Precious Lord
Back in 1932 I was 32 years old,
and a fairly new husband. My wife,Nettie,
and I were living in a little apartment
on Chicago's Southside.
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 shruggedoff 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 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 any more, 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 a friend,
Professor Fry, who seemed to know what I
needed. On the following Saturday evening, he
took me up to Malone'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, one just came
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."
As 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
Precious Lord, Take My Hand
Copyright © 2004
Liz and LivingFaith
All rights reserved
