western Union
telegram. I ripped open the
envelope. Pasted on the yellow
sheet were the words: “Your wife
just died.”
People were happily singing and
clapping around me, but I could
hardly keep from crying out. I
rushed to a phone and called home.
All I could hear on the other end
was 'Nettie is dead. Nettie is dead.'
When I got back, I learned that
Nettie had given birth to a boy. I
swung between grief and joy. Yet
that same night, the baby died. I
buried Nettie and our little boy
together, in the same casket. Then I
fell apart.
For days I closeted myself. I felt
that God had done me an injustice.
I didn't want to serve Him anymore
or write gospel songs. I just wanted
to go back to that jazz world I once
knew so well. But then, as I
hunched alone in that dark
apartment those first sad days, I
thought back to the afternoon I went
to St. Louis . Something kept telling
me to stay with Nettie. Was that
something God? Oh, if I had paid
more attention to Him that day, I
would have stayed and been with
Nettie when she died.
From that moment on I vowed
to listen more closely to Him. But
still I was lost in grief. Everyone
was kind to me, especially one
friend. The following Saturday
evening he took me up to Maloney's
Poro College , a neighborhood
music school. It was quiet; the late
evening sun crept through the
curtained windows.
I sat down at the piano, and my
hands began to browse over the
keys. Something happened to me
then. I felt at peace. I felt as though
I could reach out and touch God. I
found myself playing a melody,
once into my head they just seemed
to fall into place: 'Precious Lord,
take my hand, lead me on, let me
stand, I am tired, I am weak, I am
worn, through the storm, through
the night, lead me on to the light,
take my hand, precious Lord, lead
me home.'
The Lord gave me these words
and melody, He also healed my
spirit. I learned that when we are in
our deepest grief, when we feel
farthest from God, this is when He
is closest, and when we are most
open to His restoring power.
And so I go on living for God
willingly and joyfully, until that day
comes when He will take me and
gently lead me home.
-Tommy Dorsey- Č
Author
Topic: Who wrote the song “Precious Lord”? (Read 8555 times)